Grand Change (13 page)

“But what's the election got to do with it?” Joe Mason said, gathering the cards, tapping them into a pack and shuffling. “It never made any difference before.”

“Fred James bought Albert Leland out and he'll need Hook and that part of Jar running past Harvey's to truck potatoes from the warehouse there to his rail spur.”

The four men at the table froze in their positions, their heads snapping as one toward Dan. There was a pause before Joe Mason spoke. “Couldn't he shoot them down to Bob Wayne's spur like they do now?”

“Nope. Fred James ain't selling to another buyer. He means to truck them.”

“And he ain't going to truck them without a snowplow, and there'll be no plowing without a decent road,” The Boss said in a muse.

“Fred James is going big,” Dan Coulter said.

“He's already big,” Alf Wallace said.

Dan Coulter held his hands wide. “Bigger. There's property for sale running from Albert's straight through to the county road. It'll be Fred Jones's property in the near future, if not as I speak.”

“Think he's got enough pull to bring in the road machines?” Joe Mason said, shuffling the cards absently.

Dan Coulter took another pull from his cup. “Got more pull than everyone on Hook Road put together and then some.”

“That's a fact,” John Cobly said. “But we'll take her any way she comes. Hey, don't wear the spots off the cards, Joe. Deal up, and don't go to the manure pile.”

“How do you know all this?” Alf Wallace said.

Dan Coulter took another pull. “It's written in the wind, boys, written in the wind.”

“I asked you not to go to the manure pile, Joe,” John Cobly said.

“Mother, I've come home to die,” The Boss said.

“Let the whining begin,” Joe Mason said.

“Thirty days,” Alf Wallace said.

“You got guts,” John Cobly said.

“More guts than brains, if his hand is anything like mine,” The Boss said.

“Take her home, Alf,” Joe Mason said.

“Let's see what's in the kitty…” Alf Wallace said. “Diamonds are trump.”

They dropped the subject then. Maybe it was because they were mulling over the fact that the surveyors had come back in the spring and finished staking off the road, or maybe they just didn't believe Dan.

It was hard to place much store in a man's word when he lived like Dan. Dan always drank and did things a bit different. But when his house had burnt down a few years back, and his wife, Lyla, had died from too much smoke, he went to the point of being strange. He didn't bother building a new house—just moved into the porch, which they'd managed to save. He didn't even bother to fix it up—just nailed a few shelves to the wall and hauled in a bed and a table; the pump and sink were already there. It was said that he'd never drawn a completely sober breath since the fire.

But, for all, Dan was well-read and knew more than most and nobody knew for sure whether he got it right because he had the facts, or just figured it out. Whatever the case, two weeks or so later, roaring, rutting and rooting like a square-snouted boar, toppling trees and crowding them into mangled mounds of boles, limbs and stump fans, a fine powder of dust
and diesel fumes clouding it, the first Caterpillar began
working in Dan's hollow. Then more Caterpillars came, and graders, and they sheared the ground in that determined pace, working in seemingly nowhere directions, until the road, as we knew it, turned to a broad mess of sod mounds, gouges and swerving ruts.

They didn't give us a lot of time to deal with our fences. But we managed to salvage what worthwhile wire and posts we could from our old line before they gathered it up and trucked it away and ran a temporary line, with a post here and there along the pasture field, about halfway down to our north line, to do until we could get the permanent fence in.

We were working on the new fence one afternoon when John Cobly dropped by. I was down in the hole for the new corner post at our gateway, shovelling out what brick clay and stone The Boss had just crowbarred loose. The Boss was leaning on his shovel, watching the action on the road. John Cobly pulled his horse and truck wagon from the maze of clay mounds and ruts into the tip of our lane. The right front wheel of the wagon butted against the round bales of barbed wire lying by the pile of cedar posts the peddler from up west had brought down. From up the road came the clanking rattles and snorts of a bulldozer.

“They're driving 'er, Harv,” John Cobly said, raising his voice. He pulled out his makings and began rolling a cigarette.

“They surprised us,” The Boss said.

“Yep, makes things look kind of bald, don't it?”

“They can really tear things up. That's good enough, Jake. We might as well put in the corner post.”

We went for the anchor post, lying with parallel planks fastened to its big end with spikes and twists of wire, and dropped it into the hole. The Boss held it vertical by its top until I'd shovelled in enough dirt to set it, then he began tamping down the clay with a thin post as I shovelled.

John Cobly sat quietly, watching us and smoking. The horse, fidgeting now and then, had worked its way to a patch of lush grass growing by the pile of posts. Suddenly, it went for the grass and there was the slide of the collar dropping to its ears.

“What's that, four foot deep?” John Cobly said.

“Four and a half; the frost comes pretty heavy here.”

“Going to fence her all this summer?”

“No, just this field I'm using for pasture. Do the rest in the fall if I can find the time.” The Boss was speaking around the cigarette lodged in the corner of his mouth between pounds of his post.

“Wonder what finally brought them to it?”

“Conservatives got more liquor for votes than usual and made the Liberals shaky, I imagine,” John Cobly smirked.

“Maybe what Dan said about Fred James was right.”

“Could be, unless it's got something to do with something further down the road. Your progress, maybe.”

“Well, if it is, ain't nothing going to stop it.”

We finished filling in the hole.

“Think you can dig the hole for the brace post on this side, Jake?” The Boss said. I took the metal rod-handles of the digger—lying near—scissored them open, drove the half-cylinder-like jaws into the ground, forced the handles to and lifted a round junk of sod.

“He's getting 'er, Harv,” John Cobly said. “They soon grow up.”

“That's the way it goes,” The Boss said. “Before too long, instead of him helping me, I'll be helping him.”

I began struggling with a junk of stone I had hit into.

“That's all right, Jake, just leave it for now and take a rest,” The Boss said. He turned then, his eyes sweeping up the road. “Not going to be the same around here.”

“Oh, bit of a change for a while,” John Cobly said. “We'll be blessing it when the mud and snow hits.”

We all noticed the flashes of blue showing and disappearing amidst the maze up the road. Eventually a late-model car emerged with glints of sun on its grill teeth and its round, bloated fenders. Weaving its way with a lazy bounce, it came
to our gateway and tucked in angle-wise behind the wagon.

The man behind the wheel wore a grey fedora with a feather
tip in its band and a matching grey suit. His face was lean,
with a thin mouth and large eyes that had a constant shift. He stepped out of the car, turned and looked briefly at the roadwork, then walked casually toward us, his right hand taking a bellied lighter and a pack of tailor-mades from his pocket. He paused and lit a cigarette, snapping the lighter's flipper and shielding the flame with his hand. He put the cigarettes and lighter away in a smooth motion and moved closer.

John and The Boss quietly watched him approach, sizing him up.

His words came quick and friendly when he spoke. “You've got a going concern here,” he said, blowing out smoke.

“Yeah, they're driving 'er,” John Cobly said.

The man turned and looked toward the pasture and the cattle grazing there. “Nice herd of cattle,” he said.

“Not bad,” The Old Man said. “You a cattle buyer?”

The man glanced at The Boss, dropped his eyes and briefly studied the ground, then looked up, taking a quick suck of his cigarette.

“No, my name's Jim Shirley. I deal in farm machinery,
primarily tractors. Wondering if either of you two gentlemen would be interested.”

“What breed?” John Cobly said.

“Ferguson,” Jim said.

“Never heard of them,” John Cobly said.

“They've caught on quite well in other parts,” Jim Shirley said, taking a brochure from inside his coat, flicking it open and holding it out like a sign. The brochure's black and white pictures showed a small, squat tractor in front, side and back views.

The Boss put on his glasses and moved with John to get a better look.

“Kind of looks like a Ford,” John said.

“Better than a Ford,” Jim Shirley said. “Most up-to-date tractor there is. Way ahead of its time, actually: hydraulic transmission, three-point hitch, smoothest power takeoff there is. More horsepower than any other tractor its size.”

“What about the Farm-All A?” John said.

“They're a good, tough little tractor, like most of the thirty or so horsepower tractors. They'll all get the job done, but this one is a cut above the rest. Anybody who's tried them will tell you.” Jim Shirley was talking fast, his eyes shifting almost in sync with his words.

“What about the price?” John Cobly said.

“Fifty to a hundred dollars more than the others, depending on which one, but they're worth it. And we offer the easiest, simplest financing.”

A dump truck roared past and the conversation went on hold until the noise subsided.

“I'm not sure I'll buy a tractor,” The Boss said.

“I should think a man your age would be glad to have one,” Jim Shirley said.

“They're a great work saver, especially at harrowing and plowing.”

“I'm not completely sold on this financing you're so hot about,” The Boss said.

“It's like I told you,” John Cobly said. “All it'll take is an extra milk cow and another acre of potatoes.”

“The way I see it, that it's just the beginning of a bunch of expenses that'll saddle us with a debt we won't be able to handle with what we produce,” The Old Man said.

“You're looking at it the wrong way,” John Cobly said.

“It'll just be a matter of better farm management enabling you to grow a heavier cash crop, like adding an acre of potatoes and increasing your dairy output,” Jim Shirley said.

“I ain't so sure about all this,” The Old Man said, canting his head and scratching his chin.

“You'll look cute slaving away with your three horses while everyone is riding high on a tractor, Harv.”

“He's right,” Jim Shirley said. “We've got the tools to make life easier, put more enjoyment in life.”

“I'd sooner slave and make sure my bills are paid so I can get a decent night's sleep.”

Jim Shirley went to speak but paused with his eyes shifting from John to The Boss. He was still holding the brochure like a sign, but at about waist level now. His eyes shifted full to John. “What about you, sir?” he said.

“I'll take a brochure,” John Cobly said.

Jim Shirley took out a fountain pen and hastily wrote his name and business address on the brochure.

“My office is in town, right by the old bakery,” Jim Shirley said, handing the brochure to John Cobly. Without him noticing it, the half-burnt, dead cigarette in his left hand dropped to the ground. “Drop in any time.”

“Would you like one, sir?” Jim Shirley said, eyeing The Old Man.

“I'll know where to go if I ever decide.”

“And your name, sir?”

“Harvey Jackson.”

Jim's eyes turned to John.

“John Cobly.”

Jim Shirley shook both men's hands. “Well, they're making progress,” Jim said, turning to the roadwork, his words
barely audible above an approaching conglomeration of motor bursts and metallic tread knocks. “By the way, who'd be living across the road?” Jim Shirley said, shouting now.

“Joe Mason,” John shouted back.

Jim nodded and got into his car.

The dealer started his car seemingly without sound and worked his gearshift and waited, looking over his shoulder while a Caterpillar clunked past, then backed the car onto the road.

We watched the car weave, halt and poke its way through an access path, pause for the Caterpillar on its return, then finally shoot into Joe Mason's lane.