Then. “Why would he wanna do that?” The question is barely audible.
I don’t have an answer. But then again, Ernie isn’t a sixty-seven-year-old widower with Parkinson’s and a farm that’s struggling to stay afloat without him.
If he’d had it his way, my father would’ve ridden that tractor off into the proverbial sunset with Mom on his lap.
He didn’t have it his way.
I glance back at the fresh handprint on the wall. She would’ve lost her mind at that. Even when we had to move her hospital bed down here to the living room, she would threaten holy vengeance if we didn’t leave our boots on the front porch.
As soon as I make sure Pop’s okay, I’ll grab the OxiClean and a sponge.
Sensing it’s safe enough, I poke my head into the bathroom and find Pop practically listing against the vanity. He’s almost as white as the original hall paint, and the tremors are full strength.
“Pop, grab some porcelain,” I demand, stepping in and pointing to the edge of the tub.
Since he doesn’t argue, I know he’s probably feeling pretty weak. It’s crazy how quickly he tires out these days. The man used to put in an eight-hour day by noon and then a six-hour day after lunch.
He’s managed to wash off all the dirt, but the sink and floor are spattered with fat drops of blood.
“Looks like a crime scene in here,” I mumble, washing my hands.
He snorts, pressing a rapidly reddening wad of toilet paper to his gash. “Return your phone calls next time.”
Ouch.
I pick up the bottle of peroxide and a clean cotton ball from the Mason jar on the counter. Pop doesn’t flinch when I swipe at the one-inch cut on his jaw.
“Well, you’ve done a good job cleaning it,” I say, dabbing as gently as I can. “But I don’t think butterfly bandages are up to the task.”
Pop grunts. “There’s superglue in the tool chest.”
I step back and take him in. He’s not joking.
“Fine,” I say with a sigh. Then I grab a wad of cotton balls, stuff them into his hand, and mash the hand to his face. “Press hard, you stubborn goat.”
I leave the bathroom to the rasp of his laughter in search of the Superglue.
Twenty minutes later, I’m scrubbing blood from the porch railing when Javier pulls up in his truck.
Pop is sitting out here watching me, looking like he’s in the makeup chair for a horror movie.
“He punch you in the face?” Javier teases him, rounding the truck bed before dropping the tailgate.
“Gotta let him get in a lick every now and then,” Pop mutters back, wearing a hint of a grin. I roll my eyes at Javier, but I’ll admit I’m grateful he can amuse the old man most days.
My foreman wraps his big arms around one of the crates in his truck bed but then stops, eyeing me.
“You sure you don’t want me to drive these in?” His question is hushed and his eyes cut toward my dad’s direction for just an instant.
Again, I’m grateful to Javier. He’s a great foreman but an even better friend. I know he’s offering to make the delivery so I can stay close to home and keep an eye on my father, but the last thing Pop wants is a babysitter.
And I’d be lying if I said I couldn’t use a drive—one where I can actually zone out for a few minutes.
Because harvesting requires total focus. The minute you don’t give it your full attention, people get hurt. There’s only about ten different ways workers can lose a finger, an arm, or their lives with the harvester, and no matter what, my farm, my machine, my fault.
And if you’re lucky to just lose focus long enough to pitch over a slope too fast, but you don’t kill anybody, you just fuck up the digger assembly, then you’re only out five figures.
“Thanks, but I’ll do it,” I tell Javier and then help him shift the load to my truck.