Page 109 of The River We Remember

Which caught Brody completely by surprise. “I never heard him say that.”

“That’s because he said it to me. He probably didn’t want you to hear. You gave him a hard time, sure, but you were always your own man. He respected that.”

Brody turned to his brother. “Hell, Dad was always telling me I should be more like you.”

Tom nodded, looked wistful. “You could have used a little more balance probably. You always went headlong into everything. Reckless, I thought then.”

“And now?”

Tom stared a long time out of the shade of the porch across the sun-drenched fields he tended every day. “You want to know something, Brody? I always imagined that I would be the hero, the one coming back from war with all the medals. But someone had to run the farm and that was never going to be you.”

Amy pushed open the screen door and said, “Dinner’s ready, boys.” Then she called to the children.

SUNDAY DINNER WITH his family was always a lively, noisy affair, but this day Brody was quiet. When the meal was finished, his mother said to Garnet and Amy, “Girls, would you mind cleaning up today? I’m going to take a walk. Brody?” She beckoned him toward the door.

They strolled the lane between the barn and outbuildings, then between the fields of young corn and soybeans. Beneath the broadening leaves and rising stalks lay the rich soil from which the county took its name, and the beauty of all the fresh green against the bed of deep, black earth on that sunny afternoon made Brody’s heart ache for the kind of peace it seemed to promise.

“Tom and Sean, they’re good with the kids,” he said.

“The kids love it when the men’ll play with them,” his mother replied.

“Dad never did that with us.”

“That’s not true. He played ball with you and Tom all the time.”

“When we were just kids, maybe.”

His mother stopped and turned to him. Her face was sunstruck, hard gold, but her eyes were soft. “You were the one who pulled away, Brody. Your dad, he just couldn’t understand it. Hurt him.”

“Dad?”

“He loved you.”

“He loved Tom.”

“Not more than you. Or less. But you, well, he knew you needed him more than Tom did. He just didn’t know how to help you. You were so angry. Your dad and me, we used to lie in bed at night and talk about it. I’d tell him to be patient, that you’d come around. And you did. But by then he was gone.”

“When did I come around?”

“When you returned from the war. You were different. I didn’t see the anger anymore, but you’d become quiet. And you’ve stayed that way. We’ve never talked about it, the war, you and me. But if you wanted to, I’d listen.”

Brody knew if he told her the truth, spilled his heart, what he offered might break hers.

“Thanks, Mom. I’m okay,” he said.

They walked on until they reached the creek and the little wooden bridge that spanned it.

“I was remembering the other day when you and that band you were with—what were they called?”

“Sons of the Prairie.”

“That’s it. Sons of the Prairie. I was remembering when you used to play at the county fair. Don’t know what brought it to mind. I remember those country tunes. Roy Acuff, Bob Wills. You were good. Shall we sit?”

The bridge was an ancient but sturdy construction. His mother sat with her feet dangling above the run of creek water. Brody sat beside her. He could hear far away the hum of some piece of heavy farm equipment, which had always been for him part of the voice of that land and part of its song. In a way, it was what had brought him back to Black Earth County, the knowledge that despite the horror he’d seen and the horror he himself had created, this place went right on singing its old, old song.

“When are you coming home, Brody?” his mother asked.

“I am home.”