Mama sells her eggs for four dollars a dozen at the end of her driveway, on the honor system, out of an old refrigerator with a coffee can on top for change. People leave money. Sometimes they leave a note. Once somebody left a jar of homemade blackberry jam with a sticky note that said, “Short a dollar, sorry, here’s this.”
She counted it all out on my counter. It took a long time.
Snap of a rubber band. Smoothing each bill flat with the side of her hand. Counting under her breath. Starting a stack of fives. Starting a stack of ones.
Nobody in that store said a word. Nobody looked away. And nobody offered to help her.
They knew better.
When she had $296 in a neat little stack, she pushed it across the counter to me with two fingers.
Then she put the lid back on the can and set it down in front of Earl.
“Now,” she said to him. Not loud. Not loud at all. “You tell her what you told me last night. Right now, at this counter. You told these men a story last week. You can tell them the true one.”
Earl stood there turning his cap around and around in his hands.
I had never in my life seen him look at the floor. Earl is a man who looks at the sky. At the cattle. At the fence line. Never at the floor.
“The cows haven’t made money in three years,” he said finally. His voice was rough and quiet. “Two dry summers back to back. I bought hay at ninety dollars a bale. Ninety dollars. Then the well pump went out. That was $3,400. Then the transmission went out on the tractor.”
Don nodded slowly. Every man in that store had bought ninety-dollar hay those two summers. Every one of them knew what that did to a cow-calf operation run by a man on a fixed income.
“So I went to the bank,” Earl said. “Ozark Mountain Bank. Sat down across from that young loan officer, the Pruitt boy. And I borrowed against Daddy’s place. A second mortgage. Forty thousand dollars.”
He swallowed hard.
“Six hundred and twelve dollars a month. I figured one good calf crop and I’d have it paid down before anybody ever had to know.”
He looked at the ceiling for a second, like he was trying to keep something from spilling.
“It didn’t come. And that payment comes every month whether the calves do or not.”
Mama didn’t look at him while he talked. She looked straight ahead at the feed sacks stacked behind me, her chin up, the exact same way she looked at Daddy’s funeral.
“I didn’t tell Nadine,” Earl said. “Thirty-six years, and I never once kept a thing from her. Not one thing. And I kept that. I couldn’t stand for her to know I’d put my daddy’s place on the line.”
He looked up at me then, and his eyes were wet.
“So I quit paying you, Jo,” he said. “I charged it and didn’t pay it, because I knew you’d never say a word. I’d rather be a deadbeat at my own stepdaughter’s store than tell my wife I was going broke.”
Nobody said anything for a long time.
The radio had switched over to a gospel station out of Springfield. Low. Some old quartet singing about the far side banks of Jordan.
“And last Saturday,” Earl said, “I said a thing to these men that wasn’t so. I said she owed me for raising her.”
He turned and looked at Virgil. Then Don. Then Ray. One at a time. Like a man paying off three separate debts.
“Nobody owes anybody for raising them,” he said. “I raised her because I wanted to. It’s the best thing I ever did in my life. I was ashamed of myself, and I took it out on her, in front of all of you. And I’m sorry for it.”
Then he turned back to me.
“I’m sorry, Jo.”
I’ve tried a lot of times since then to remember exactly what I said. I can’t. I know I came around the end of the counter. I know my glasses fell off the top of my head and Ray caught them.
And I know Earl put his arms around me, cap and all. He smelled like cold air and cattle and the same Old Spice he’s worn since I was nine years old.
When I finally stepped back, Mama was crying without making a sound. And Virgil Snell had taken his cap off again.
We talked a long time that morning, the three of us in my little office with the door open. The men at the counter pretended they weren’t listening. They were.
Earl had told Mama everything the night before, after supper.
“It was the envelope,” Mama said. She dabbed her eyes with a tissue from her coat pocket. “I found a bank envelope on the seat of his truck. Second one that month. Stamped ‘Second Notice’ in red. I asked him what it was. And he sat down at the kitchen table and finally told me all of it.”
She shook her head.
“He told me about your store, too, honey. Every bit of it. The ticket. And what he said last Saturday.”
