Page 4 of Where the Music Grows

I roll my eyes and grab a plate. “You are eating without me.”

I sit down at the table and can’t help but notice they’re all in their work clothes still. “Gross,” I nod at Caleb’s arm. “You’re dirty.”

“Farm work builds immunity,” Michael says. “You’d know that if you spent more time outside.”

I don’t answer. We’ve had this conversation a hundred times. They love the farm, the dirt under their nails, the talk about market prices. Me? I’d rather be at the hardware store, helping Mrs. Jenkins pick out paint colors or fixing Mr. Carter’s busted lawnmower. At least there, I don’t feel like I’m drowning in expectations.

Mom would’ve understood.

The thought hits me like it always does—sharp and sudden. She’d sit right here at this table, humming along when I played my guitar, her fingers tapping the rhythm against her coffee mug.

“You’re finally putting on some muscle,” Patty says as she puts a pitcher of lemonade on the table. She pats my shoulder and gives me a warm smile.

Her silver hair is pulled back into its usual bun, and her floral apron is dusted with flour. She’s been here forever, it seems, always moving around the kitchen like she owns the place—and maybe she does, in a way. After Mom died, Patty stepped in without anyone asking, filling the silence with her humming and the clatter of pots and pans.

“Thanks, Patty.”

The fried chicken is good—it always is when Patty makes it—but it’s hard to enjoy anything when I’m this sore and this worn out. Patty is basically a second mom. When Mom died, Patty was there. Dad was not good at the parenting thing. When Mom got sick, Patty stepped in to help with the cooking and cleaning. And she never left.

In a way, we kind of adopted each other. Patty’s husband worked on the farm for twenty years. They lived in a small trailer on the property. Then one day her husband up and died. Dad didn’t seem inclined to boot her off the property. Dad never mentioned her giving up the trailer. When Patty wasn’t around to cook, one of us boys did, and it wasn’t pretty. It was always simple fare, and I can’t say it was actually good. Edible, but no one was going to be asking for seconds.

“I’m headed out for an appointment,” Patty announces. “You boys will be feasting on leftovers tonight. I’ve made plenty of chicken. There’s a potato salad in the fridge. It’ll be nice and cold by the time you come in for dinner.”

“Thanks, Patty,” Michael says.

She smiles and pauses at the door before walking out. My dad comes in behind her, muttering under his breath about needing to look at engine on the tractor. He rarely sits at the table at lunch. He typically works right up until dinner.

After lunch, we carry cold glasses of lemonade out to the covered front porch. “Damn, I ate too much,” Michael groans.

He pulls his hat low over his eyes and leans back in the chair.

Caleb sits on the porch swing, gently swaying. This is our ritual. My dad sees the after-lunch rest as lazy, but all of us have learned to ignore his complaining. If he’s not running at full-speed, he’s idle. There is no in between. And idling is never acceptable on a farm.

I grab my guitar, part of the routine, and sit on the edge of the chair in the corner.

I strum a few chords, soft at first, then louder as the melody takes shape. It’s something I’ve been working on—a song about wide-open skies and roads that lead somewhere else.

“That’s new,” Michael says, tipping his hat back. “Sounds good.”

Caleb nods. “You playing that at the fall festival?”

“Maybe.” I grin. “If I don’t chicken out.”

“You won’t,” Michael says. “Mom wouldn’t let you if she was here.”

The words hang there between us. We don’t talk about her much, not directly. But she’s in the quiet spaces of our lives.

I play a little louder, like maybe the music can reach her wherever she is.

Then the front door crashes open.

“Shut up that noise!” Dad’s voice booms across the porch.

My fingers freeze. The last chord lingers, then dies.

Michael and Caleb straighten up like soldiers called to attention. Dad stands in the doorway, his boots muddy, his face red from the sun—or maybe from something else. His eyes lock onto my guitar like it’s personally offended him. He’s always hated my guitar. Music in general.

“You two”—he jerks his chin at my brothers—“get back to work. I need to talk to Jack.”