Chapter 12
The James Farm looked different on a Saturday morning. Quieter somehow. The chickens scratched in their run near the barn and a thin ribbon of smoke rose from the farmhouse chimney.
I walked out from the treeline and headed for the house.
Claire came out of the barn, my footsteps alerting her. She wore canvas work pants and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Her red hair was pulled back in a ponytail and she had a smudge of something dark on her cheek. Grease maybe, or dirt.
She stopped when she saw me, surprised. She gathered herself, wiping her hands on her pants.
"Thomas."
"Hello, Claire. You said you could use help around the place. I figured Saturday was as good a day as any."
"I did say that." She looked at the tool belt in my hands. "Didn't expect you to actually show up."
"Well, I'm here."
She studied me for another moment. Then she nodded toward the far side of the property, where a split-rail fence ran along the treeline.
"Fence needs work. Posts are rotting out. I've got the replacement posts and rails already cut, but I haven't had time to set them. You know fence work?"
"I know fence work."
"Tools are in the shed. Posthole digger, tamping bar, hammer and nails. Whatever you need. I'll be working on the tractor if you have questions."
She turned and walked back toward the barn without waiting for an answer. Her manner was professional, slightly distant, the same manner she had when she first met me at the cabin.
I found the tools where she said they'd be. Good quality stuff, well-maintained. The posthole digger had clean blades and the tamping bar was rust-free. My respect for Claire went up. I appreciated people who took care of their tools.
The fence ran east behind the barn. I could see which posts needed replacing. They leaned at angles, rotting at the base where they met the soil just like Claire had said. I counted eight that needed to come out.
I started at the far end, working my way back toward the barn. Dig out the old post. Widen the hole. Set the new one. Tamp the dirt tight. Check the alignment. Move to the next.
The work felt good. Like my work on the cabin, this was honest labor that left marks on your hands and showed results you could measure.
I'd been at it for maybe an hour when I noticed the boy.
DJ stood at the edge of the barn. He wasn't hiding exactly, just watching. Staying at the edge of things where he could disappear if he needed to.
I didn't acknowledge him, didn't wave or call out or make any kind of invitation. I just kept working.
Another post came out. I set the new one in the hole and started tamping. The boy drifted closer. Twenty feet now. Then fifteen.
I checked the post with my level. Adjusted it slightly. Tamped again.
"What's that do?"
His voice was quiet, testing. I held up the level without looking at him directly.
"This tells me if the post is straight up and down. See the bubble in the middle? When it's centered between the lines, the post is plumb."
He didn't answer, but he didn't leave either.
I moved to the next post. Dug it out. Set the replacement. Started tamping.
"Can I see?"
I handed him the level. "Put it flat against the post. Tell me what the bubble says."
He approached the post I'd just set and pressed the level against the wood with both hands. DJ studied the bubble with the focus that eight-year-olds usually reserve for video games.
"It's a little to the left."
"That means the post is leaning. Which way?"
He thought about it. "Away from where the bubble went?"
"That's right. So I need to adjust it." I loosened the dirt on one side and tamped the other. "Check it again."
He pressed the level to the post. The bubble floated to center.
"It's good now."
"Then we move to the next one."
I worked ahead, setting posts. DJ followed behind, checking each one with the level. He didn't say much. Neither did I. But there was a rhythm to it, a working partnership that didn't need much talking.
Somewhere around the fourth post, I caught movement from the corner of my eye. Claire had come out of the barn. She stood by with a wrench in her hand, watching us. Her face was unreadable from this distance.
She didn't call out, didn't interrupt. Just watched for a long moment. Then she turned back to her work.
We finished the fence by late afternoon. Eight new posts, all plumb, all solid. DJ had checked every single one, some of them twice. He handed me nails as I hung the new rails. I let him swing the hammer a few times, showing him how to do it without hurting himself.
"Good work," I told him.
DJ soaked in the praise. He didn't smile exactly, but his posture straightened.
"Grandma Bessie made pot roast. Can you smell it?"
The smell hit me then, drifting from the farmhouse. Meat and onions and herbs.
"Mr. Harmon." Claire had appeared at the edge of the fence line. "My mother asked if you'd stay for dinner. She doesn't take no for an answer, and honestly, neither do I. You worked all day. The least we can do is feed you."
I looked at the farmhouse. At the smoke rising from the chimney. At DJ, who was trying very hard to look like he didn't care.
"I'd like that."
The kitchen was bright and airy. Bessie Anne had set the table with mismatched plates and cloth napkins that had seen better days but were clean and pressed.
The pot roast sat in the center, surrounded by carrots and potatoes that had cooked in the drippings until they were soft and dark at the edges.
A bowl of green beans glistened with butter.
Fresh bread, still warm, on a cutting board with a knife beside it.
"Sit, sit." Bessie Anne waved me toward a chair. "Claire, get the man something to drink. We've got water, milk, and iced tea, of course."
"Iced tea would be wonderful, ma'am."
"None of that, Tomás. Bessie. Or Bessie Anne. Ma'am makes me feel like I should be in a nursing home."
She smiled, and I could see where Claire got her warmth. It was there in Bessie Anne, right at the surface. In Claire it ran deeper, protected by harder layers. Raising a child by yourself was no easy thing, even with your parents to help you.
We sat. Bessie Anne said grace. Short and simple, thanking God for the food and the hands that prepared it and the company to share it with. Then she started passing dishes and the meal began.
I hadn't eaten like this in months, years maybe.
Sybil had stopped cooking real dinners somewhere around year fifteen of our marriage, and I was never much in the kitchen.
We'd become a household of takeout containers and microwave meals eaten at different times in different rooms. The slow fade of a marriage was often measured in the death of shared meals.
The pot roast fell apart on my fork. The potatoes were creamy inside and crisp at the edges. The green beans had bacon in them, just a little, just enough.
"This is wonderful," I said. "Thank you."
"Family recipe." Bessie Anne beamed. "My mother taught me. I taught Claire. Someday Claire will teach someone else."
She glanced at her daughter with an expression that carried about five different meanings. Claire ignored it.
"DJ, don't talk with your mouth full," Claire said.
DJ swallowed. "I wasn't gonna."
"You were thinking about it."
"Thinking's not doing."
Claire's mouth twitched, almost a smile. "Eat your vegetables."
The conversation drifted leisurely to the weather and the tea harvest coming up, and whether the chickens were laying enough to justify keeping all of them through winter.
Then DJ looked at me.
"Do you like baseball?"
"I do. Mariners fan since I was a kid."
His eyes lit up. "Did you hear about Marcus Chen? He's the new pitcher. Came up from the minors last month. He threw a shutout against the Athletics. His fastball topped out at ninety-eight."
"I heard something about that. Kid's got an arm."
"His slider's even better. The announcers said it moves like it's on a string. Batters can't touch it."
Claire watched her son with surprise, like she hadn't heard him talk this much in a while.
"Grandpa Mark took me to a game once," DJ continued. "Mariners were playing the Blue Jays. The whole stadium was full of Canadians. They were everywhere. Every time Toronto got a hit, they'd all cheer. It was so loud."
"Toronto's got good fans," I said. "They travel well, especially with the border so close."
"Yeah, but we were louder." DJ grinned. "Every time the Mariners scored, I cheered extra loud. Grandpa said I was gonna lose my voice, but I didn't care. We had to show them this was our house."
"Did we win?"
"Five to three. Grandpa bought me a hot dog and a mini-bat. I still have the mini-bat." The grin faded a little. "It's in my room."
Bessie Anne reached over and squeezed his hand, quick and gentle. Then she went back to her green beans like nothing had happened.
"I've been to a few games in Seattle," I said. "Usually had to go by myself. My wife didn't like sports."
"She didn't like baseball?" DJ looked at me like I'd told him she didn't like oxygen.
"She didn't like any of it. Baseball, football, or basketball when we had a team. Nothing. Said it was a waste of time."
"That's crazy."
"DJ," Claire warned.
"It kind of was," I agreed. "Baseball's not a waste of time. It's important. It's history and math and strategy all mixed together. America's pastime."
DJ nodded vigorously. "Grandpa said the same thing."
"Your grandpa was a smart man." I put a piece of pot roast in my mouth and chewed thoughtfully. "I've been thinking about going to another game sometime. Haven't been in years. Mariners are doing good this year. Might finally be their season."
DJ was trying very hard to look casual. He wasn't succeeding.
"You'd be welcome to come along," I told him. "If your mother says it's okay."
The hope that bloomed on his face was almost painful to see. He turned to Claire so fast that he nearly knocked over his water glass.
"Can I? Mom, can I?"