Free Dwelling Places by Vinita Hampton Wright

him. A good portion of it was given to Alex when Alex turned twenty-one.
    â€œWas that ever a problem for Alex, that the original farm would go to you?”
    â€œNo. It’s the way property has always been passed down. To the eldest son, and if there wasn’t a son, to the eldest daughter. No one ever questioned it. And Alex ended up having a bigger spread than I did anyway. Dad also gave him an equal portion of the best land. He was as fair a man as they come. I never knew Alex to feel slighted.”
    George’s eyebrows scoot up. “I feel as if there’s a ‘but’ there somewhere.”
    â€œAlex never cared for farming. Not like Dad and I did. It’s that way with some people. Even if I’d kept farming, I wouldn’t have expected my boy Young Taylor to carry it on. Partly, the times have changed and it’s just too hard to make it. But partly I’ve always known he wasn’t a farmer by heart. Taylor’s a lot like Alex.”
    â€œHow does a man who doesn’t like to farm make a go of it?”
    â€œWhen you live in these parts, there aren’t a lot of options. Alex’s wife had farming in her blood. She’s helping her folks work their place in Nebraska now. Her boy’s right in there with them. I think Alex thought that it was better to just stay with it.”
    â€œIt didn’t work out for him?”
    Mack’s words have become troublesome in his mouth. “You know what happened.”
    â€œYes, but I don’t know why.”
    Mack shrugs. “He let things slip. Didn’t keep up even when he could have. He’d always liked the liquor—drank heavy back in high school. It caught up with him. Marty and the kids finally left, went to stay with her folks. Alex made a few bad choices. And sometimes one bad choice, if it’s big enough, can put you under.”
    The room rings with quiet. George is fingering the pen in his hand.
    â€œThe bank was about to foreclose. So Alex sold the whole kit and caboodle. Auctioned it off. He barely broke even.”
    â€œThat happens a lot.”
    â€œTo good farmers and bad ones. Sometimes it doesn’t matter what you do.”
    â€œAccording to what I’ve read in your files, your mother found Alex dead in the house he was renting.”
    â€œHe finally drank more than he could take.”
    â€œI lost a brother in Vietnam. It’s a hard thing, no matter what the circumstances.”
    â€œI think we did all we could. But you always wonder if maybe you’d kicked butt one more time…”
    â€œThat’s a hard question to ask yourself.”
    The room isn’t so warm anymore, but Mack’s heart is pounding.
    â€œWe need to stop for today.”
    Relieved, Mack makes his way out of the chair. He feels too weak to meet George’s gaze, but he’s been brought up to look people in the eye, especially if business is involved. George has just rendered a service. Mack looks at the blue eyes long enough to make contact. He says thank you.
    â€œNext week, same time, Mack?”
    â€œI guess so.”
    And so the first appointment has gone its own direction, as therapy sessions tend to do. Mack thinks he’s figured out these people by now, thinks he knows what they want to hear. By the time he finished at the hospital, it seemed to him that he’d filled in the right blanks and that this had been the goal all along—to have the right answers to the questions that counted. He was never quite sure which questions those were. He figured out that some questions got thrown in just to get him comfortable or something, and once his guard was down the critical questions were slipped in.
    On the drive home his attention is captured by odd details. He has not farmed in four years, and lately he comes to the scenery as if it’s new or he’s a stranger passing through. He is startled now by the lushness of the goldenrod, Indian grass, and