The ground was wet and his saw horses were sinking under the heft of the fresh cut lumber and sticking into the mud. He leaned a couple more boards up against the side of the hay barn well within his reach once he went up, and he moved his orange fiberglass ladder over a couple of feet, steady-as-steady could be on this vanishing earth, and he climbed halfway up the ladder and felt a soft breeze lapping against his cheek.
He pressed his knees up against the ladder’s frame and grabbed a poplar plank.
The ladder swayed. Leaning with all his weight, he hoisted that plank up against the side of the barn and pulled the nail gun from his tool belt and thwack had the trigger pulled and thwack another nail went straight into the stud six inches to the left, direct, precise.
He climbed a couple more steps to the skinny part of the ladder. Bracing himself, he shot two more nails into the top plank, inspected his work, and he climbed down the stainless steel rungs. Twelve feet below, his feet squished into the mucky ground and made a sucking sound, and he sidestepped the ladder and shot two more nails into the bottom of the board.
Work’s good for the soul, he thought. All a man needs. Forget her. Fuck the bank.
Pigeons warbled, dropping shits and taking flight, and he heard tires crunching on gravel.
He turned to have a look and saw his old man’s black Z71 rumbling down the drive over by the farmhouse. Past the milking parlor and onto the rutted muddy path, his pops was steering around all the washouts and puddles at idle speed. He passed the machine barn and kept going left. Going right. So slow across the property. Always moving forward—toward what? remained a mystery—but always getting there in his old man time.
Never likes to get dirty, he thought. A farmer afraid of the mud. Ain’t that something. Guess he’s coming to check up on the boy, so he took off his leather gloves.
The truck came to rest, engine still gurgling, and his pops put down his window.
“Finally got to siding the hay barn, ha?”
“Trying to get it in before the party.”
“Sounds good.”
His father reached for his armrest and his window began rising.
“Hold up,” Larry said. “Wait a minute. How was that certification?”
“Spent five hours talking about pests,” Marty said in his old man get-the-fuck-off-me voice. He shook his head. “I raised my hand and finally told em, ‘The only pests around here is them goddamn Indians.’” The old man laughed. “That got a good rise out of everybody.”
“Yeah, well, they’ve been back.” Larry stepped closer to the truck. “Ma said Havernutter’s guy came by while we were out.”
“Is that so?” Marty asked. “What a shame I missed him, again.”
“Been by a lot lately.”
“No more than usual.”
“Nah bull shit,” Larry said. “That makes twice this month.”
“Yup,” Marty said. “Guess it does.”
“Must be thinking you’re getting soft. Ready to sell.”
The old man reached for his gearshift.
“You leaning that way?” Larry asked. “You close to selling?”
“How about you put up the rest of that barn siding.”
“You know I’m working things out, right?”
Marty’s window rose and his face vanished behind the shiny glass. His tires spun in the soggy brown earth till they grabbed, and he inched all the way back home, in reverse, slow and silent just like he had approached.
Jason Edward Collins currently teaches at the Surrey International Institute at the Dongbei University of Finance & Economics in lovely Dalian, China. He has an MA in English Language & Literature from Brooklyn College, and he has an MFA in Creative Writing (Fiction) from The New School.