Free A Simple Plan by Scott Smith Page A

asked.
    “They’re going to foreclose you,” I said. “I don’t imagine they’ll give you much past the end of the year.”
    I could tell that he’d been expecting me to say this—he had to have known, the bank must’ve been threatening him for months, but I think he’d been hoping I’d find some loophole, something he was too uneducated, too unfamiliar with the intricacies of accounting, to see for himself. He got up from his stool, went over to the door, and shut it. Then he sat back down.
    “What can we do?” he asked.
    I lifted my hands into the air. “I don’t think we can do anything. It’s too late.”
    My father considered that, frowning. “You’re telling me you did all that adding and subtracting, and you still can’t figure out a way to help us?”
    “You owe a lot of people money, Dad. There’s no way you can pay them all back, and when you don’t, they’ll take the farm.”
    “They aren’t going to take the farm.”
    “Have you talked with the bank? Haven’t they—”
    “Banks.” My father snorted. “You think I’m going to give up this place to a bank?”
    It was then that I realized he was drunk—not seriously drunk, just enough so that he could feel the alcohol running warmly through his veins, like a soporific, deadening his perceptions, enervating his reactions.
    “You don’t have a choice,” I said, but he waved me aside.
    “I got plenty of choices,” he said. He stood up, set his glass down on the stool. “All you’re looking at is those numbers, but that’s not half the story.”
    “Dad,” I started, “you’re going to have to—”
    He shook his head, cutting me off. “I don’t have to do anything.”
    I fell silent.
    “I’m going to bed,” he said. “I was just staying up because I thought you’d be able to figure out how to get them off my back.”
    I followed him from the room, trying to think of something to say. There were things they’d have to be considering now, not the least of which was finding someplace new to live, but I couldn’t imagine a way to bring this up. He was my father; it seemed like I could only insult him by offering advice.
    My mother was still out in the kitchen. The dishes were all done now, and she was cleaning one of the counters. I think she must’ve been waiting for us to finish, because she dropped her sponge and came right over when we emerged. My father went straight past her, heading toward the stairs, and I started to follow him.
    “No, Hank,” my mother whispered, stopping me. “He’ll be all right. He just needs some sleep.”
    She took me by the elbow, pulled me off toward the front door. She was small, but strong, too, and when she wanted you to do something, she let you know. Right now, she wanted me to go home.
    We talked for a moment in the entranceway before I left. It was drizzling out, cold. My mother turned on the porch light, and it made everything look shiny.
    “You know?” I asked her.
    She nodded.
    “Have you talked about what you’re going to do?”
    “We’ll manage,” she said quietly.
    Her composure, coupled with my father’s denial, was giving me a panicky feeling in my chest. It didn’t seem like they had any understanding for the magnitude of their trouble. “But this is bad, Mom,” I said. “We’re going to have to—”
    “It’ll be all right, Hank. We’ll weather it through.”
    “Sarah and I can give you a few thousand. We could maybe take out a loan, too. I can talk to somebody down at the bank.”
    My mother shook her head. “Your father and I are going to have to make a few sacrifices is all. But we can do that. You don’t have to worry.” She smiled, turned her cheek toward me for a kiss.
    I kissed her, and she opened up the screen door. I could see that she didn’t want to talk about it, that she wasn’t going to let me help. She was sending me away.
    “Careful of the rain,” she said. “It’ll make the pavement slick.”
    I ran through the drizzle to my