Early Warning

“Shit, it wasn’t a surprise. He kept arguing with the doc about going on oxygen, and I guess this saved him the trouble. Nice place you got here.” He walked over to the window and looked out at the Chrysler Building. Then he said, “You must be on the pricey side, rent-wise.”

“We got in early.”

Frank understood that this was not a social call, but he sat on the edge of his desk, mimicking informality — in any negotiation, it was better to wait until the other party committed himself. Gary said, “You know why I’m here?”

Frank remained silent.

“I’m no farmer, in case you didn’t notice.”

“I heard you’re driving big rigs now.”

“That’s what I hated about the farm. The view never changes, except for the worse.”

Frank smiled.

“But my dad loved it. So.” He walked over to the window again, stared at the triangles and the curves that always reminded Frank of papal headgear. “You know what they say, this acreage is available.”

“You mean your part of the land your dad and my brother have been farming.”

“That’s what I mean. The price of land is way up there now. We didn’t even tell my dad what a fellow from Des Moines estimated. Mom thought the shock would kill him.”

Frank said, “What did the fellow from Des Moines say?”

“Three grand an acre.”

“And you have—”

“Three hundred fifty acres.”

“As I remember, some of that is too hilly to cultivate.”

“Twenty-nine acres. Pasture and woodlot. Badger Creek cuts off the one corner — another two and a third acres.”

“You’ve had it surveyed?”

Gary nodded.

Frank said, “You want me to buy you out.”

“I do,” said Gary.

Everyone in Iowa scratched their heads at the pivot between the generations, and if Lois had pushed Roland Frederick down the basement stairs, as Frank sometimes thought she had, well, it was the practical thing to do and Frank respected her for it. He asked, “What have you said to Joe?”

“Ah, Joe doesn’t want to talk about it. Why would he? Everything is just the way he likes it now.”

“I don’t think we can give you three grand an acre. It’s not going to produce enough to pay off that kind of investment.”

Gary pulled out a handkerchief and blew his nose, then folded it thoughtfully and stuck it back in his pocket. He said, “Frankie, you know that, and I know that, but there’s a lot of fellas in Chicago and Omaha who don’t seem to know that, and I’m not going to kid you, I plan to get out while the getting out is good.”

Frank said, “What’s your time frame?”

Gary said, “I don’t see myself investing in seed this year.”

“All right, then,” said Frank.

After that came the usual Iowa discomfort about saying goodbye. Gary and Frank exchanged a few niceties, but the door was conveniently near, and soon Gary was through it. Frank closed it behind him. It appeared as though he was about to invest in farmland. This was not a good idea, but when he caught sight of the Chrysler Building, now wet and shining in the late-afternoon sun, he got an idea, not one that Uncle Jens would have cared for, but one he thought might solve the problem, at least for a few years. He picked up the phone on his desk and dialed Lillian’s number.

—

THERE WAS a rule at the Y that kids ten years old and under could not be in diving classes — or at least real diving classes. They could learn to swan-dive off the low board, and Charlie had gotten the teacher to let him try a jackknife, but off the high board they could only jump, and not even cannonball. Charlie had been grumpy all winter at the rules, but Mom had pointed out more than once that the pool at the Y was only ten feet deep in the diving end, and that was dangerous. The fact that Charlie could swim down and touch the bottom easy as pie worked against him rather than for him. But now it was summer, he was eleven, and enrolled in the diving class at the outdoor pool — that pool was twelve feet deep at the diving end. Charlie felt that the high board was ready for him.

At eight o’clock, he swam laps for an hour, perfecting his backstroke. He had grown an inch in the last year, and though Alex Durkin was faster than he was, Alex was a year older and three inches taller. From nine o’clock, he was supposed to sit around, reading some book that was on his summer reading list, and stay out of the pool until his diving class, but he often took his book up onto the high dive and sat there, dangling his legs and enjoying the view. His teachers — Mr. Jenkins for swimming and Mr. Lutz for diving — let him alone as long as he had his book with him and didn’t make any noise. Mr. Lutz taught diving at the high school, and Charlie wanted to keep on his good side forever and ever.