Part 1:

“Mom, just sign it.

The casino people paid the Hendersons four hundred thousand for their river lot.

One more spring like 2019, and that store won’t be worth a dime.”
“Your dad didn’t sell that year.”
“Dad’s gone, Mom.

You can’t hold that place by yourself.”

“I’m not by myself.

I’ve got Russ.”
“Russ is sixty-three, Mom.”
“We’re closed.

Church on Second Street runs a food pantry out back.”

“I don’t want money, ma’am.

I’m looking for work.

I can run a forklift.

Unload a truck.

Carry fifty-pound feed sacks all day.

I can fix a door, and I can run a register.
“Six years on a grain dock downriver, till the barge company shut the terminal down.

The work went with it.

My mom passed three years back.

There’s nobody else.
“All I need is supper and a dry place to sleep.

We can talk wages after the work’s done.”

“Last fella who came asking for work walked off with the cash register.”
“Mom?

Who are you talking to?”
“Can you work?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I have to go, Graham.

I’m hiring.”
“What do I call you?”
“Abby.

Abby Lund.

And that’s Scout.”
“It’s not much.

Lyle’s old books, mostly.”
“It’s dry, ma’am.

That’s plenty.”
“She knocked on my door at five, Ida.

Five.”
“You’re slow.”
“Slow’s fine.

Wrong isn’t.”
“She sweeps that back corner every day.

Nobody ever looks at that corner.”
“I do.”
“Warehouse.

Seed room.

Boathouse.

Fuel tank.

Whoever holds the key answers for what’s behind the door.”
The story continues.

Type “LOVE” if you’d like me to post the rest.

Part 2:
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Russ.

Why is the fuel tank sitting in the lowest corner of the yard?”
“’Cause that’s where there was room.”
“And the feed’s stacked right on the floor.

And every bit of rain off that hill runs straight to the back door.”
“Lyle put up a bait stand on this dock in ’68.

Every good year, he’d add something.

Warehouse.

Seed room.

Boathouse.

The dock.

The tank.

Nobody ever drew a plan.

This place just grew, one year at a time.”
“Lyle didn’t build it wrong.

It wasn’t this big when he started.”
“’93 came up to here. ’19, here.

After ’19 went down, Lyle said he’d fix the cellar come spring.

He passed that winter.”
“The store changed.

The river didn’t.
“I’m not asking you to buy anything, or move one building.

Everything this place needs is already on the lot.

The trouble’s where the water goes, and where the feed sits.
“Russ digs clay off the hill out back with the skid steer.

We pile it into a levee, around the back and both sides.

Plastic sheeting on the river side, sandbags on top.

And the top sits one foot higher than that ’93 line on your door.
“Every sack of feed goes up on pallets.

We cut a ditch across the hill, so the rain goes around us instead of through the back door.

And the fuel tank and the generator move up to the high end of the loading dock.”

“What’s it cost?”
“Mostly sweat.

It’s all stuff you already own.”
“That’ll keep the river out.

But the water that comes up underneath—where’s that go?

It always finds a way under.
“Ground thaws in February.

Build a piece of it.

Then watch it.
“A key opens a door, Abby.

Doesn’t make you right.”
“No, ma’am.”
“Right up tight to the wall.

Less ground to cover.

Nothing gets in between.”
“That’s not rain.”
“…after a week of rain upstream, the river at Halsey Landing is expected to crest near twenty-three feet by Thursday.”
“Came up under.

Got trapped.

Nowhere to go but the wall.”
“Three feet.

Too close.

I put it in the wrong spot.
“We give the water somewhere to go.

A ditch right here.

A sump at the low end.

A pump to throw it back over the top.”
“Two rolls of sheeting, forty stakes.

Larkin account?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So Ida’s got you signing for things now.”
“Some things.”
“That dirt wall down behind the store.

That Ida’s idea too?”
“She okayed it.”
“Graham and Eddie know some stranger’s running their mama’s store?”
“I work there.”
“Maybe you ought to hold onto these a while.

Folks in town were looking at them.”
“You need the boathouse, can you get in?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“The fuel tank?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Then leave ’em on.”
“That’s Lyle.

The watch was his daddy’s.

Carried it on the railroad.

Lyle wound it every morning for forty years.
“Leave.

Lyle hid a spare key to this box.

Never told anybody outside the family where.

When the boys were little, they’d sneak it out and play train conductor with his watch.
“Graham’s forty-seven now.

Sells commercial buildings in St.

Louis.

Eddie’s forty-one.

He’s had more jobs than I can count, and he owes money to half of them.
“This one wants to know what the inventory’s worth.

This one, what the Hendersons got for their lot.

This one asks if I’ve thought about the county buyout.
“They used to write at Christmas.

Now it’s every couple of weeks.”
“Three payments, I know.

I’ll have it Friday.

Don’t take the truck.”
“Graham Larkin.

You must be Abby.

Joanne at the lumberyard called me.

Said there’s somebody new out here carrying my mother’s keys.

So help me out.

Where are you from?”
“Downriver.

The grain dock.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Since the end of October.”
“What’s she paying you?”
“Room and board.

Wages when the work’s done.

Ida keeps the book.”
“And the keys?”

“Ida gave them to me.”
“Who said you could dig up my father’s yard?”
“Ida did.”
“She did.

You have any idea what all this costs?”
“It’s in the book.

Most of it’s sweat.”
“You’ve been here five months.

My father worked this place for fifty years.”
“First time, she put it in the wrong spot.

Then she moved it.”
“This is family property.

Family decides what happens to it.”
“Family’s something you say, Graham.

This store’s something you do.”
“Two weeks’ pay and a bus ticket to St.

Louis.

You did the work.

You get paid.

That’s fair.”
“I came here with one bag, Mr.

Larkin.

I can leave with one.

Whatever’s between you and your mother was here before I was.”
“Did I fire you?”
“No, ma’am.”
“Mom.

You’re seventy-six.

People your age lean on whoever’s in the room.

Somebody talks you into something now, you’ll regret it later.”
“If you’ve made up your mind I can’t speak for myself, then I’ll put what I want on paper.

Now.

While nobody can say I didn’t know my own mind.”
“Would it be easier on all of you if I left?

You tell me to go, I’ll go.

But it’s got to be you that says it.”
“I haven’t said it.”
“Sorry, Ida.

Larkin account’s cash only now.

Till the family business gets sorted out.”
“May?

We need that sand before May.”
“…Yes, sir.

I understand.”
“Sorry.

I don’t want any part of somebody’s family mess.”
“Hollis came by.

Four bucks more an hour, across the river.”
“That’s good money, Russ.

You ought to take it.”
“River’s not gonna wait for that family to finish fighting.”
“Ida, an unusual decision needs an unusually careful record.

A doctor sees you on your own, with nobody else in the room.

Two witnesses with nothing to gain—Pastor Dwight here, and the bank’s notary.

And a clean list of everything you own.”
“I’ve known this family thirty years, Martin.

I’ll sign what I see and nothing else.”
“Ida, tell me what you own.”
“The store, the lot, the dock.

A pickup, and a skid steer Russ thinks is his.

About forty thousand in feed and seed, most of it upstairs right now.”
“The store and land.

Inventory.

One pickup, one skid steer.

Debts owed.

Personal property: one gold pocket watch, engraved L.L.”
“Come sit down, Abby.

I want you to hear it from me.

Not from town.”
“Each son gets the family pieces named on this list, and an equal share of everything else.

When Ida passes, the store’s debts get paid first, and the store and the land go to Abby Lund.

For as long as Ida’s living, the store is hers.”
“One thing.

Write in there that as long as her mind’s clear, she can change it any day she wants.”
“That’s the law already.”
“Then put it where her sons can read it.

And mail each of the boys a copy.”
“You’ll need to wait outside for this part.

You can’t be in the room when she signs.”
“Did you test that pump?”
“I’ll go check.”
“I see it now, Ida.

A doctor, two witnesses, an inventory right down to Dad’s watch.

We’d never break it in court.”
“So that’s it?”

“Read page four.

Mom can change it any day she wants.

They put it right there in writing.”
“They’re taking my truck next week, Graham.”
“Do this right, and I’ll cover the truck.”
“Five hundred, Brandy.

You’re out there Tuesdays anyway.”
“I clean downstairs, Eddie.

I don’t go upstairs.”
“Old cash register, end of the counter.

Pull the drawer all the way out.

There’s a little brass key underneath.
“Upstairs, top of the kitchen hutch, there’s a cedar box.

Dad’s gold watch is inside.

You put it in that girl’s duffel bag.

Her room’s the little one at the end of the hall.

That’s it.”
“And when they find it?”
“Then the stranger they just wrote into the will was already helping herself to an old lady’s things.

Nobody looks at you.”
“I’m two months behind on rent.”
“Then take it.”
“Women’s circle at church.

I’ll be back by five.”
“Stay, Scout.

Too wet out there for you.”
“Mom.

I came to say I’m sorry.

About last time.

Can I see Dad’s watch?

I just want to sit with it a while.”
“It’s gone.”
“Check her bag.”
“Nobody goes through anybody’s things.

Not without a witness.”
“If you didn’t take it, what do you need a witness for?”
“If it’s in my bag, I want somebody honest to see who put it there.”
“Lock this room first.

Then we figure out who was where.

I’m calling the sheriff.”
“Ida, wait.

Sheriff comes out, and by supper this whole town’s decided who did it.

Me.”
“It’s Ida.

I need you out here.”
“Lock wasn’t forced.

Somebody used a key.”
“Lyle kept a spare.

Under the drawer of the old cash register downstairs.

The only ones who ever knew where were Lyle, me, and my two boys.”
“Nothing here.”
“Thought that was mine.

But I was out on the levee all afternoon.”
“Both of us were.”
“Ida was at church.

Who else was in the building yesterday?”
“…Brandy.

Tuesdays.

But she only does downstairs.

She never comes up.”
“That’s not proof.

None of it is.”
“Brandy.

We need to talk about Lyle Larkin’s watch.”
“I don’t know anything about any watch.”
“It wasn’t in my bag.

Nobody called the sheriff.

Nobody in town’s said your name.

And nobody’s gonna pick out a thief before we know what happened.”
“That’s the truth, Brandy.

I was standing right there.”
“I took it.

I got as far as your door.

Your dog—I couldn’t go in.

I’ve had it in my pocket ever since.”
“Who told you where the key was?”
“Eddie.

Eddie told me.

He gave me five hundred dollars.”
“Eddie.”
“It was Graham’s idea.

Make her look like she steals, so you’d change the will.

I found Brandy.

I paid her.

I told her where the key was.”

“Then you start by fixing what you broke.

Then your sorry starts to count.”
“Will you ever forgive me?”
“That depends on what you do from today on.”
“Pastor, was it that girl?”
“No.

The watch is back in Ida’s box.

And that girl opened her own bag in front of me.”
“That levee of hers.

It really kept the river out back in March?”
“Helped.”
“Graham was gonna cover my truck.

He didn’t.

I’m not asking for wages.

Just put me to work.”
“…crest forecast for Halsey Landing now at twenty-six feet…”
“…revised upward to twenty-eight feet…”
“…the river is now expected to crest at thirty-one feet by Friday.”
“That’s ’93.”
“Levee holds the river.

The gap catches whatever gets under, and the pump throws it back over.

Fuel’s in two places, so the pump keeps running.

None of it holds by itself.”
“If this goes bad, these ought to be with you.”
“Mom!

Get your things.

You’re coming back to St.

Louis with me tonight.”
“I didn’t leave in ’93.

I’m not leaving this year.”
“Sign this when we get there, and you never fill another sandbag in your life.”
“Low road’s under.

County just closed it.”
“Can you work?”
“Graham.

Eddie told me whose idea the watch was.”
“Abby!

Sand boil!”
“Pile ’em on it, Eddie—”
“No!

Plug it, and it just pops up a foot over.

Ring it.

Let the water hold itself down.”
“Three feet off the wall, that comes up under the foundation.

Nobody’d ever see it.”
“Corner’s going!”
“Cellar’s dry.”
“I was wrong about you.”
“It held because she put it in the wrong spot once.

And then she moved it.”
“How far off the wall is it?”
“Twelve feet.”
“Larkin account.”
“We can pay cash.”
“I said Larkin account.”
“Graham called Sunday.

Asked how high the river was.

Didn’t ask what the place was worth.”
“My hands don’t care for these anymore.”
“The store’s still yours, Ida.

That paper’s about later.”
“The store’s still mine.

The paper says who it goes to later.

These say who keeps it.

Starting today, that’s you.”
“Ma’am?

You folks hiring?”

“Can you work?”