At eleven o’clock, Denny climbed up on the hay rack and tapped the microphone.
“Folks, thank you for coming out on a day like this,” he said. “Most of you know this place. Eighty acres. House, barn, machine shed. Well and septic. Possession at closing. Terms are on your sale bill. Let’s sell it.”
He asked for three hundred thousand to start.
Nobody moved.
He asked for two-fifty.
Nobody moved.
He came all the way down to two hundred thousand. And the neighbor who’d rented the cropland for years, Dale Wiese, raised his card.
And the whole yard came alive.
Brad hollered “Yep!” and pointed. Denny’s auction chant rolled out over the gravel. Fast and smooth. The same way I’d heard it at cattle sales my whole married life.
Two-ten. Two-twenty. Two-thirty.
The young couple with the baby jumped in at two-forty. They were out by two-sixty.
Dale Wiese went to two-seventy. Then he shook his head. He put his card in his pocket and looked down at the ground.
The land company man hadn’t lifted a card once.
He just nodded. Every time Denny looked his way, he gave one small nod. And Brad hollered and pointed at him.
At two-seventy, it was down to the land company and us.
I looked at Luke.
His hand was still in his coat pocket.
He wasn’t looking at Denny. He was looking past him. At the porch. At the spot by the back door where his mother used to stand and ring the dinner bell.
“Luke,” I said quietly.
He didn’t answer.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were wet. And his right hand would not come out of that pocket.
I’ve been married to that man for sixteen years.
I know what he looks like when he’s trying with everything he’s got, and his body won’t do what he’s telling it to.
“Two-seventy-five,” Denny was saying. “Who’ll give me two-seventy-five. Two-seventy-five. Folks, I’m about to sell it.”
So I held up 47.
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