Curtis Macurdy gazed out the window of the truck at a field plowed and disked. Near the far end, someone, presumably his father, was walking behind the horse-drawn spike-tooth, readying the ground for planting. Beyond stood the house Curtis had grown up in, the barn nearby, sheds, corncrib, and the ancient white oak that spread across the front yard.
“That’s the place,” he told the driver. “Just drop me off at the corner.” He felt uncomfortable about his homecoming; had since he’d gotten off the train at Volinia.
The driver slowed, turning west on the township road. “Might as lief take you to your door,” he said. “Ain’t no trouble.” Along the roads, the maples, tulip trees, elms had all been tinged with the fresh pale green of opening buds, but the yard oak, bare as February, showed no sign yet of wakening. The driver pulled into the driveway and stopped. “My thanks,” Macurdy said, and taking the coin purse from his pocket, removed a fifty-cent piece.
The man waved it off. “That’s half a day’s pay, and this ain’t been more’n a couple miles out of my way.”
Macurdy nodded, put the coin back, and shook the man’s hand. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m obliged to you. ” Taking his suitcase from the seat, he got out, slammed the door, and waved as the driver left. Then he walked to the house. Place needs paint, he told himself. Hard times.
