Page 24 of Roommate
“Do I look okay?” he snaps. “Is your mother back yet?”
“No,” I say slowly. “Where’d she go?”
“Grocery store,” he grunts.
“You want help getting out of that chair?”
His lip curls with the horror of needing help performing such a simple task. I can see him wrestling with his choices—remain in pain, or accept help from his least favorite son?
“Yeah,” he eventually grunts. As if it kills him to ask me for help.
I reach down and offer him my hand, which he grasps with both of his. Then he pulls himself up with a weary groan.
“Doctor said a straight-backed chair would be better than that recliner,” I remind him.
“Not deaf. I heard him.”
Right. “Where’s Kyle?” I ask as my dad eases past me, walking like a ninety-five-year-old.
“Dunno. Not my job to keep track of him.”
So I guess it’s mine. I take out my phone and shoot off a text to my brother. Can we bale straw today?
His response comes quickly enough. I’ll start it tomorrow.
Where are you?
Watching college football with Griff on his lunch break.
I feel a sharp, irrational pang at being left out of these plans. I’m usually at work right now, though, and not free to hang out in the middle of a Saturday. They wouldn’t expect me to be available.
It would have been nice to be asked, though.
With nothing else to do, I go outside and collect eggs from the chickens. Rexie barks hello, trotting across the meadow to see me. And the hens cluster around me like groupies at a rock concert. At least the animals are happy to see me.
Since I’m here, and it’s a nice dry day, I decide to bale some of the oat straw myself, even though it’s really a job for two. But then I discover that I can’t, because we’re out of diesel for the tractor, and Kyle has driven the truck with the tank on it to Griff’s.
I shouldn’t be so annoyed, but I am anyway.
Kyle, please get some diesel and come home. It’s the perfect day for baling.
Griff wants me to press some cider, comes his response.
My blood pressure spikes, because Griff will pay Kyle for his hours, so of course Kyle wants to stay. But didn’t we just talk about this? Kyle’s double-dipping can’t happen on my dime, and I’ve already pitched in too many hours this month.
I don’t think Kyle realizes that Dad’s back may never be a hundred percent again. It’s going to be a rude surprise when I’m not around to pick up the slack anymore.
Look, I’m available now, I reply. I would have gotten started alone. But the diesel tank is with you.
Fine, he replies a minute later. On my way. I can almost hear him grumbling, like I’m inconveniencing him right now.
While I’m waiting, I move the chicken tractor and take care of some other chores. On a farm, there’s always something more to do. Clock-out time comes only when it’s too dark to see.
Kyle drives up eventually. He’s remembered to get the diesel on his way home, so at least I don’t have to go to jail for murder. “Hey,” my brother says, jumping out of the truck, his movements brisk. Again, it’s obvious he’s mad at me for interrupting his Saturday.
He won’t stay mad, though. Kyle doesn’t hold a grudge. He’s an easygoing guy. He sees no evil and takes no sides. Still, it’s frustrating to me that he never notices all the tension and the crosswinds in our family. I feel like I have to carry that burden alone.
It’s easier to be Kyle than to be me, and I envy him more than he will ever know.
