In
the corner, at the foot of a stump, a square of sod had been cut and replaced. The edges were rough. Somebody had done it quickly. I knelt, wedged the shovel under the lip, and lifted.
Underneath, wrapped in a feed sack, was a gray metal cash box.
I sat back on my heels.
I knew the box. It was the one Tom’s father had used for the cattle money in the sixties, a dented thing with a broken latch that Tom had kept in the shop. I’d thought it lost. I lifted it out, brushed the dirt from the lid, and thumbed the latch.
Inside lay a stack of envelopes, rubber-banded, and a single folded sheet of paper on top.
My name was on it. In his square, careful capitals.
KAREN.
I unfolded it. My hands didn’t want to cooperate. The meadowlark sang on and on, as though nothing
had happened to anybody, as if the world were just a pleasant morning in a good country.
Karen,
If you’re reading this, you found the corner. I knew you would. You read my notebook like scripture.
I’m sorry I’m not good at talking. I’m sorry I didn’t say more while there was time. I thought about it every day. I’d open my mouth and there was nothing in it but “pass the salt.”
Here’s what’s in the box. It’s been in the ground since 2016, the year the drought took the creek bottom and we nearly lost the herd. Remember that spring, when I said I’d gotten a good price on the old Case? I hadn’t. I sold it for twenty-two thousand, and I buried the money, because I was scared. I didn’t want you to know how close we came.
Then the calf prices came back, and I was
too ashamed to tell you I’d hidden it. So I’ve left it there. Added a little each year. I’m not proud of the secret. But it’s yours.
Count it. It should come to about forty-one thousand.
That’s enough to pay off the note on the north eighty, with some left. I did the math. The place will be clear, and the cows will be yours, and you’ll have a year to decide what you want. Whether you want to stay. I think you’ll stay. But I never asked you, so I’m asking now, in the only way I’ve got.
