Chapter 34 #2
“Which is why you were all telling me that the feed and grain was the cornerstone of the town,” he mused. “But what about Gus Odell? He’s got plenty of money, and yet he’s got two pages in the ledger, like the others, and an order of pallets sitting under a tarp in the yard.”
“He’ll never pick those up,” she said, shaking her head with a smile.
“He ordered them ages ago and paid for them. They’re for people who need them to keep hay bales or wood and kindling dry and off the ground.
Everyone knows they’re there, and they take what they need.
Return them if they don’t need them anymore. ”
She turned the pages of the ledger slowly, as though she were going through memories. At the very end of the ledger, there was a pocket, and from this pocket she pulled out several sheets of paper and handed them to Morgan.
He unfolded the papers—college ruled notebook paper with the holes already punched, ready to be put in a binder. On the pages were the names from the ledger with their addresses and phone numbers and, he noticed, a very few email addresses.
“You need to decide,” she said. “Call these nice folks up and either ask them for the money they owe the feed and grain and be done with it, or ask them to come in and pay for their orders for next spring.”
Spring was when he’d planned to sell the feed and grain. And the exact time that all those small farmers would need their supplies to keep going.
When he’d arrived in town, his plan had been clear: Straighten up the books, sell the place, and go home to Denver.
But that was before he knew Ambrose, and Maurice, and Neville, and Young Tommy and Deputy Hartland, and Shane and Julian at the Bean There, and Mabel and Mister Rocket. Before he knew Jack.
Now he knew why the books didn’t balance and why none of his columns of numbers had added up.
Now he knew why everybody in town seemed to hold Oralee in such high esteem, with reverence and care.
Why people spoke so fondly of her, and why they’d eagerly awaited the reopening of the feed and grain and been horrified by Morgan’s plans to close it and move on.
The whole local economy would collapse if he stuck to his original plan.
“What are these, then?” He pointed to the three letters that came after every name: Sun. Bar. Hon. Pot.
“Those are abbreviations for what they grow or produce,” she said.
“Sun, sunflower seeds. Bar, barley. Hon, honey. Pot, potatoes. Whe, wheat. Alf, alfalfa.” She smiled as she traced the abbreviations one by one.
“Goodness knows why Toby needed his special code, but he did.” She looked up at him. “Do you see?”
“Yes, I do,” he said. “But why haven’t they already paid, or ordered seed or whatever? Last year’s dates were in October. October’s nearly over now.”
“Well.” Her eyes grew sad. “I reckon Oralee passed so suddenly they were waiting an appropriate time—plus, of course, they didn’t know what your plans were. That and the spate of blizzards that have everything out of whack.”
“Oh.”
He picked up the thin sheaf of papers and ran his thumb over the writing, noticing the coffee stain in the corner of the first page, yellow with age.
He didn’t know what to do, but when he sold, if he sold, he doubted the new owner was going to operate on handshakes with no signatures in sight. No sensible person would lend money on a verbal promise. Or keep making no-interest loans, for that matter.
Meanwhile, if he collected what was owed, he’d have a nice chunk of change to set up his new life with. His and Jack’s new life.
“So should I call them, or go out and see them?” he asked.
“I would call first,” she said. “Maybe later you can arrange a visit to introduce yourself, so they get to know who you are. Jack can drive you.” She looked at Jack, who was sitting across from Morgan, an empty mug in his hands. “Right, Jack?”
“Of course,” Jack said.
All this new information floated inside Morgan’s head like snowflakes swirling in a sudden wind: all the decisions, the possibilities.
He’d not come to Hysham for this. He’d come to Hysham to leave it behind him.
But if he did as he’d planned, the town would limp along till spring, and then, eventually, it would die.
“I’ll call them,” he said. “At least I can find how much is owed and what’s going on.”
“That’s a fine idea,” she said, smiling warmly at him, the way she’d always smiled at Jack. Then she turned to Jack and shook her finger at him. “Young man, I have told you not to have that dog at the table.”
Morgan turned to look at Jack, who indeed had Mister Rocket on his lap. Mister Rocket wagged his tail happily as Jack placed him gently on the floor.
“Sorry, ma’am,” Jack said, though his smile said he wasn’t really sorry. “He’s so darn cute it’s hard to say no to him.”
Mabel patted his arm and made tsk tsk noises under her breath, then turned her focus to Morgan once more. “If any of the folks on that list ask for confirmation about who you are, you tell them Mabel Milbourne will vouch for you.”
Morgan stood, clutching his cane, his throat suddenly tight, emotions running straight up from his chest. He felt hot in the coat he’d not taken off, thinking that they’d not stay very long.
In that warm kitchen, sunlight sparkling through the windows, the scent of hot chocolate in the air, it was very hard not to give in to the impulse to wrap his arms around her and thank her for not thinking he was an asshole.
“Well,” he said, swallowing hard, “if Jack will drive me home, I’ll get right on figuring all of this out.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Mabel said.
The drive home in the cold air was quick, with the sun bright against the cold blue sky. There were no clouds in sight, and the wind was a low, icy whisper across the frozen snow.
When Jack parked the truck at the feed and grain, Morgan sat in the passenger seat with the ledger in his lap for a moment. As soon as the heater went off, cold came through the floorboards.
The temperature would drop to zero as soon as the sun went down and then plummet to many degrees below that, the air reaching its coldest point in the wee hours of the morning. But he had plenty of time to do what he needed to do.