Then Ben said something short. Dwayne nodded. And my son turned and walked toward the tractor, and Dwayne followed a step behind, like a man trailing a funeral.
They fed for six hours. At noon I took out sandwiches, and they ate on the tailgate, side by side, not speaking, a thin shaft of sunlight lying across their boots.
On the third Saturday, I saw them laugh.
On the fifth, Ben showed Dwayne how to cut the twine so it came off in one piece, the way Tom had taught him, and Dwayne said, “My dad used to do it that way.” A pause. “Tom was better at it.”
“Dad was better at most things,” Ben said.
“He was.” Dwayne coiled the twine over his arm. “He was a hell of a man, your father.”
“You’re not bad,” Ben said, almost inaudibly.
Dwayne said nothing. But when I carried out the coffee, his eyes were wet.
