knew he wasn’t calling here. He was dragging the line all the way down to the cows so I wouldn’t hear him.”
“And they were mooing,” I laughed. “And Angel was saying, ‘Where are you, Parr? Out in the pasture?’”
I provided a little badly needed comic relief.
No one was saying anything about Mr. Duff’s visit. No one was saying anything much at all, unless they were saying it out of my earshot.
Evie stuck to business, complained that we got taken by the hog buyer, bitched because it’d been her turn to hose out the back of the truck, and allowed as how she’d rather get out of the hog business altogether.
“And live on what?” Dad snorted. “They’re our gold.”
You’d almost think none of it had happened, except for the red cashmere scarf Evie’d brought back with her from St. Louis. I saw it looped around her bedpost when she wasn’t wearing it, which she was, most of the time, except when we did the dirty work of getting the hogs to market.
Sunday morning she wore it to church.
Mom got the bright idea to ask Cord for Sunday dinner, and then, trying to act like it was an afterthought, she’d told him, “Why not join us for the service at St. Luke’s beforehand?”
I think she wanted the Duffs to see him with us, with Evie, because she pushed him into our pew next to my sister.
The only trouble was the Duffs weren’t at church.
Mom kept looking across at their pew, which stayed empty. I couldn’t remember a Sunday without one of them being there.
I kept watching Angel, and she glanced back at me a few times, too.
I could hear her voice, high and sweet through all the hymns, and Dad nudged me once and said, “That gal can sing!”
Bud Kidder, Angel’s brother, was there, too. He looked like Abraham Lincoln Jr., with thick black-framed eyeglasses, and he almost drowned Angel out with this big baritone voice.
The Kidders waited to introduce themselves to my folks after the service. Then the five of us squeezed into their little Ford and headed off to Floodtown.
After Mr. Kidder said grace, we ate chicken and dumplings on a table that pulled down out of the wall like a Murphy bed. Bud and Mr. Kidder had a long conversation about the book Bud had got him for Christmas, The Foremost Mobile Home Fix-It Guide , until Angel said that I probably didn’t want to hear anything about venting roofs or the installation of a tie-down and anchoring system.
“I don’t care,” I said. “We do a lot of fixing up over at our place, too.”
“I know your brother,” Bud said. “He’s not in my dorm, but I remember him from when we were naming girls we’d like to see be Ag Queen…. He wanted some sorority girl for queen, not even from Missouri, much less a farm girl.”
“Bella Hanna,” I said.
“We kept telling him we didn’t want anyone from Sorority Row. No one did.”
“You can’t tell Doug anything,” I said. “He went home with her for Christmas.”
“That must have broke your mother’s heart,” said Mrs. Kidder. “I hope you never do that to us, Bud.”
“It wouldn’t be for some sorority girl if I did,” he said.
“They couldn’t all be bad,” said Mr. Kidder.
“They’re not bad, Daddy,” Bud said, “they’re just snobs. The only time they want to date an ag student is when we have the Harvest Ball and crown the queen. They all want invitations to that. Then they drop us like hot potatoes.”
“Are you going to the university when you finish at County?” Mrs. Kidder asked me.
“I plan to.”
“He’s not going to be a farmer, though,” Angel said.
“I wished I’d never been one,” said Mr. Kidder.
“You love farming,” Bud said. “It was where we farmed, not that we farmed, broke your heart.”
“We didn’t have a choice,” Mr. Kidder said: “That was our land.”
Mrs. Kidder said, “What are you going to do if you don’t farm, Parr?”
“I haven’t decided yet, ma’am.”
“Just don’t be a banker,” Mr. Kidder
“And they were mooing,” I laughed. “And Angel was saying, ‘Where are you, Parr? Out in the pasture?’”
I provided a little badly needed comic relief.
No one was saying anything about Mr. Duff’s visit. No one was saying anything much at all, unless they were saying it out of my earshot.
Evie stuck to business, complained that we got taken by the hog buyer, bitched because it’d been her turn to hose out the back of the truck, and allowed as how she’d rather get out of the hog business altogether.
“And live on what?” Dad snorted. “They’re our gold.”
You’d almost think none of it had happened, except for the red cashmere scarf Evie’d brought back with her from St. Louis. I saw it looped around her bedpost when she wasn’t wearing it, which she was, most of the time, except when we did the dirty work of getting the hogs to market.
Sunday morning she wore it to church.
Mom got the bright idea to ask Cord for Sunday dinner, and then, trying to act like it was an afterthought, she’d told him, “Why not join us for the service at St. Luke’s beforehand?”
I think she wanted the Duffs to see him with us, with Evie, because she pushed him into our pew next to my sister.
The only trouble was the Duffs weren’t at church.
Mom kept looking across at their pew, which stayed empty. I couldn’t remember a Sunday without one of them being there.
I kept watching Angel, and she glanced back at me a few times, too.
I could hear her voice, high and sweet through all the hymns, and Dad nudged me once and said, “That gal can sing!”
Bud Kidder, Angel’s brother, was there, too. He looked like Abraham Lincoln Jr., with thick black-framed eyeglasses, and he almost drowned Angel out with this big baritone voice.
The Kidders waited to introduce themselves to my folks after the service. Then the five of us squeezed into their little Ford and headed off to Floodtown.
After Mr. Kidder said grace, we ate chicken and dumplings on a table that pulled down out of the wall like a Murphy bed. Bud and Mr. Kidder had a long conversation about the book Bud had got him for Christmas, The Foremost Mobile Home Fix-It Guide , until Angel said that I probably didn’t want to hear anything about venting roofs or the installation of a tie-down and anchoring system.
“I don’t care,” I said. “We do a lot of fixing up over at our place, too.”
“I know your brother,” Bud said. “He’s not in my dorm, but I remember him from when we were naming girls we’d like to see be Ag Queen…. He wanted some sorority girl for queen, not even from Missouri, much less a farm girl.”
“Bella Hanna,” I said.
“We kept telling him we didn’t want anyone from Sorority Row. No one did.”
“You can’t tell Doug anything,” I said. “He went home with her for Christmas.”
“That must have broke your mother’s heart,” said Mrs. Kidder. “I hope you never do that to us, Bud.”
“It wouldn’t be for some sorority girl if I did,” he said.
“They couldn’t all be bad,” said Mr. Kidder.
“They’re not bad, Daddy,” Bud said, “they’re just snobs. The only time they want to date an ag student is when we have the Harvest Ball and crown the queen. They all want invitations to that. Then they drop us like hot potatoes.”
“Are you going to the university when you finish at County?” Mrs. Kidder asked me.
“I plan to.”
“He’s not going to be a farmer, though,” Angel said.
“I wished I’d never been one,” said Mr. Kidder.
“You love farming,” Bud said. “It was where we farmed, not that we farmed, broke your heart.”
“We didn’t have a choice,” Mr. Kidder said: “That was our land.”
Mrs. Kidder said, “What are you going to do if you don’t farm, Parr?”
“I haven’t decided yet, ma’am.”
“Just don’t be a banker,” Mr. Kidder
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