“Planter plates.”
“That’s the category.”
“I mean do you know what any of them fit?”
“No.”
Raymond returned the plate to the crate.
“Then we’d better find out.”
Ethan exhaled.
“You don’t think I wasted the money?”
“I didn’t say that.”
Raymond looked over the crates.
“You may have bought nine hundred paperweights.”
“Thanks.”
“Or you may have bought inventory.”
“How do we know?”
Raymond smiled.
“Work.”
That was the answer Ethan should have expected.
Loading the crates became the first lesson in how heavy nine hundred opportunities could be.
Raymond’s trailer could not carry all of them safely with the drill press and bearings.
They made two trips.
Each crate seemed heavier than the last.
Rust stained Ethan’s gloves.
Grease worked into his sleeves.
By late afternoon, the four crates occupied an entire corner of Bell Farm Repair.
Raymond stood beside them with his hands on his hips.
“Your mother know about this?”
“No.”
“You planning to move into my shop?”
“If necessary.”
Raymond laughed.
“Go home.”
Ethan’s mother noticed something was wrong before he finished dinner.
He was quiet.
Too quiet.
His grandmother lived with them and sat at the other end of the kitchen table drinking coffee even though it was after seven.
His mother finally asked:
“How much did you spend today?”
Ethan looked up.
“Why do you assume I spent anything?”
“Because you’ve been cutting meatloaf into pieces for five minutes without eating it.”
His grandmother smiled into her cup.
Ethan put down the fork.
“One hundred eighty dollars.”
His mother stared.
“On what?”
“Parts.”
“What kind?”
“Planter parts.”
“For your planter?”
“I don’t have a planter.”
She closed her eyes.
His grandmother asked calmly:
“How many parts?”
Ethan hesitated.
“Around nine hundred.”
His mother’s eyes opened.
“You bought nine hundred parts for a machine you do not own?”
“When you say it like that, it sounds bad.”
“How should I say it?”
His grandmother asked:
“What exactly are the parts?”
Ethan explained the plates.
Different numbers.
Different patterns.
Old manufacturers.
Potential obsolete applications.
His mother listened with increasing concern.
When he finished, she said:
“And you know they’re valuable?”
“No.”
“You know people need them?”
“No.”
“You know they work?”
“Most look usable.”
She stared at him.
“Ethan.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
He did.
That was the worst part.
He understood exactly how uncertain the purchase was.
His mother sighed.
“That was almost all your savings.”
“I can earn more.”
“That isn’t the point.”
Before she could continue, his grandmother spoke.
“Well.”
Everyone looked at her.
She set down the coffee cup.
“If he spent the money, worrying about whether he should have spent it won’t bring the money back.”
Ethan’s mother frowned.
“That’s not exactly the lesson I’m trying to teach.”