Brett worked the whole spring season at the elevator. Fertilizer in April. Planting season in May. Then harvest in the fall.
He was there at six forty-five every morning. Fifteen minutes early. Jeff told me that himself, at the café, over pie.
“He’s a good worker, Gordon,” Jeff said. “Doesn’t complain. Doesn’t sit down. Reminds me of somebody.”
In October, after harvest, Jeff kept him on. Full time. With benefits.
Brett called us that night. On the phone.
And I want you to know something. He didn’t sound smooth. He didn’t sound cheerful. He didn’t say everything’s great, Dad.
He sounded like himself.
“Dad,” he said. “They kept me on. Full time.”
“I heard,” I said. “Jeff told me at the café.”
“Of course he did.” He laughed. “Of course he did.”
Then he was quiet for a second.
“Thank you, Dad,” he said. “For the drive. For standing by the coffee pot. For keeping your mouth shut.”
“That was the hard part,” I said.
“I know,” he said. “I could tell.”
The first week of November came around. The maple out front had dropped all its leaves. The co-op bins were full. And the first real cold snap was coming down out of Minnesota.
Brett showed up at our door at six o’clock in the morning. With a duffel bag over his shoulder and a big green thermos of coffee.
He knocked. Even though he still had a key.
Ardis opened the door in her bathrobe.
“Go get your coats,” Brett said. “I’m driving.”
So our son drove us to Arizona that winter.
All fourteen hundred and eighty miles.
He drove the whole way. Payson to the Rim. Tucumcari. The Texas panhandle in the wind. Salina.
Somewhere past Liberal, Kansas, Ardis leaned forward from the back seat and said, “Brett, honey. Do you remember Biscuit?”
He laughed so hard he had to slow down.
“Four days in the garage,” he said. “I thought Dad was going to kill me.”
“I knew the whole time,” I said. “I heard him barking the first night.”
Brett looked over at me. Shocked.
“You knew? The whole time?”
“The whole time,” I said. “I was just waiting for you to tell me.”
He was quiet for a mile or two.
“That sounds about right,” he said finally.
He dropped us off at the park model with the green trim. He hung up the cardinal flag on the post for his mother. He set out the folding chairs.
And he flew home from Phoenix the next morning.
He watered his mother’s violets every Sunday until May.
And in October, he put Grandma’s Christmas cactus in the dark closet. Just like Ardis does it.
It bloomed again that Christmas.
He sent us a picture.
Ethan Blake is a skilled Creative Content Specialist with a talent for crafting engaging and thought-provoking narratives. With a strong background in storytelling and digital content creation, Ethan brings a unique perspective to his role at TheArchivists, where he curates and produces captivating content for a global audience.
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