Thauberg’s. Truth be known, Mr. Crosie might have had many more good winters in him if he hadn’t run himselfragged after Eulan Thauberg.
Eulan needs another hand with the seeding
(or the harvesting or the butchering or Lord knows what all else), Mr. Crosie would say and off he’d go, never mind Thaubergs had two sons nearly grown. Never mind his own work at home, always a dollar short and a day late.
Eulan Thauberg frowned. “No,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking that.” He scratched his chin, heaved up another pail. “Just that,” he said, leaning over the side of the truck, “it’s a long winter out here, you know?”
Edna did know. Of course she did, she’d lived around these parts her entire life. Eulan knew that. What was he getting at?
“It’s just,” Eulan went on, hoisting up the last pail with a puff, “maybe you might think about moving to town now.”
“Town! Eulan, how can you even think it!” But she knew exactly how Eulan could think it; he had his eye on her land. That was like him. She was surprised he’d waited this long. “No,” Edna said firmly, “I won’t leave the place. I just need the well fixed up and I’ll be all set.” She considered. “How many holes will they have to drill, do you think?”
Eulan slammed the tailgate shut and leaned against it.
“Oh, they’re pretty good usually,” he said. “They hit the low spots first. You got a good one west of the barn there. Around here, they have to go down fifteen, twenty-five feet or so.”
Edna calculated the estimate they’d given her per foot. “If they have to drill more than once, that could get pretty costly,” she said, mostly to herself. And then, for some reason, a memory came upon her, of that hole she and Mr. Crosie had found beside the road allowance, out past the Sand Hills—when was it? Years ago.
Pull over,
he’d said suddenly as they bumped along.
What for?
she’d wanted to know.
Just pull over,
he said. So she did, and he unfolded his body from the cab of the truck and walked back along the road. She waited a while. Then, when she saw he was making no move to return, she followed him.He was standing at the side of the road, holding an old cream can lid, rusted and dented almost beyond recognition. There was a hole cut in the middle, roughly the size of a quart sealer or a little bigger. Mr. Crosie turned the lid slowly in his large hands.
What in the world,
Edna said,
have you got that for?
Mr. Crosie nudged the ground with the toe of his boot.
It was over this hole here.
Edna looked down. There was a hole in the ground, about the size of the hole in the lid. Mr. Crosie picked up a stone and dropped it down. Edna counted to herself. It was fifteen, no, almost twenty seconds before they heard it hit bottom. They blinked at each other. Mr. Crosie shook his head in disbelief, dropped another stone, and they waited again until it hit. Dry.
By the size of it, looks like an old test hole. For a well,
Mr. Crosie said, amazement in his voice. Then he shook his head again.
What’s so strange about that?
Edna asked. Mr. Crosie lifted his hands, looked around.
There’s not a farm around here for three, four miles at least,
he said,
never has been that I know of. This is community pasture.
Edna took the cream can lid.
This has been here a while,
she said. She ran her thumb around the rim, rusted to a thin, lacy edge. Mr. Crosie nodded.
Rusted right into the ground there. Had to pry it up.
He took his lighter from his pants pocket—the good silver-plated lighter she’d given him for Christmas a few years back, engraved with his initials—and bent over the hole, trying, quite foolishly Edna thought, to see by that small blue light.
If you drop that,
Edna warned,
I can tell you you’ll be coming back here tonight with a shovel.
After a moment, Mr. Crosie straightened and pocketed the lighter. He looked around again, removed his cap.
I can’t figure it out,
he said. Edna tossed the lid down; it landed
Eulan needs another hand with the seeding
(or the harvesting or the butchering or Lord knows what all else), Mr. Crosie would say and off he’d go, never mind Thaubergs had two sons nearly grown. Never mind his own work at home, always a dollar short and a day late.
Eulan Thauberg frowned. “No,” he said, “I wasn’t thinking that.” He scratched his chin, heaved up another pail. “Just that,” he said, leaning over the side of the truck, “it’s a long winter out here, you know?”
Edna did know. Of course she did, she’d lived around these parts her entire life. Eulan knew that. What was he getting at?
“It’s just,” Eulan went on, hoisting up the last pail with a puff, “maybe you might think about moving to town now.”
“Town! Eulan, how can you even think it!” But she knew exactly how Eulan could think it; he had his eye on her land. That was like him. She was surprised he’d waited this long. “No,” Edna said firmly, “I won’t leave the place. I just need the well fixed up and I’ll be all set.” She considered. “How many holes will they have to drill, do you think?”
Eulan slammed the tailgate shut and leaned against it.
“Oh, they’re pretty good usually,” he said. “They hit the low spots first. You got a good one west of the barn there. Around here, they have to go down fifteen, twenty-five feet or so.”
Edna calculated the estimate they’d given her per foot. “If they have to drill more than once, that could get pretty costly,” she said, mostly to herself. And then, for some reason, a memory came upon her, of that hole she and Mr. Crosie had found beside the road allowance, out past the Sand Hills—when was it? Years ago.
Pull over,
he’d said suddenly as they bumped along.
What for?
she’d wanted to know.
Just pull over,
he said. So she did, and he unfolded his body from the cab of the truck and walked back along the road. She waited a while. Then, when she saw he was making no move to return, she followed him.He was standing at the side of the road, holding an old cream can lid, rusted and dented almost beyond recognition. There was a hole cut in the middle, roughly the size of a quart sealer or a little bigger. Mr. Crosie turned the lid slowly in his large hands.
What in the world,
Edna said,
have you got that for?
Mr. Crosie nudged the ground with the toe of his boot.
It was over this hole here.
Edna looked down. There was a hole in the ground, about the size of the hole in the lid. Mr. Crosie picked up a stone and dropped it down. Edna counted to herself. It was fifteen, no, almost twenty seconds before they heard it hit bottom. They blinked at each other. Mr. Crosie shook his head in disbelief, dropped another stone, and they waited again until it hit. Dry.
By the size of it, looks like an old test hole. For a well,
Mr. Crosie said, amazement in his voice. Then he shook his head again.
What’s so strange about that?
Edna asked. Mr. Crosie lifted his hands, looked around.
There’s not a farm around here for three, four miles at least,
he said,
never has been that I know of. This is community pasture.
Edna took the cream can lid.
This has been here a while,
she said. She ran her thumb around the rim, rusted to a thin, lacy edge. Mr. Crosie nodded.
Rusted right into the ground there. Had to pry it up.
He took his lighter from his pants pocket—the good silver-plated lighter she’d given him for Christmas a few years back, engraved with his initials—and bent over the hole, trying, quite foolishly Edna thought, to see by that small blue light.
If you drop that,
Edna warned,
I can tell you you’ll be coming back here tonight with a shovel.
After a moment, Mr. Crosie straightened and pocketed the lighter. He looked around again, removed his cap.
I can’t figure it out,
he said. Edna tossed the lid down; it landed
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