by Jeff Vrolyks
* * *
The three were seated at the dining table when Phyllis entered through the front door with her arms laden with brown grocery bags. Both Timothy and Eddie shot out of their chairs intent on assisting her: Eddie gestured to his new friend to retake his seat, that he’d get it. Phyllis stopped and stared suspiciously at the stranger.
“Let me get those for you, ma’am,” Eddie said. She handed them over tentatively. “My name is Eddie. I’m friends with your grandson.”
“Oh. Lovely.”
She followed Eddie to the kitchen, where he placed the bags on the counter. He returned to the nearby dining table and took a seat, met eyes with Phillip. For a brief moment Phillip’s eyes were wide and confused, but remembrance washed over his kind face as quickly as the confusion came.
“This young man is looking for work,” Phillip said to his wife. Timothy couldn’t decide if his grandfather’s excited tone was for the prospect of replacing Jason or that he remembered Eddie’s reason for being here. His Alzheimer’s was still in the early stages, but there were times when things escaped his memory and didn’t return for long stretches of time. It was progressing, but slowly, thanks to modern medicine.
“Oh?” Phyllis said.
She put the perishables in the fridge and left the non-perishables in the meantime, joined them at the table where a pitcher of sweet tea was centered, three glasses filled and one empty, reserved for Phyllis. Before she took her seat opposite Eddie, Eddie stood and offered his hand. They greeted one another, then seated in unison. Her gut feeling was this was a good, kindhearted boy. The eyes never lie. A smile could, but not the eyes. His eyes conveyed a gentleness, a tenderness. All too easily she could envision this boy becoming a part of their farming enterprise, which essentially meant a part of their lives, their family, and that was no small decision to make. It was one they had made only a few times over the years—Jason being the most recent—and had always been made in private following the interview, a family decision. Phyllis reached back and rotated the ceiling fan knob, which sputtered and squeaked into life.
“How do you know Timothy?” She asked the stranger.
Timothy gave the details, brief as they were. She inquired into his background.
“Would you like the short version or the long?” Eddie asked.
“That’s entirely up to you, sweetheart,” she said and poured herself some sweet tea from a sweating glass pitcher.
“My name is Edgar Verboom. Verboom is Dutch, I was born in Holland. My mom died birthing me. My father and I got visas and moved to the states, Nebraska, where he had a sponsor. I was three at the time. My dad worked for a logging company. Dangerous work, but paid well. I suppose I was about eight years old when an accident killed him. A tree crushed him. Ironically Verboom means the tree in Dutch. I don’t remember him a whole lot, but there are things, memories I cherish of him. The state took custody of me and I was taken-in by an older couple, adopted by Fred and Cynthia Lindmen.”
The three Stoddard’s exchanged stares with one another, their eyes projecting their intrigue at his similar circumstance to Timothy’s.
“They owned a farm, corn,” Eddie continued. “When I was old enough to work, I did, a kind of gopher. I did it all. My adopted parents say politics is what did their business in. Subsidiaries for corn, the whole ethanol thing. Some farmers got them, others did not. The Lindmen’s did not. They were at a disadvantage because of it, the money was less. They had to sell part of the land, partly for the money but mostly to reduce the property tax. They retained as many workers as they could, but had to lay some folks off. They would keep me employed of course, but I figured I should just leave so the remaining two non-Lindmen laborers (twins from Guatemala) could stay. Deep down I knew I wasn’t meant to be in Nebraska. I wanted to get out and see things, go to exciting new places. Fred and Cynthia pleaded with me to stay, but I’m somewhat of a headstrong guy: once I have an idea in me, it won’t go away. I had resolved to try to make a living out on the west coast, where there are plenty of jobs. If all else failed, I’d join the army or something. I have a diploma so I’d be good to join. I thumbed a ride from Nebraska to here, had only just arrived when good fortune crossed my path with Timothy’s. So here I am.”
“That’s the grace of God, my son,” Phillip said. “You need work and we need a worker.”
“Amen,” Phyllis said. “I’m glad you made it here safely. Would you like to use our phone to let your folks know you made it here all right?”
“I appreciate the kindness, but I have a phone. I’ll call them soon enough.”
“The help we need,” Phillip began, “is in the olive portion of our business. Timothy here tends to the horses, and since the other boy quit, he’s been a man with two hats, picking olives when he has the time to do so. If you don’t mind working for minimum wage, we’d love to have you gathering olives. I know it isn’t much, but we’ll do all we can for you, boy. We’ll provide hot meals, a place to sleep in the loft, and maybe even…” He solicited his wife’s approval with an expression: she grinned at him and nodded. “And transportation. Phyllis’ LeSabre is getting up there in mileage and we’ve been considering buying a good used-car, a reliable one. At our age we don’t need the misfortune of being broke down and having to walk several miles.” He chuckled feebly, which lead to a coughing fit which was quickly subdued. “We’d probably only get two thousand for the Buick. So if things work out we’ll be replacing our car, and instead of selling the Buick we’ll leave it here so you can drive it whenever you fancy.”
Timothy smiled widely at Eddie, who returned it with an even greater one.
“You guys are too kind,” Eddie said, looking into all three faces. “I’m a hard worker, you’ll see. And will help in any way I can.”