“That’s charitable of you,” Sylvia said, shaking her head. “Don’t you ever get tired of giving tours?”
“No.”
“It’s not just a motor home, you know. It’s where we
“Ah,” he said, sliding a cutlet from the platter onto his plate, “you’d do that anyway.”
“Still,” she said. “You never gave tours of the farmhouse.”
He shrugged. “Nobody ever wanted to look at it. It’s just a house, sweetie. Nothing special about a house.”
Said Sylvia heatedly, “A house where we raised eight children.”
“You know what I mean,” he said. “Hey, good pork.”
“Oh, dear,” she said, “here they come again.”
The dark SUV with the Illinois plates didn’t proceed all the way up the drive to the campsite, but it braked to a stop just off the access road. Sylvia could see two people in the vehicle—two men, it looked like. And maybe someone smaller in the back. A girl? She glared her most unwelcoming glare, she thought. It usually worked. This time, though, the motor shut off and the driver’s door opened.
“At least they didn’t drive in on top of us,” she said.
“Good campground etiquette,” Marshall said.
“But they could have waited until after our supper.”
“You want me to tell them to come back later?”
“What,” she said with sarcasm, “and not give them a tour?”
Marshall chuckled and reached out and patted Sylvia’s hand. She shook her head.
Only the driver got out. He was older, about their age or maybe a few years younger, wearing a casual jacket and chinos. He was dark and barrel-chested, with a large head, slicked-back hair, and warm, dark eyes. He had a thick mustache and heavy jowls, and he walked up the drive rocking side-to-side a little, like a B-movie monster.
“He looks like somebody,” Sylvia said. “Who am I thinking of?”
Marshall whispered, “How would I know who you’re thinking of?”
“Like that dead writer. You know.”
“Lots of dead writers,” Marshall said. “That’s the best kind, you ask me.”
“Sorry to bother you,” the man said affably. “I’m Dave Stenson. My friends in Chicago call me Stenko.”
“Sorry to bother you at dinnertime. Would it be better if I came back?” Stenson/Stenko said, pausing before getting too close.
Before Sylvia could say yes, Marshall said, “I’m Marshall and this is Sylvia. What can we do for you?”
“That’s the biggest darned motor home I’ve ever seen,” Stenko said, stepping back so he could see it all from stem to stern. “I just wanted to look at it.”
Marshall smiled, and his eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. Sylvia sighed. All those years in the cab of a combine, all those years of corn, corn, corn. The last few years of ethanol mandates had been great! This was Marshall’s reward.
“I’d be happy to give you a quick tour,” her husband said.
“Please,” Stenko said, holding up his hand palm out, “finish your dinner first.”
Said Marshall, “I’m done,” and pushed away from the picnic table, leaving the salad and green beans untouched.
Sylvia thought,
Turning to her, Stenko asked, “I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. I’d sure appreciate it.”
She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes . . .
SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called “The Unit.” She heard phrases she’d heard dozens of times, “Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight . . . five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine . . . satellite radio . . . three integrated cameras for backing up . . . GPS . . . bedroom with queen bed, satellite television . . . washer/dryer . . . wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks . . .”
Now Marshall was getting to the point in his tour where, he said, “We traded a life of farming for life in The Unit. We do the circuit now.”
“What’s the circuit?” Stenko asked. She thought he sounded genuinely interested. Which meant he might not leave for a while.
Sylvia shot a glance toward the SUV. She wondered why the people inside didn’t get out, didn’t join Stenko for the tour or at least say hello. They weren’t very friendly, she thought. Her sister in Wisconsin said people from Chicago were like that, as if they owned all the midwestern states and thought of Wisconsin as their own personal
