Inside lay a stack of envelopes, rubber-banded, and a single folded sheet of paper on top.
My name was on it. In his square, careful capitals.
KAREN.
I unfolded it. My hands didn’t want to cooperate. The meadowlark sang on and on, as though nothing had happened to anybody, as if the world were just a pleasant morning in a good country.
Karen,
If you’re reading this, you found the corner. I knew you would. You read my notebook like scripture.
I’m sorry I’m not good at talking. I’m sorry I didn’t say more while there was time. I thought about it every day. I’d open my mouth and there was nothing in it but “pass the salt.”
Here’s what’s in the box. It’s been in the ground since 2016, the year the drought took the creek bottom and we nearly lost the herd. Remember that spring, when I said I’d gotten a good price on the old Case? I hadn’t. I sold it for twenty-two thousand, and I buried the money, because I was scared. I didn’t want you to know how close we came.
Then the calf prices came back, and I was too ashamed to tell you I’d hidden it. So I’ve left it there. Added a little each year. I’m not proud of the secret. But it’s yours.
Count it. It should come to about forty-one thousand.
That’s enough to pay off the note on the north eighty, with some left. I did the math. The place will be clear, and the cows will be yours, and you’ll have a year to decide what you want. Whether you want to stay. I think you’ll stay. But I never asked you, so I’m asking now, in the only way I’ve got.
Ben will want to ranch. Let him, if he’s still of a mind. But don’t let him do it out of guilt. Make him go to school first. Make him see another country. A man should have somewhere to come back from.
