CHAPTER 4
SOWING
The Keaton State Bank was a short, flat building made of beige bricks and covered with asphalt shingles. Inside, the paneled walls were covered with goofy signs of the sort you’d expect to see in a diner. “Flying lessons: $1 to fly, $50 to land!” “Lost Dog: Three legs, blind in one eye, missing right ear, tail broken, recently castrated, and answers to the name Lucky.” And the timeless classic, “Complaint Department: Take a number,” where the plastic number tab is attached to pin of a dummy hand grenade.
Mingled among the signs were several framed photos of a big-chinned skinny man in a brown suit smiling widely and shaking hands with various jolly farmer-types. I’d seen those photos a million times on a million trips to the bank with Mom and Dad. I didn’t recognize any of the farmers or the man in the brown suit. But they conveyed the message that this was a good bank full of good people who liked shaking hands.
The bank had two teller windows. One of them had a “See Other Window” sign. The other window had Clarissa McPhail, starting pitcher for the Keaton State Bank softball team.
“Why dintcha stick around after the game last night?”
I said, “Is Neal in today?”
“You took off because D.J. was hollering those things.”
“I’m hoping that Neal can help me figure out why my dad doesn’t have any money.”
Clarissa leaned forward until her boobs pressed on the counter. I saw veins, looked away.
“I hear you’re back for the long haul.”
“It’s important.”
She said, “We should get together.”
“Bank manager, please.”
“Maybe this week.”
I said, “Give me fifty thousand dollars.”
“I’ll come by your place when I have a chance.”
“I have a gun.”
She said, “You’re silly.” Then she winked. She opened the gate and led me to the back, down the hall, past the safe and the computers, to Neal Koenig’s office. She opened the door without knocking. More paneling. Another funny sign: “Will work for money.”
Neal was sitting at his desk, eating an apple. Neal graduated in the same class as my dad. Never missed a free throw. Owned a mint condition ’62 Oldsmobile Delta 88. He took it to car shows and won lots of trophies, which were displayed in a case behind him. There was a die-cast model of the car on his desk. He was going bald but, because he was a bank manager, business protocol prevented him from wearing a farm cap to hide it.
He set his apple on his desk and said, “Mr. Williams. Have a seat.” He looked happy to see me.
Clarissa said, “Have fun,” and shut the door.
I sat in a wooden chair in front of Neal’s desk.
“How’s your dad?”
“He’s taking a nap.”
“Some weather.”
I said, “Boy, is it.”
“Hotter than a two-dollar pistol.”
“I hope I’m not interrupting.”
“Just a snack.” He took another bite of his apple.
“Can you help me make sense of this stuff?” I placed a stack of papers on his desk. “Dad’s finances are murked up. I don’t know if it’s because he lost some things or if it’s because I’m stupid.”
“I’d have to question the intelligence of anyone who’d come to me for financial advice,” said Neal. Big grin.
I slid the papers toward him. “Take this, for instance.” I pointed to a recent bank statement. “He doesn’t hardly have any money.”
“That’s never a good thing.”
“Plus, I know for a fact that he put most of his land into CRP, but I can’t find any proof that he’s getting paid for it. I was hoping you could go thru some things. Dad always liked you.”
“I’ll go thru it. Can’t promise anything. I do know that he was working with the bank owner a while back. Some kind of a deal or arrangement-type thing. I’ll see what I can come up with.”
I said, “I appreciate that.”
Neal said, “He comes down every Saturday. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
“Who’s that?”
“The owner. Mike Crutchfield. Flies down from Greeley every Saturday. He has a Cessna.”
“Really? Dad used to have a Cessna. Maybe we can talk planes.”
“You can definitely talk planes. That Cessna he flies used to belong to your daddy.”
“No kidding.”
“Yep. He got it as part of the deal they had.”
“That so?”
“Yep. Give a call tomorrow. You can talk to him all about it.”
Neal stood up and gave me a fatherly look, like all the kidding was aside. “Don’t worry, Shakes. Everything’s fine.”
He shook my hand.
When I got home, Dad was standing in the driveway looking at the sky.
I got out of the car. “Gonna rain?”
“Oh. I don’t know.”
“Let’s plant the garden in case it does.”
“Then for sure it won’t.” He made a pretend jab at my chin.
The ground was soft and it was churned up real good from the rototiller. I hoed rows. I tried to get Dad to sprinkle seeds. He couldn’t figure out whether to eat them or plant them so I took over. He sat under the locust tree and watched me work. I was putting cucumber seeds in a mound when he said, “There’s a frog!”
He stood and, following his index finger, took a few steps, bent down, and picked up a toad. A hibernating toad that must have been woken up by the tiller. It wasn’t happy. First sunlight in months.
“Must have overslept,” said Dad.
He played with the toad. I planted the garden.
Dad was looking to the southern sky. It was late afternoon. He said, “They’re gonna kiss.” A cloud shaped like a fist bumped a cloud shaped like a dog head. It didn’t rain.
I cooked hamburgers on the grill. We sat on the dirt under the locust tree, dripping ketchup on our jeans. Dad ate his bun, burger, bun.
I said, “Pa, did you sell your airplane to the guy who owns the bank?”
“Well.” He scratched his heel in the dirt. “I think I remember something about that.”
“I need you to dig deep. Tell me anything you can recall about that transaction.”
“About the airplane?”
“And the bank owner.”
“The airplane and the bank owner.” Dad poured a handful of sand on his knee. He closed his eyes. He opened his eyes. “The airplane. I sold it to the bank owner. Crutchfield.”
I felt like a hypnotist. “What else? Take yourself back.”
“Airplane. Bank owner. Airplane. Yep. He showed up one day in his cowboy hat. He made me an offer. It was a good offer.”
“How much?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“You mean twenty thousand.”
“Twenty.”
“Twenty thousand?”
“What’s it matter?”
“It matters.” I was pushing him. “Any idea where you’d put a receipt for something like that?”
“It was a long time ago.”
“Yeah, but he was a banker. Surely he gave you a receipt.”
“I’m sure he did.”
“So tell me, where would you put a receipt?”
“I don’t know. You’re the one who’s interested in everything. You tell me.”
Don’t let it get ugly. He’s not trying to be a dick. He’s just frustrated. “Maybe it’s in your wallet. Let’s see your wallet.”
Dad reached for his back pocket. No wallet.
The receipt, if there was one, probably wasn’t in the wallet. But a man needs a wallet so finding it became our new priority. We swallowed our burgers and started looking. And we continued looking. We poked around the house and all his pants pockets and the shed and everywhere else, and after the sun went down, I found it sitting on the dashboard of Dad’s pickup.
There was no receipt.