"Well, and he doesn't, now, does he?" Everett said.

Ginny was sore at him for that. Said people should stand by her pa when he was sick, instead of going out and finding someone else to replace him. Saying they wanted ads, when that wasn't the issue at all. Brochures. She said he should think so, too. And Everett could see her point in a way.

Still, he said, "Well, and what if I don't?"

'Cause, to be frank, he was getting as sick of her scolding as Rex. Sick of her lecturing. In the city, him and Ginny'd try to work things out. Talk things over. Go down to the cafe. Have them some coffee. But here he mostly headed out to the field and let her cool down. Here they had kind of a different style.

Not that he didn't get Ginny's worry. He did. He did get it. He knew Rex was out taking walks at the north end of the property, and he knew what that was about. Knew Rex had a number of acres in mind and knew it made him sick to contemplate. Sick. It was years ago that the bank came and took Rex's pigs, now. Years. But he still talked about it-how they came and took his pigs while he just stood there. Ginny talked about it, too-how her pa didn't say a word for a month. And now this. Land. This was worse. Ginny was afraid it was going to kill him. Or the walks. She was afraid the walks were going to kill him, especially as north was the side that bordered the commune. North was the side that bordered the hippies.

The hippies and their sheep.

'Course, those hippies had been living there for ten years at least. They were not new. But somehow in all those years, Rex never had got used to them. He didn't like their ganged-up ways, see. He didn't like the way they'd put together a hundred acres for themselves just like that. Ganging up. None of them was half the farmer he was. It was hobby farming, that's what it was. Play farming. A lot of the money came from their daddies. But where the hippies had all that land they seemed to think pretty d.a.m.ned well of themselves, he said. They did. They thought pretty d.a.m.ned well of themselves.

"How do you know?" Ginny asked him sometimes. "How do you know what they think? Have you ever talked to them?"

"Pa, we've been visiting over there," she even said once. Felt she had to tell him.

Rex did not like to hear it. But lacking other company, and seeing as how Belle Tollman was living there now, Ginny and Everett had gone to visit a couple of times. Toting pies along with them, and staying for longer than they should have. Laughing in the sunroom part of the great room, over by the big red woodstove, though, to be frank, Belle had changed. Ginny and Everett were shocked when they saw how disheveled she'd got. How she wore torn-up clothes, and walked around with a parrot on her shoulder, and didn't ever wear socks, just put her feet in her sheepskin boots barefoot. And her thinking had changed, too. The word "organic" was holy to her now. Organic. Organic. Ginny and Everett looked at each other. But at the same time, Belle was the Belle Tollman they knew. She was still wearing the necklace she'd worn in high school, a silver necklace with an ice skate on it. She still had Belle's quick way of talking. And she still thought Belle-like thoughts. Asking why chicken soup was soup made with chicken, for instance. Why wasn't it soup made for chickens? Wasn't chicken feed, feed for chickens? In high school, Ginny had thought that type of question weird, but now she thought it funny. Familiar. A dear, she called her. "Don't you think Belle is a dear?" she said. She did think Belle's husband, Paxton, weird. "Are those what they call dreadlocks?" she said. "I think he's the one pa told to, you know." But Belle herself was a dear. And Ginny liked a lot of the other commune folks, too. She liked the way they dressed-more regular than Belle, but original, still. She liked the way they ate. Said she was going to get some tofu, when she got the chance. And she liked hearing news. When Belle said Randy Little was away getting a divorce, for instance, but that he was coming back with Sue Ann Horn, Ginny liked hearing about it. Talking about it.

"I guess they ran into each other one day and realized they'd never loved anyone the way they loved each other," Ginny said. "Belle said they talk a lot about us. How there's something special about those high school attachments."

"Think so?" said Everett.

"She said they feel like true love in a way other attachments never do."

"Got you before you knew any better, I guess."

She smiled and said how she thought high school friendships were different, too. "I don't know that we made any real friends in the city, did we?" she said.

"We did not," he said.

"We have roots here," she said. "We go back. It makes a difference."

"Think Belle and Paxton'll want to come have supper on our Queen Anne chairs?" he said.

Ginny gave him the eye. "In due time," she said, "I don't know that they won't."

"What a nice talk they'll have with your pa over dessert. About the runoff."

"I don't have a crystal ball," she said.

'Course, they sure could have used a crystal ball right about then. 'Cause Rex thought they were going to have to sell ten acres. He could barely get the words out. Ten acres. And that wasn't even going to guarantee they could keep going forever. That would only keep them going for a while. And what if the hippies bought the land? Rex was worried the hippies would buy the land. Everett thought Rex was jumping the gun. He thought he should try moonlighting first, the way Rex used to. He could do just about anything, he said. Jack-of-all-trades that he was. He could. Or how about Ginny? Ginny could try for a job at the inn, he said. There was some compet.i.tion for those jobs, and you had to defend your hours with a shotgun. Still, Ginny could try.

"Or I could look into teaching again," Ginny said.

Everyone agreed she could look. In the meantime, they kept their thinking caps on. Maybe they should take a hint from the hippies and start a bakery, Ginny said. Or what about a cafe? She liked that idea and tried to warm the men up to it.

"We could have it right here on the farm," she said. "Call it the Farm Cafe. Everything would be fresh, or fresh-baked."

She was practically writing the menu when the idea of a mower came up. 'Cause the tractor they'd gotten up and running like nothing, see. But the mower, now. The mower was something else. Rex and Everett had disa.s.sembled the mower. Adjusted stuff. Lubricated and sharpened. Fashioned replacements, seeing as how you couldn't even get parts for the thing. They'd argued. What they remembered, what was plain common sense. What any jacka.s.s could tell. The moment of truth had come a couple of times.

The thing did not move.

"Looks to me like we need a new mower," said Rex, readjusting his hat.

Everett laughed. "Well, why don't we go order us one," he said.

'Course, now, in an ideal world they could have rented a mower. In an ideal world, they could have called someone up and got put on a schedule. But in the real world, folks don't rent their mowers, because mowers are too hard to move, see. They break too easy. And they're finicky, now, just finicky. Persnickety.

Still Everett talked to the commune about renting theirs. Figuring that, neighbors being neighbors, the commune just might risk it. Neighbors being neighbors. But come to find out their mower was a troublesome thing, too.

"We call it the beast of beasts," said Paxton, over pie. He pushed his chair back as if he felt crowded. "h.e.l.l, if I may say so, is a first cut with a temperamental mower."

"We would die a thousand deaths to rent a mower ourselves," said Belle. Her shirt had these little holes in the shoulder from the parrot claws. "We would. We'd die a thousand deaths."

So what if they bought a mower and rented it out to the commune? Ginny and Everett had the same idea at the same time as they walked back. 'Course, they brought the matter up real careful with Rex. They brought it up expecting he might object. But he did not object. Instead he told them he had an old friend in farm equipment. Giles and him went way back, he said. Their wives used to be friends. He could give him a call.

Giles turned out to be a little guy with a beard like rat hair. He wolfed down some cookies, saying there was something about them that reminded him of Ginny's mother. And when Ginny said she used half milk chocolate and half semisweet, just like her mom, he clapped his hands.

"I knew it," he said. "I knew there was something."

And then because they were like family, he told them how they were on the right track. He told them how if they rented the mower, they could take out a loan but get the hippies to make the payments.

"The hippies'll make the payments, but they won't own the mower," he said. "You'll own it." Giles looked at Ginny. "You'll own it. As you probably figured out already, living with the King of Deals himself as you do. You know, your pa's had a hand in every deal that's gone down here for decades. He even made a dime on my divorce." He winked. "Remember, Rex? When Diane and me split up and had to sell. Remember?"

"I do," said Rex.

"Mind you, I'm not saying things have changed," Giles told Ginny. "No, I'm not saying that at all. But your pa has always been the King of Deals. That's why everyone called him Rex." He looked off. "That's why after a while no one but his ma called him Avery."

Avery. Everett didn't know until right then that Rex was not born Rex, but Avery.

What the heck.

Giles had been casual about the down payment, but Ginny and Everett were less casual. 'Cause even that was a lot of money for them, more money than they had. They were going to have to borrow even that from the bank. They checked the numbers again. Checked and rechecked.

"Think the commune'll pay that?"

Ginny said she was happy to go ask Belle. Saw it as an excuse to go visiting, he guessed. And sure enough, she came back smiling.

"Belle says yes," she said.

"What does Paxton say?"

She did not like that question.

"Why do you ask?" she said. "Don't you think Belle knows?"

"I'm just asking."

"Well, I didn't ask and I'm not going to ask," she said. "If you want to know what Paxton thinks you can go ask him yourself."

And probably he should have, now. He should have. 'Cause when Belle told Paxton about the mower, he put two and two together, see, and called up Giles himself. And then Rex's old friend, bless him, explained everything to Paxton, including how Ginny and Everett probably could have taught him a thing or two. Seeing as how they lived with the King of Deals himself. And seeing as how Rex had made a deal out of other people's misery for about as long as anyone could remember.

Sue Ann Horn told them all of it later, see. When she and Randy Little were finally settled in, she told them. Back at the time, though, Belle did not exactly come running to report on what Paxton said. She did not let on that the commune'd gone and got a loan from their daddies and bought their own mower, either. Ginny and Everett knew nothing about nothing until their mower was signed for and sitting in their field. They knew nothing about nothing until there it was, all prepped and green and brandy-a.s.s new.

Theirs.

The last days on the farm were sad. Rex's bypa.s.s was scheduled, but most days he didn't look as if he was going to make it to the operation. Ginny kept calling the doctor's office. Terrible, she kept saying. He looks terrible. But the answer kept coming back the same. His condition wasn't critical enough for him to jump the line. Sure he was tired. Sure he was keeping to bed. He had a bad heart, they said. That's why he was having the bypa.s.s.

'Course, the funny thing when you thought about it was how clear Everett's pa's pipes were, thanks to his barely ever getting a bite of those steaks Rex was so used to. But Everett didn't ever say that to Ginny, now. Nope. He didn't say it. They were too busy trying to decide what to do. Trying to get used to the idea of some stranger handling the deal. A stranger selling the farm.

Jarvis and Bob came up to help out but made the mistake of asking how this could have happened. And then, well, if they really wanted to know they probably could have heard the story just fine in the city, and without even using the phone. Where the h.e.l.l were you? Ginny kept saying. Where the h.e.l.l were you? And, Did you ever think about the farm? Did you ever think what it meant? And, Would you look at Pa, now? Look at him! Look at him! Blasting. She was blasting. She was so mad she banged the truck into a couple of trees. Burnt up just about everything she cooked. She even had trouble with her shoelaces. Couldn't calm down enough to tie them.

Rex took to praying. 'Course, he always was some kind of Christian. Congregationalist, maybe. Everett'd never seen him pick up a Bible before, though. Rex had never had time for that sort of thing. Wouldn't have had the interest, either, unless there were pa.s.sages in Paul about what the weather was going to do. But now he read as if the Good Book might tell him something. As if the Good Book could tell him how his old friend Giles could do him in for the commission on two mowers, for instance. Or whether Satan had gotten to his friend. He thought the Good Book could tell him that. His friend was in trouble, he'd say. He had to pray for him. Pray for his salvation.

Rex playing savior. That was something to see, all right.

"We're going to have to start over," Everett said, one day. Ginny was standing there in the kitchen door, smoking and giving him her back. But he talked anyway, now, see. Talked to her back. "Listen. We won't move to the city, but how about we move across the lake? Into town. How about we move into town?"

A puff of smoke came out of her.

"Far enough to put this behind us but close enough we'll still have our roots. You'll see a doctor and have us some babies. I'll find some work. Rex'll live with us. What do you say?"

She smoked.

"Those cigarettes are going to kill you." He didn't dare bring up the eating. Figured he'd let her pants talk to her personal. But the smoking, now. He had to say something about the smoking. "You see what it says on the package? The surgeon general says so. Everyone says so. You're going to get cancer."

"Oh, yeah?" She lit up another cigarette.

They called the doctor's office again. Said they wanted Rex looked at. 'Cause he looks terrible, they said. 'Cause there's a lot of stress here. All they wanted was an appointment, they said. And they did get one in the end, see. They got one. It wasn't for two months, though.

Ginny smoked.

It was Rex who brought up the subject of graves. Said they could try to save the family plot, now. They could try. He didn't want to be buried there, though. Nope. Said if he was buried there he could not rest for missing his cows.

"I'd just be all the time thinking about them. What a herd we had. Escape artists." He laughed. "Escape artists."

Ginny swallowed.

"Remember when we sold the dairy herd? When your ma died?"

"I remember."

"Thought that was the end of the world. Remember?" "I remember."

"Thought there could never be as hard a time as that." He laughed a kind of laugh. "Just goes to show what a man knows."

He wanted to be buried in the Christian cemetery.

"Could be a mite lonely at first, but maybe we can buy up a couple of plots around mine. What do you say? See if anybody wants to join me. You. The boys. Everett. Improves your chances of going to heaven, you know."

"Is that right?"

"Starts you out one step closer. And let's face it. Some of us need the boost."

"I hear you, Pa," Ginny said. "I don't think we'll be burying you anytime soon, but I hear you."

"Pre-need, isn't that what they say?" he said. "It's good to decide on things pre-need."

"I guess," said Ginny.

Seeing as they were on the subject, she asked if he wanted her mother moved over there, too, to join him. Keep him company. "Not that we're planning on burying you anytime soon," she said again.

"Nah. Let the dead rest," he said. "Though I will miss her. What a good woman she was, your mother. I never did think I could manage without her."

They listed the farm with a big-name agency. Folks with an office in the city and brochures. And they did talk great. They did. They talked great. But they sent morons to show the place. Showed it to morons, too. It was morons walking around with morons. Ginny kept the place perfect as a magazine, but that wasn't enough, now, see. That wasn't enough. The morons would stop and say, loud enough for Ginny and Everett to hear, They prettied it up, but did they insulate the place? They prettied it up, but did they update the wiring?

Everett would've freed the cows to get Ginny out of there. Spare her the ordeal. But once, just going out for a walk, they'd come back to dead quiet.

"Pa! Pa!" Steep as those old stairs was, Ginny ran up them by twos. "Pa!"

Rex was asleep. He had pulled down his window shade so as not to see any more morons. In fact, so as not to be looking at the farm at all.

"I always used to tell Celia," he said, "that a family farm is a soap opera. I just plain don't want to watch."

'Course, they had their hopes even then, but what a sorry lot of hopes they was. Everett hoped never to see Giles again, now. That was one hope. He hoped never to see Belle or Paxton either. That was another. And Paxton he never did see again, luckily. Giles, neither.

But one day he looked out the window and saw company, and it wasn't a moron bringing a moron. It was Belle with her bare feet and that torn-up clothes. Never mind it was fall. Warm for fall, but still fall. She was wearing cutoffs so you could see the hair on her legs. A T-shirt with no sleeves so you could see her underarm hair, too. Luckily, she kept her arms more or less by her sides as she swung them. Not swinging them one back and one forward, the way most folks did, but both forward and then both back, so you could see her t.i.ts squeeze. Squeeze and hang, squeeze and hang, like they were being milked.

He intercepted her on the walk. Asked what she'd come for.

"I came to say I'm sorry," she said. "I didn't realize, I guess. I mean, I just had no idea. That all this would happen. I had no idea."

She was still swinging her arms. When he didn't answer right off, though, she stopped.

"Well, that's fine," he said. "But I don't think you should go in there."

"Why not?"

" 'Cause you might get yourself killed," he said.

"Rex might kill me?"

"Ginny," he said. "Ginny might kill you."

"She's mad, huh." Belle cracked her knuckles.

"I'd say so. Yeah. She's mad, all right."