He sighed, frowned, flipped his forelock off his forehead. “He couldn’t look at me. Because he feels like I let him down. Back of his mind, I sort of caused this because I didn’t, won’t, come back and take over the farm. Three generations of farmers, and I’m the one blowing it off.”
Now that he explained it, yes, I realized that Brassard had seemed to tighten up when he spoke to, or listened to, Will.
“But what difference would that have made anyway?”
“I’d have been free help for the last twenty years. And my wife and kids would have helped, too. And I could have skipped college and saved all that tuition money. Or—”
“Will!”
“What?”
“I think you’re exaggerating this.”
He was having a hard time attaching one of the claws, shaking its tangled outflow tubes in frustration. “We’ve had talks over the years. He blames me for some of it. Justified or not, it makes me feel like shit and pisses me off.”
“What’d Diz think?”
“Huh! Diz thought I should get my ass back to work.”
“But you do work! You’re always working!”
“This work. Work the kind she did, work the way she worked.” He got the claw straightened out and suctioned onto the teats. “Also I should have married someone who wasn’t a princess who was ‘too special to get her hands dirty.’”
I wondered just how much of a “princess” Will had married, and I was a little taken aback by the depth of his confession and vehemence. After a strained silence, he straightened, slapped himself on both cheeks, and grinned. “Okay. Sorry. You don’t need to hear anybody’s self-pitying rant. Really, that’s not who I am. It’s just a tense time.”
A thump and clatter came from the outer door, and then Robin bumped through and called hello.
She bustled in, a robust twenty-two-year-old who resembled her brother: tall, big-boned, dark hair, blue eyes. “Sorry I’m late!” she said cheerfully. She smacked her hands together and got her earbuds ready for insertion, ready to boogie with the cow crowd. “So, what’s new?”
“Not much,” Will said. “Same old shit.”
Chapter 30
I was disappointed that no inspirational lightning had struck during our brainstorming. It saddened me that Will went through life feeling that he was letting three generations of Brassards down.
He seemed so downcast after milking that instead of heading up to my camp, I invited him to dinner at my chicken-coop apartment. I asked him if he ate quiche and he said, “Any chance I get,” so I borrowed various ingredients from the house kitchen.
I had occasionally spent nights in the help dorm during the summer, but rarely, only when the weather was truly horrible or I was too exhausted to make the climb to my own place. When we came in, I realized that I was not used to seeing anyone in here, certainly not someone as tall as Will—the ceilings suddenly got lower. It had a tiny entry alcove where you stamp off mud or snow, hang up your coat, and leave your muck boots, then a little living room with a kitchen at one end, and a bedroom just big enough for a bunk bed and two bureaus. The bathroom had a shower but no tub, a stacked washer-dryer setup, and just enough room between fixtures to turn around.
The second thing I realized was that I had not made quiche in a couple of years, and though it’s pretty foolproof, I suffered a sudden lack of confidence in my ability to not screw it up. Also, I had no wine to ease the transition from work mode to socializing, so we both felt a bit awkward at first. I put on some water for peppermint tea instead. Will sat at the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room proper, while I went about breaking eggs and chopping vegetables. For a moment the room was silent, just the noises of cooking and ticks and snaps of the oven heating up.
“I’d volunteer to help, but I’d just get in the way,” he said. And it was true, the kitchen was not roomy—pull out a drawer or open a cabinet and it cut off movement.
After a while, he said, “Anyway, thanks for feeding me. I’m glad I don’t have to eat with Dad and Earnest. After today’s discussion. The suppressed atmosphere of accusation aside, it’s depressing.”
“Do you think Earnest feels the same way your father does?”
“I doubt it. He has a pretty forgiving outlook. People need to be able to make their own choices. He gets that.”
“Do you get that?”
“My brain understands that my position is rationally defensible. My gut hasn’t gotten the message.”
I nodded, didn’t come up with a follow-up conversational tack. Neither of us wanted to return to the subject of the farm’s finances. I was fortunate that I had something to do with my hands when conversation stalled, but Will didn’t.
“Do you have a DVD player?” he asked. “Or a laptop?”
“Laptop.”
“Want to see one of my productions?”
“I’d love to!” I told him.
So he went out to get a DVD from his car. The teapot shrieked while he was gone, and I put teabags into two mugs and poured them full. When he returned I set up my laptop on the counter where we both could see it.
“How long is it?” I asked as he opened the DVD case.
“We don’t have to watch the whole thing, I can just hit the high points—”
“I don’t mean that! I’d like to see the whole thing, I just want to know if I should get the quiche in the oven first, and then we’d have enough time without interruption.”
“Or we can play it while you’re cooking. Or while we’re eating.”
This created a lot of choices, each loaded with social implication—how interested was I really, how closely should I watch it?—that we sort of stumbled over.
“How long is it?” I asked finally.
“Eighteen minutes.”
“Perfect. I’ll get this in the oven and then we can drink tea and watch without distraction.” Will seemed pleased that
