Farm Business

It's the shape of a grapefruit," he said, "but more the size of an egg carton. No, bigger. Like a gingerbread house." He drew outlines on a sheet of paper. His hands made the different shapes in the air.

None of this made sense to Constance Gardiner, who didn't truck much with fancy comparisons.

What I'm trying to say, said the doctor, is that the mass in the colon is just too big. He told her about the surgery, and about the treatments they would schedule right there at County. Wasn't she lucky to live near the only hospital in a hundred miles?

She took the news alone but that wasn't odd. It was a small town with only one real employer of any decent size. Being that the employer was County, where she heard the news, Constance figured most people knew it before she did anyway.

"Talk to Vearl, get comfortable with the idea, then come in for the surgery," the doctor said. And then, because he knew farmers, though not necessarily her farmer, he added, "Next time bring him with. There's paperwork."

Milking the cows that night wasn't any harder than the other eleven thousand times. But the stall equipment twisted the bag on number 453. The animal's bellow left Constance in a fluster. She swabbed the bloody teats with a fistful of wet-wipes, which left her hand damp with Clorox solution. That hand froze nearly solid between the side door of the dairy barn and the kitchen.

That was when she started thinking about death as if it were a friend or maybe some kind of spiritual presence. Someone she could rely on. Because the big belly cancer that hung down to her crotch was still more comfortable than the coldness in her hand.

Vearl stood in the front room doorway, his face to the wall. "I trust you the most so I callt you first," he shouted into the phone receiver. "First thing tomorrow. Family meeting. No, after we fix the pump and the fence. That's right! Big as a gingerbread house. Get here before your brothers or I'll scratch your eyes out."

Vearl aimed the black earpiece at the wall-mounted telephone and ended the connection with a smack. Pop! Same as a hammer. Then he dialed again, with a pencil stub in the holes of the rotary. While he waited to connect, he returned the pencil to the bib pocket of his blue and white coveralls.

Constance moved through the kitchen like a ghost down a hallway so she wouldn't disturb Vearl, who would be on the horn until supper was ready.

She turned on the stovetop range Vearl gave her for Christmas in 1956. She'd had more encounters with that range than a barn cat has kittens. Her mama had predicted that outcome. Constance had giggled and then forgotten all about it, but now she remembered as she turned the dial and looked down at the accumulation of bacon fat and beef grease and lard and fritter dust that had gathered there over the years. Of course, she now realized that she hadn't known a darn thing at seventeen, least of all her heart's desire. That knowledge came decades later, after the desire was beat out of her, leaving only the heart. And the stovetop.

The doctor hadn't told her what death was like and he hadn't prepared her for being sick. She wished the heater would kick on so her hand could un-claw itself. Meanwhile, the death was running strong and sneaky under her tired skin. But that was the last time she dwelt on what was happening to her body. She already knew it didn't matter.

Vearl ate his fried supper with a serving spoon, the way he always did. He folded his bread and butter into a little square. After he scraped his supper plate he held the battered spoon to the light.

"I think it's about time for a new spoon," he said. "This one's gone sharp on...