Ballad of Don and Dean: a Short Story

The late afternoon air smells of yellow hay, the warm musk of manure, peppery fresh-cut grass, and chicken frying up nicely somewhere. A breeze is moving laundry hung from a tired line across the yard, and washing in waves over feathery tassels on tall August corn. Corn surrounds the shady yard on three sides, obscuring fields running endless beneath the perfect Iowa sky. The corn wraps around the farm like loving arms, like a lover’s intimate embrace. Fat red apples are ripe in the tree beside the house. They are falling to the soft, grassy earth in ever increasing numbers, as if understanding that only a select few will be chosen to fatten a pie, or a fresh-baked strudel.
The shade is comfortable against the afternoon heat. It is persistent and guaranteed by the crooked maple, the one scarred by that lightening strike last summer, the one beside the barn. A tractor tire, bleached dusty gray from years in the sun, hangs on a thick rope from the maple’s sturdiest limb. The tire isn’t used much anymore, not since the kids outgrew it long ago, even before going off to make their own lives. The grandkids are still too small to reach the tire. Sparrows flutter through the limbs to the barn’s awnings, chattering excitedly from their nests among the rafters and hay bails.
From where the two old-timers sit, half hidden in the midnight shadow of the barn, the tire neatly frames the concrete grain tower in Cylinder, just visible above the corn. The afternoon sun shines the tower so that it appears as crisp and clean as polished gold. A flock of blackbirds fall upon the fields like handfuls of coal thrown from a great height.
The pair might have been there for an hour, all afternoon, or they might have been there forever. Time in these parts, save for those feverish moments of youth, the tentative misunderstandings of love awakened, or the chaotic trials of raising children, ebbs and flows as hypnotic as waves upon the smooth stones of some quiet beach. Doesn’t much matter how long they’ve been there, particularly not to them. They’d be content no matter what, especially if forever was as perfect an afternoon as this.
Don and Dean are sitting on a pair of small kitchen chairs. Same ones they’ve been on for years. So long that neither of them can rightly remember when the chairs were used for anything else. Don is sort of leaning back, which is a bit easier on his uncommonly long legs. He has the chair up on two legs, rocking up and back to a rhythm only he knows. Dean has his feet up and crossed on a stump.
Their wives are sisters, in a family in which if you are loved by one you are loved by all, with just enough judgment to keep you safe among the fold. It makes for a wild mix, one that Don is often heard to remark as being “darn good theater.” It’s a large clan, where bonds may become lost in the greater weave, except where they overlap most certainly.
Old Don retired from teaching some years ago. Still misses it, mostly, misses coaching the football team, watching his boys grow into men. He misses the pride swelling in his chest at every win, and the challenge in the losses. Sometimes the memories of those chilly autumn nights return full force; the moths and the June bugs swarming in the lights, the smell of sweat, fresh earth and hot cocoa. He hears the clacking of helmets and shoulder pads, and cheerleaders chiding the opposing team. Don was always a simple man, coached and taught that way. Never did see a need to raise his voice, never thought that life was all that difficult that it ever needed to be forced.
Dean? Well, he had counted the days to retirement for better than twenty years. Just sort of fell into truck driving. Wasn’t a calling or anything that he particularly loved. When he finally retired, Dean never missed driving across the country, the cold cups of bitter coffee, or the sense that he was always running to someplace unfamiliar and leaving the familiar behind. He laments all that he missed as the kids grew up, their lives more like snapshots than a continuum. The fact that they’ve grown into such good people, and the grandkids who shower him with affection are all that he needs to temper whatever guilt he still feels.
“Callin’ for rain tonight,” Dean says, not in a drawl, but with a lazy economy, a casual knowledge that human time is nothing if not to be squandered. Dean’s gaze is somewhere among the corn.
Don eyes drift around the yard. “Believe it just might.”
“Better tonight than today. Don’t like it much when it rains on Sundays.”
“Good sermon this mornin’,” says Don. “Father sure can get ya thinkin’.”
“That he can,” Dean agrees.
“Darn good breakfast too.”
“Those ladies of the auxiliary sure can cook.”
“Betsy Pendergast’s coffee cake.”
“Believe ole Betsy’s eatin’ more than she’s bringin’ to church.” Dean smiles mischievously. Don joins him as surely as a private language the two old friends cultivate and keep among one another.
“Morris Drew’s pork sausage,” Don says.
“That’s some good sausage.”
“Good sausage,” Don agrees.
“Believe he makes it right here in town.”
“Is that right?” asks Don.
“Believe I heard that.”
A long silence follows, one touched only by the laughter of sparrows and the breeze through the corn. Dean looks at the sky and nods knowingly.
“Yep, believe it might rain tonight.”
“Figure?”
“Back is actin’ up a bit.”
“What’s the doctor say?”
“Says that a body knows when the weather is changin’.”
Don notices a butterfly dancing among the bright yellow marigolds beside the house. He looks to the pristine blue sky leaking through the fluttering maple leaves.
“Think I’d ask for a second opinion,” says Don.
“Would, but I’m afraid they’d tell me my knees outta be hurtin’ too, and I just couldn’t stand that.” Dean cocks his head. “Know who’s got good breakfast sausage?”
“Who’s that?”
“Hog’s Breath Diner out by the interstate,” he replies matter-of-fact.
Don acts surprised, though they’ve had this same conversation, in one form or another, for twenty years.
“Links?”
“Got to be links,” says Dean, puffing his cheeks to hold back a bit of gas.
“Sure don’t like them patties. Think the Hog’s Breath has ‘bout the best.”
“Believe you might be right.”
“Yep. Problem with the world today,” Don observes.
“What’s that?”
“Not enough folks get a good breakfast,” Don yawns and stretches.
“Seems about right.”
“Stuff like that ought not happen.”
“Lots of folks over there of different religions,” offers Dean. “Lot of them folks don’t eat the same stuff.”
“Thought of that.”
“Whadya come to?”
“Figure everybody’s got a right to their own ideas on that stuff.”
“You’re a benevolent soul,” Dean grins.
“Just so long as a body gets a full belly every mornin’.”
“Could change the world.”
“Yep.”
Reckon so.”
Dean chews his lip, studying the leaves. They have turned over, leading with their paler bottoms, a sure sign of rain. Dean takes a deep breath and thinks that his life is just about perfect. Well’ he muses to himself, he could be twenty years younger and a little richer, but then it wouldn’t be his life anymore. He’s content, and thinks maybe that this is the meaning of perfection, at least in this life anyway.
“Sure eat some pretty wild things in some of them countries,” he finally says.
“Reckon they’d say the same about us,” Don smiles. “Especially the way you and I eat.”
“Maybe we outta send some diners and truck stops. Figure that would be a better way to quiet folks down a notch, ‘stead of sendin’ the army over there, that is.”
“Just seems to rile things up more.”
“Outta be enough unemployed cooks and waitresses around.”
“You might think.”
“Could send ‘em the ladies auxiliary,” says Dean with a smoothly mischievous tone.
Don leans back a bit farther, hovering at the limit of his balance. He looks over at Dean. The smile is infectious. Don catches it right away.
“Know your lovely wife, Mary Lou, is in the auxiliary?” says Don.
Dean winks, the boyish smile deepening the lines of his round face. He adjusts the white John Deere cap teetering on his head. “That’d be my sacrifice to world peace.”
“You’re a good man.”
“We do what we must.”
“Where ‘bouts would you send her?”
Dean considers the question for a moment. “Ah, she’s a good hard workin’ woman. I figure someplace that needs a lot of help, say Siberia, Africa?”
“She’d set ‘em straight over there.”
“Set ‘em straight.”
“Sure can cook though,” says Don.
Dean nods. “Known your Joanne to cook up a good meal or two.”
“Send her too.”
“Cook them folks up a fine breakfast and maybe they’d settle down a bit.”
“Worked for us. We ain’t hardly been off these chairs all day.”
“Have to get up sooner or later. Smells like dinner’ll be ready soon.”
The scent of frying chicken and warm butter rolls fills the yard. The sun is setting, bringing a bit of an evening chill to the air. Don rubs his slight belly. “Think we’ll have to get up soon.”
Dean rubs his own belly. “Yep, feel things a rumblin’ in there.”
The afternoon slips into memory. Summer fades and the skies turn cold and gray. The breeze that whispered among the cornrows is now an icy wind rustling among dry yellow stalks. The oblong leaves of the maple are stained a rusty red, falling in great heaps to cover the yard and the two empty chairs beside the barn. It rained earlier, clearing the air so that everything appears fresh and new, the colors as crisp and precise as if from a painting. A pickup crests the far hill, barreling along the gravel road past the farm. Stones crackle loudly against the undercarriage.
Don and Dean stand on the porch looking out at the yard and the white gravel driveway, out past the tractor and the rusting green Oldsmobile that hasn’t run in years. The fields are plowed, mostly. The diverging lines of harvest rows run away in the distance. Banks of autumn trees are colored brown and gold. A thick carpet of clouds softens the world above with only glimpses of blue sky. The air smells mineral-cold like snow and holds the gingery bite of burning leaves.
Dean is dressed in his best brown suit, with a borrowed gold tie and a clean white shirt. Black would have been more appropriate, if only he had another suit to wear. His hands are buried deep in his pockets. His shoulders are heavy with the accumulated weight of life’s burden and ultimate sadness. Don is beside him wearing the same black suit he wore when he retired from teaching. The pant’s legs are hemmed a little too short. Don’s white socks can be seen below the neatly pressed cuffs.
Dean is thinking of Mary Lou. He recalls their first meeting at the high school sock hop, their first kiss and how she looked the first time they made love. He remembers the pea-green Buick and the Chuck Berry song that was playing when he asked for her hand in marriage. He remembers the birth of each of their children. His mind is a confusion of thoughts and tattered emotions. They are debris swirling in the storm of his mind, whipped by a single regret; that there wasn’t enough time. Somehow Mary Lou still feels close. Strange that a body can feel so far away, even when making love, but the soul is always close.
“Was a nice ceremony,” says Don, rocking on his heels.
“Yep.” Emotion hangs heavy in Dean’s chest.
“Mary Lou would have loved it.”
“Naw,” Dean frowns, “would have hated folks fussing and weeping over her.”
There is a long silence. The wind rustles through the dry corn. A crow caws from the field. Dean’s voice wavers. “Sure am gonna miss her.”
“In a better place than hangin’ around listening to a couple old coots like us.”
“Guess I‘m just selfish.”
“How’re the kids holding up?”
Mostly. Grandkids’ll miss her the most. The old gal never missed a birthday. Knew every single one, which is why I never had to.”
“Same way with Joanne,” says Don. The comment unexpectedly enrages Dean. Though he knows what Don means, knows the comment was innocent enough, Dean wants to shout that it isn’t the same, and that he has no idea until his wife is gone too. The feeling scares the hell out of Dean.
“Is that right?” Dean manages.
“Yep.”
“Woman thing.”
“Keep us civilized.”
“Sure,” Dean drags himself from the rage. “Sure, or we’d be hairy, unwashed barbarians; fat, smelly and thinkin’ we’re God’s gift.”
The rage leaves him, but in this barren land where grief and guilt are one in the same, it is a simple thing to stumble from one treacherous footfall to another. Dean is suddenly confronted with the endlessly cold abyss of forever. Don watches Dean’s brow collapse. Hopelessness and terror crystallize in Dean’s eyes. Don searches for a way to rescue his friend.
“Paint quite a picture there, Dean.” Don gives Dean’s shoulder a reassuring squeeze. Dean looks up and finds strength in caring and familiar eyes.
“Just call every so often to make sure I bathe once in a while.”
“It’s that hairy part that has me spooked,” Don smiles. “But we’ll take it a day at a time.”
Dean nods. “Well, that’s something then.”
“Come by now and again, make sure ya get a good meal or two.”
“Sure could use a bit of breakfast right now,” says Dean. “Ain’t had much to eat since yesterday.”
“Cook ya up a couple of eggs?”
“Strange thing to worry about with all this goin’ on?”
“Gotta eat.”
“Believe I could use a bit of breakfast.”
“That’s a trooper.”
“Somethin’ with a bit of noise. Up for a ride out to the Hog’s Breath?”
“Believe I could use a cup of their coffee.”
“Good coffee.”
“Yep.”
“Got a taste for their pork sausage.”
“Got a good one, do they?” asks Don.
“Hear they make it fresh.”
“Is that right?”
“That’s what I hear.”
“Believe you just might be right.”
Autumn gives way to winter. It’s like an ending to some, a transition to others and to some a beginning. It depends on where they’re standing at that moment. The snow comes early, arriving sometime before the dawn. It lays quietly among the plowed fields, a white blanket torn by dark rows. The light is soft, accompanied by a silence broken only by the whisper of fluffy-white snowflakes. Out past the tractor, a quarter mile or so away, a pair of deer move among the fields. Their brown winter coats are full, snow collecting lightly upon their backs and shoulders.
Out on the porch the air is cold. It puts a sting to the cheeks and nose, but Don barely notices. The cold air is cleansing, giving a new perspective to difficult thoughts and concerns, like Dean’s slow and apparent wasting in the months since losing Mary Lou. The cold and quiet bring Don a clarity that he has sorely missed. He wonders where it will end. He recalls how his own father seemed to give up on life after his mother passed. The thought leads him to his own life. From the first day with Joanne the thought was there. Seemed like it would take him away from a love that needed to be loved in the present. In retrospect he is still undecided, and wonders if his father’s fate was inevitable, like a comet plunging to an unavoidable end in the sun. He wonders if there is some pressure that will nudge his own heart from that certain destruction.
The door is open behind him. A soft golden light from the lamp on the bureau falls through the dingy screen door. Coffee is brewing in the kitchen. The warm, bitter fragrance finds him. He feels like he is standing on the divide between two worlds. The scent of the coffee comes with the scent of a house that feels every bit as substantial and familiar as any member of the family. He glances back at Dean who is visiting for the weekend.
Dean looks frail and much older these days, his eyes like long abandoned wells. He is awake, sitting at the edge of the sofa bed with his back to the door. His toes are tucked into a pair of well-worn brown slippers. A black and orange blanket rests upon his shoulders. Don smiles at Dean’s tossled wispy white hair.
Dean is staring blankly at the cold fireplace. His eyes are fixed there, lost in some groggy half-thought. He feels a draft from the open door across his bare ankles and worries about his wife in that cold, cold ground.
“Heatin’ the outside?” he complains, clearing his throat. It takes some effort for Dean to stand. His slippers skid over the wood floor. At the door Dean’s brow furls and he draws the blanket tighter across his shoulders. The screen darkens the world, confirming his mood. Life feels like cold honey, and he is struggling against it.
“If it’d help get us a little closer to spring,” says Don. “Give ya a chill?”
“Not when I remember the long winters working in that stuff.”
Don nods in agreement. “Best argument I heard yet for being retired.”
“Got a whole lot more if you’re interested?”
“Six of one, half dozen of another I figure.” Don takes a deep breath. His brow furls too, though Dean cannot see. Don wonders if Dean feels the change, the distance that is growing between them.
“Ladies auxiliary’s havin’ a breakfast this morning,” says Don. “Figured we’d hit the early Mass and get the first run at that food.”
“Mind?” says Dean. “Just as soon not.”
“Cook ya up something here? Got some good pork sausage?”
Dean watches the deer move off, bringing tears to his eyes. He knows it would good to get back out among the world again, to hear the titter of the ladies of the auxiliary, but happiness is just too painful to endure. It feels like a betrayal of Mary Lou’s memory. Happiness feels like a distraction from the fading memories of her.
“If it’s all the same, I’d just as soon be getting home before the snow gets too bad.”
“Somethin’ for the road? Good breakfast’d fix ya right up?”
Dean thought to answer, something about not being hungry, and that such things didn’t concern him any longer. We wanted to tell Don just to let him be, but it felt too much like asking for sympathy.
“Coffee’d be nice.”
Neither man moves, but remain looking out at the snowy fields. The distance between them is immeasurable.
“Good sausage, ya say?” Dean asks finally.
“Morris Drew’s.”
Dean sighs. The cold air is waking him up nicely. He has a thought and can’t help himself. “Mary Lou sure liked pork sausage. Liked a lot of it!”
Don looks and sees a glimmer of the old Dean, the first time since… Don feels lifted.
“Healthy woman she was.”
“Healthy and a half,” says Dean.
“Sure was a good woman though.”
“Sure was.”
The kitchen is warm. Don is standing by the sink. Dean is sort of slouched at the table, running his fingers along the rim of his coffee cup. They never did make it to church, but did make it to the Hog’s Breath. The snow has stopped, but the clouds remain. Shafts of pale light find channels, falling upon distant farms, like snapshots of things demanding to be remembered, the inconsequential moments that make up a life and of things that will not come again.
To Don these things are an affirmation of the commodity of our lives. To Dean they are a confirmation of a God dispensing great sorrow masked in love and youth and hope. He refuses to be draw into the vortex of that misery.
“Can’t recall when I had a better breakfast,” Don says.
“Good biscuits and gravy,” says Dean, holding up his cup as Don refills it. Don sees Dean’s eyes darken and knows that he is thinking of her.
“Got some of that pork sausage in there.”
Dean squints as he sips the hot coffee. “Pepper’s the key, though.”
“Did it just right, did they?”
“Just right.”
“Believe I’ll have to give that a try.”
“Won’t disappoint.’
The coffee kettle clangs on the stove as Don sets it down. Beside the barn he spots the big orange tomcat. There’s no mistaking that swollen belly, though. Don smiles realizing, after all these years, that the old Tom is really a girl!
“We’re havin’ a roast for supper, creamed carrots and potatoes, the way you like it. Joanne’s gonna make some of her famous buttermilk biscuits.”
“Temptin’,” says Dean, “but I should be gettin’ home. Been a big enough burden on Joanne already.”
“Believe she feels about the same as me,” says Don. “Grandkid’s will be here.”
The idea horrifies Dean. The laughter, the sound of life and love and togetherness will only remind him of all that he has lost. He manages to hold himself together long enough to pack his things and give Joanne the warmest hug he can muster. It takes all the courage he has, a feat that would impress any combat veteran. Out on the road, out of sight he pulls to a stop and slumps heavily against the steering wheel.
There is another perspective on the world, an idea that the trials and battles of our lives are insignificant against the overwhelming expanse of sky. We are nothing without the light of those who love us. How perfect the world we cannot fathom. The sky turns the seasons like chapters to our lives. And so winter passes and everything seems to turn green in the blink of an eye. Trees fill with new leaves and birds singing, and marigolds erupt with color beside the house.
Don is sitting alone beside the barn. He turns as Dean climbs down the steps. Dean is using a cane now, for just a little extra support. He has a glass of brandy in his free hand. He likes it better than beer these days, says it keeps his blood flowing. Dean has a blush to his cheeks. This is his second glass.
“Sure is a nice day,” says Dean, taking his regular seat.
“Just about perfect.” Seems like forever to Don since he found Dean weeping in his car. It was as if sorrow was a poison that needed to be bled away, and bleed he did. It wasn’t that he had put Mary Lou behind him, but rather that he had come to some conclusion.
“Believe you were right about the biscuits and gravy up at the Hog’s Breath.”
“Didn’t I tell ya?”
“Shame about Morris Drew,” says Don.
“Sure am gonna miss that sausage,” says Dean.
“End of an era.”
How long you figure we been sittin’ here?”
“A lifetime, I reckon.”
“What precisely did we accomplish?”
“Didn’t know we set out to accomplish anything.”
“No regrets?” Don asked.
“Not a one.”
“How long you figure we’re gonna keep having this conversation?”
“Why, ain’t getting’ tired are you?”
“Nope.”
“I figure we’ll be at it a good while longer.”
Dean smiles and sets the brandy down on the grass. Delicate white blossoms fill the apple tree. Old Dean is content to sit there forever, and thinks that this is about as close to perfect as a body can come in this life.


End.