My grandfather would have noticed that, too.
However, he had no reason to expect problems then. People move from the city all the time and need some time to learn the rhythm of the rural land. They call the grassy “fields”, “currents” of the call streams, think that a tractor can be programmed as a lawn service, and assume that each tree can be removed if it blocks a view. Most of them learn. Some don’t. I thought the Whitakers would find their way or sell when the mosquitoes got bad.
Three months later, my younger brother Caleb called from Chattanooga.
Caleb has always been the only grip of life on the collar. Not because I’m dumb, even if it could be. Not because he’s lazy, because he’s not. He only has one talent to believe that the next will solve everything. A new job, a new city, a new woman, a new truck that can barely afford. This time, the job of warehouse supervisor he had moved through had failed after a restructuring of the company that sounded like three executives made mistakes and the men who loaded paddles paid for it. His lease was ending, his savings were scarce, and pride prevented him from asking for help until the last possible minute.
