The evening air smelled different beneath the trees.
Cooler.
Earthier.
The temperature was not dramatically lower, but the shade made it feel like another place.
Green clover grew beneath several willows. Wild violets had appeared in patches. Plantain and grasses stayed soft where the exposed pasture beyond the fence had gone brittle.
Ben stopped.
“This was bare clay when I was a boy.”
“I know.”
“I remember trying to drive a cultivator through here one July. Ground was so hard the blades skipped.”
He crouched and pressed his fingers into the soil.
They sank past the first joint.
His face changed.
“Your grandmother knew.”
Clara sat beside him.
“I think she knew parts.”
“What’s the difference?”
“She knew what happened. She didn’t always know why.”
“Does why matter if it works?”
“Mr. Vance says it matters if we want to repeat it.”
Ben nodded.
“That sounds sensible.”
“It pains me to admit it.”
He laughed.
The sound surprised both of them.
For months, grief and worry had made every conversation heavy. The grove gave them a place to speak where the weight shifted slightly.
Ben became serious again.
“Henderson talked to me.”
Clara stiffened.
“About what?”
“The mortgage.”
“He shouldn’t be discussing my account with you.”
“He wasn’t giving details. He asked whether I could help.”
“Can you?”
Ben looked down.
“Not enough.”
Clara regretted the sharpness immediately.
“I’m sorry.”
“No. It’s true.”
He rubbed soil from his hands.
“I’ve got some savings. Not much. I can give you—”
“No.”
“Clara.”
“No.”
“Pride again.”
“Not pride. You worked twenty years for that money.”
“And you’re my daughter.”
She looked at him.
Ben’s face held something firm.
“Let me decide what my work is for.”
The sentence reached her in a place argument could not.
They agreed on a smaller amount.
Enough to keep the bank satisfied through August.
Not enough to solve the problem.
Clara wrote the figure in her ledger and wrote beside it: Loan from Pa. Repay.
Ben saw.
“Don’t insult me.”
“It’s my ledger.”