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  As if to ratify his thought, Timothy hears a whinny rise from behind the barn. A horse laugh all right. That would be Whoa Boy. Whoa Boy is Cord’s plug, won in a poker game a few months ago. I’ve got the kind of brother who wins a horse in a poker game, was Timothy’s first appraisal of the news. Guy was into him for a grand, and brother-o-mine takes a fucking horse for lucre. Never mind he’s got no place to put it. Well, had no place to put it. This doomed union provided Cord pasturage, but the point remains.

  It’s a two-thousand-dollar horse, Cord had explained when Timothy questioned his judgment. He acted as if the currency could be converted: two U.S. horse to one U.S. dollar. Cord saw the horse as two-thousand-dollars-worth of animal, while Timothy saw the horse for what it was, a useless hay-burner.

  It’s hard for Timothy to forgive Cord’s naïve childishness. He’s older by five years, after all, and everyone likes him more. How come Cord can make such a dumb move and no one calls him on it? Probably because his dumb move makes him happy. Also, who doesn’t love a man with a horse? Cord’s impulsive, but he’s quick to love and he’s got a big heart for other suckers. So it comes to this. Timothy’s the kind of brother who holds his brother’s happiness against him. No wonder Cord hates him. For Cord certainly does hate him. There has been a lifetime of beatings and belittlings to prove it. But which kind of brother is worse?

  Holding this thought, Timothy steps over the threshold from the porch into the mudroom. It smells stale, sour, a cow barn once removed. The milking bibs are hung on their hooks, the shitty boots all lined up on newspaper that doesn’t quite perform its function, the linoleum sprinkled with lime and straw and the ubiquitous little flecks of shit. A cow cane, gentlemanly in aspect, leans into a corner. Perched above, a row of seed caps. Pioneer, Garst, and Timothy’s old favorite, DeKalb: the flying corn.

  From the mudroom Timothy can see part of the kitchen and what passes for a dining room, but he can’t see the business end of the kitchen, where he hears the women at their chores.

  Hello the house, Timothy calls. He waits for a feminine reply.

  Bless my spectacles. A quavering voice, masculine. It’s the Old Gent, Timothy’s dad, come through the dining room. In here with the women.

  They’ve been at it all day, he says. I’m just keeping an eye on things.

  Keeping an eye on the ball game, comes his mother’s voice from across the room.

  What’s that, Mother? Timothy’s dad is growing steadily hard of hearing.

  Never mind.

  The Old Gent is of an age that he can move easily among the family’s factions. He’s also of the age that no one expects much of him. He’s been relieved of the men’s work, put out to pasture so to speak, but he hasn’t been asked to take up the women’s work. Neither here nor there: Timothy’s own family station. The difference is that his father is much beloved. The women dote on him because he was so selfless in raising the family. Whereas with Timothy, no one expects much because he can’t provide much.

  Some men might balk at their diminished role, feel henpecked. Timothy’s dad doesn’t mind the soft treatment. At this moment, he’s quite content. It is, after all, his only daughter’s wedding, even if it is a do-over.

  Big day, the Old Gent says. And you’re looking a little shaggy. Want me to cut some of that off for you? He makes his cold fingers into scissors on Timothy’s neck.

  No thanks, Dad, Timothy says.

  Starting already? The Old Gent nods at the half-empty beer cup in Timothy’s hand.

  You know what they say, Timothy says, raising his voice and his cup.

  What’s that?

  Timothy’s still standing on the threshold of the mudroom. He steps in now and looks across the kitchen at the row of female backsides. If he only had his camera. They’re lined up like bridesmaids from biggest to smallest. His mother; his sister, Anita; Jess—who’s Gust’s preteen daughter from his first marriage; Gust’s mother. What’s her name? Lorraine.

  How’s the Fixins? Timothy calls to the women.

  Where have you been? Anita asks. She doesn’t turn around. She’s wearing her wedding gown yet. It was their mother’s gown. Timothy recognizes it from a picture. This hand-me-down wasn’t good enough for her first wedding, a regular church affair almost a decade ago. But for this second wedding, the old dress seems fitting. It’s silk, a faded pearl now more yellow than white, with sequins, a train. Her auburn hair hangs in flouncy ringlets over her shoulders. She’s lovely in the dress.

  Well? she asks.

  I was outside with the cave men.

  Jess giggles. She’s nearly grown, looking more like Anita’s sister than her new daughter. She’s got her hair done the same way.

  You know what I mean. Before. Where were you?

  Had to work.

  In the summer? That’s a new one for you.

  Ha, ha.

  Would have been nice if someone took pictures. A girl only gets married once or twice you know. Anita’s still not looking at him. None of the women are.

  You didn’t have a photographer?

  You’re a photographer.

  I have a camera is all. I’m sorry. You know I’m not a photographer.

  You should be.

  Should be a photographer?

  Should be sorry. His sister turns to him holding a heavy mushroom-colored casserole in a clear dish. Pyrite, Pyrex, something. She looks beautiful, younger. Her blue eyes sparkle. She’s wearing a sassy blue apron that reads, Yes I Do, But Not With You.

  Here, she says. Carry this to the table. Timothy accepts the heavy dish.

  Ow, shit! he says. His sister had been using pot holders. Timothy is bare-handed. Ow, freak. It’s scalding. He shoves it back to her and puts his fingers in his mouth.

  Oh, you’re a wimp, Anita says. She looks at him when she says this. She doesn’t smile.

  Here, wait, he says, recovering. He reaches under her hands and takes the pot holders, the casserole, everything. There. I’ve got it.

  Put it in the other room, she says. Then put on an apron or clear out.

  Timothy carries the casserole to the dining room and adds it to the oil-cloth gathering of other slumgullions—his mother’s word—in their unmatched dishes, the green bean casserole, the creamed corn casserole, the potato salad, fifteen beans, the slaw. All these familiar bland dishes together on the table form a united front. His make-do family. Don’t expect too much for yourself, the slumgullions warn. Don’t put on the dog. Don’t be smart. Don’t get too big for your britches. You deserve exactly this. This is a plentitude.

  Timothy had hoped that dinner might be a sit-down affair, but when Anita calls, Come and Get It, the men come and get it, load it on their paper plates and disperse with it, as if this is just any picnic. Some go back to the roaster, others stroll down to the barn, some join the Old Gent at the TV. All available seats in the house soon fill. New guests wander in, some Timothy recognizes, and some he does not. There is the banker, whom no one seems to know by name, Gust’s sister and her litter, a couple of neighbors, and an old redheaded friend of Gust’s named Withrow. Timothy had heard about Withrow, the supposed best man, and had expected him earlier. Evidently Timothy isn’t the only one who boycotted the wedding.

  Cord walks around with a big platter of pork, filling everyone’s plates. Behind him, Skin has a pitcher of beer in each fist, refilling the plastic cups. Skin refills Timothy’s own cup. This is the problem with drinking from a tapper. You can’t keep track of the number of beers you’ve drunk.

  Timothy takes his own plate and beer down to the milk house, where Gust and Withrow eat, their plates perched on the bulk tank. They seem to be discussing something urgent but get quiet when Timothy walks in. Cord follows behind him and forks a roasted trout onto Timothy’s plate. The trout is whole and looks perfectly cooked, the charred tail curled, the eyes milk white, the skin crisp and easily peeled from the flaky pink flesh. Timothy mouths a forkful of the succulent trout, instantly pleased by the smoky flav
or and moist, firm texture.

  There, now you’re guilty too, his brother says. No more pointing fingers. Cord looks smug and satisfied. Yes, Sack called it. He has his grin on.

  Timothy wanders with his plate from the milk house. The barn is freshly whitewashed and the aisles are freshly limed. The corner cobwebs are frosted white, and even the gutters are white, the barn not yet defiled by the cows. All the cows are out to pasture. Only Whoa Boy stands in the cow yard. Timothy steps back to see him through the barn window and is surprised to see a big red ribbon cinched around his girth like a belly rope.

  So, Cord has made a gift horse of Whoa Boy.

  See what your brother give us? Gust yells from the milk house. You don’t have to worry. You can still ride him when you want to.

  Maybe Timothy will. Maybe he’ll ride the gift horse out to see the acreage. He takes the last bite of flesh from the poached trout and drops the skeleton onto the limed aisle. It was a good-tasting trout.

  Timothy explores the barn, climbing up into the hay mow, breathing heavily from all the drinking, scaring off a few roosting pigeons. The far end of the mow is stacked with the previous year’s hay, certainly not enough to last the season. Gust will have to buy more, but where will the money come from? A heavy rope hangs from the rusted block and tackle, attached to the roof beam in the center of the barn. With this the farmer hauled in the bales long ago. It would have been good to grow up here, to have all this mystery to explore. A boy helping load the hay could stack the bales in such a way to make tunnels that he could crawl through. These tunnels could be like a labyrinth with many dead ends, but with a special entrance to a private sanctuary in the heart of the haystack that only Timothy could find. The space would be dark and dry and quiet and smothering, but safe, and each time finding it would be a thrill, and it would be a thrill too thinking about all that weight stacked upon you, yet still you’re safe in your hidey hole and no one can find you.

  A small band of pigeons flies in the open window up by the peak and startles Timothy. He finishes his beer, puts the cup in his teeth, and climbs down the wooden ladder from the mow.

  Midway down the ladder, Timothy can see into the milk house, where Withrow and Gust lean over the bulk tank. They have their backs to him. Are they arguing? Withrow has been holding a big manila envelope, and now he empties the envelope onto the bulk tank. Banded stacks of what looks like Monopoly money spill from the envelope into a pile on the bulk tank. One of the stacks falls to the floor and Withrow bends to retrieve it. He stands and fans the bills. This is not Monopoly money, this is cash. But Timothy’s too far away to see the denomination of the bills.

  Withrow puts the stack onto the pile with the others and makes a show, like a poker player going all in, of shoving the whole pile toward Gust.

  It’s all yours, Withrow says. This is what I got saved. Twenty Gs.

  I can’t take that, Gust says.

  Shit, take it. Come with me and it’s all yours.

  You’re drunk, Gust says.

  You think I’m drunk.

  But I love her.

  You love anybody, Withrow says. Fucking drunk. It could be just us, like the old days. Before that bitch. He returns the stacks of bills to the manila envelope one by one.

  Timothy tries to read this but he’s drunk too. His head swims with questions. What old days? What ridiculous scene is he watching? Is this bum really trying to buy Gust out of his marriage? Have they discussed this before? Isn’t it too late now? Don’t you have to speak before the I Do’s? Finally, if Withrow and Timothy both object to the wedding, but for opposite reasons, does this make them allies?

  Cord and Skin shuffle back to the barn with more meat and beer, and Withrow secures the manila envelope just in time, sealing the threat inside. Just like that, everyone is drunk and grinning again, and no one sees Timothy on the ladder. The four men walk out into the sunlight, and Timothy climbs down from the mow.

  After the wedding feast—for gorging in all corners of a farmyard cannot be construed as a dinner—Gust offers to take everyone who’s interested out in the pickup to see the property. So much for riding Whoa Boy. Timothy decides to tag along with the others. Gust has a big blue-and-white Dodge, and the wedding party packs in front and back cheek to jowl. Timothy climbs in the bed. He hopes to sit next to the banker, but the banker rides up front with Gust and the bride. Timothy ends up squeezed between Cord and Nicky. Withrow, too, rides in the back. He’s dressed up like it’s hunting season with a red-and-black flannel, too heavy for summer. As Gust maneuvers the truck in the farmyard, Skin makes to climb aboard also, but Cord tells him to stay.

  You help with the pig, Cord says. Skin looks dejected. He wants to ride along. The truck idles. Gust watches in the side-view. Finally, Cord says, Oh, all right, get in you big baby. Skin climbs aboard and everyone makes room.

  The tractor path leading to the back forty is muddy on account of the recent rain, and the ride is rough. The beer and the good scenery, the bodies jostling against one another, somehow put Timothy at ease. This riding out to see the acreage seems like part of a tradition, though Timothy has never taken part in such a ritual before. Gust stops twice while Withrow lumbers out the back and opens a gate, shutting the gate after Gust drives through. The new herd, forty-six Holsteins bought at auction with the bank loan, roams out here somewhere, untrained to the farmer’s call. Gust doesn’t want his cows wandering back into the overgrown recesses of his farm.

  A small creek wends through the property, and Timothy wonders if it holds any fish. Nicky’s catch offers the ultimate proof. Timothy can imagine spending some time out here.

  Cord and Withrow are talking about Withrow’s job in the operator’s union. Withrow says he gets paid big money to run the company’s largest hydraulic excavator. He brags that he can nudge an egg along the ground with the six-ton bucket of the excavator without breaking the shell. Hell, he says, I could unhitch a woman’s bra with my machine if she wore a front loader. Laughs all around. Gust hits another bump and Nicky leans heavily into Timothy. He feels the big man’s body against his own, smells his odor of charred pork and sweat. A few tufts of down from the earlier plucking cling to the whiskers on his wine stain like a forgotten smudge of shaving cream. It’s sinking in now that this is his brother, one of the family, and that he and Nicky occupy the same low place in the pecking order, the youngest children, adults but not yet real contributors, still free to gather wool and wade streams for fish and show up empty-handed to a wedding. But Nicky did not. No, he did not show up empty-handed at all.

  Gust slows down. Cord said something to Withrow and Skin that Timothy has missed, and now he’s gesturing to the two of them, motioning in the air, probably about how to build something. He cuts quite a figure against the greenery. Skin looks at Cord adoringly and Withrow nods gravely, tipping his beer. Timothy has already begun to doubt himself and what he saw in the milk house. Maybe it was just the alcohol, the stress of maintaining civility these hours under this pressure. He knows one thing. Withrow is no ally.

  The truck stops, and Gust swings out the driver door. Everybody out, he says. Take a gander at the old farmstead.

  Gust points to an old fieldstone foundation and the wedding party addresses it. The foundation is perhaps fifteen by twenty, the stones joined by a primitive mortar. The remains of a similar foundation rest a couple dozen yards away. This would have been the barn. There is no timber left on either of the old foundations. Only the stones and the crumbling mortar remain.

  Carry me over the threshold, Gust, Anita says. This is our farm too. She hitches the train of her wedding dress to keep it off the ground. She’s made a pledge to wear it all day and then put it away forever. Gust picks her up and carries her over the old threshold, once around the small room, and back out. Everyone watches the little ceremony. Timothy thinks of his mother and the Old Gent. He wonders if the Old Gent performed a similar ceremony. He must have. And his mother in this very dress.

  This was the
old Knuteson farmstead, the banker says. I’ve seen the original plat. From the pioneer days. Old Knute—or whatever his name was—reared twelve kids in that modest edifice.

  The way he’s dressed, this banker might be a farmer too, except there’s a certain luster to him the others don’t show, his dungarees a little bluer, showing a crease, his farm boots oiled. I’m one of you, the outfit tries to say. Trust me with your money.

  Withrow walks over to the second foundation, unzips his pants, and begins pissing.

  Jesus, Withrow, Gust says. There’s women here. Timothy cannot tell if this is a mock admonishment. Anita is the only woman here.

  They’ve seen it before, he says.

  He’s a pig, Anita says, with surprising venom. Timothy looks at his sister. He sees something he hadn’t seen before, hadn’t known about. What about the others? Did they know?

  Then Anita says to the banker, I doubt Old Knute did any rearing. Didn’t he have an Old Lena?

  He had a Lena, the banker responds. Only a couple of their kids lived to tell about it. Epidemics, typhoid, smallpox, what have you. Kids buried around here like animals with no markers. Old Knute perished himself not long after the Civil War.

  Poor Old Knute, Withrow says, head down, finishing his job.

  Poor Lena, Anita says.

  Timothy feels oddly conciliatory, eager to change the subject. He kicks a rusted metal runner lying alongside the foundation. What’s this? he asks the banker.