Sunday I went to church because Mom would have.
Our Savior's Lutheran, ten-thirty service, third pew on the left.
Mom's pew.
I sat in it alone.
By the second hymn I knew everyone had seen Tammy's post.
She'd put it up Saturday night.
A photo of Mom at somebody's wedding, years ago, laughing over a plate of cake.
Some of us didn't get to say goodbye the way we wanted.
Some doors were kept locked.
Pray for our family 💔
One hundred and twelve reactions.
Sixty-three comments.
I'd read every one of them in the parking lot.
Praying, Tammy.
Always the quiet ones.
June deserved better than that.
At the passing of the peace, Marlys Bergstrom shook my hand without looking at my face.
After the service, the women's circle stood around the coffee urn.
I'd baked bars for their funeral lunches for nine years.
Lemon bars, off the card in Mom's handwriting.
Marlys told me the circle had the next luncheon covered.
"Don't you worry about a thing, Nell."
"You just rest."
That was how they said it here.
Only Dottie came across the fellowship hall to me.
Eighty-one, a walker with tennis balls on the feet.
She took my wrist the way Bernadette said Mom took hers.
"I sent that nurse the Zillow," she said.
"I hope that was right."
"It was right, Dottie."
"Tammy hasn't been out to see June since the Fourth of July two years ago."
She patted my wrist once.
"I'm old."
"I'm not stupid."
Then she rolled away to get a cookie.
Monday I worked my shift at the co-op scale house.
Six to two, weigh tickets, beans coming in by the semi-load.
Duane, the elevator manager, leaned in my window at noon with his thermos.
"Heard you're selling to Harlan," he said.
"Who'd you hear that from?"
"Harlan."
He unscrewed the thermos lid.
"He's been telling the whole elevator he's had your ground lined up since spring."
"Since spring," I said.
"That's what he says."
Duane shrugged.
"Your mom must've liked him."
Mom had called Dwight Harlan a weasel in a feed cap.
I printed the next ticket and didn't say so.
Monday at two, Pruitt called.
Harold Pruitt has written every will in this county since Carter.
He talks slow, like he bills by the syllable.
"I'm building the inventory," he said.
"I pulled the county record on the home place."
"Do they know?"
"Not yet."
A long pause.
I could hear his pen.
"Tuesday, ten," he said.
"Bring the tin."
Mom had told him about the tin.
Of course she had.
Krista came at seven that night.
Alone, and she didn't knock.
She'd figured out I leave the back door open during chores.
She set a stack of paper on the kitchen table and laid a pen on top of it, cap off.
She'd been a loan officer for eleven years.
She still carried her notary stamp in her purse, the way some women carry mace.
AGRICULTURAL REAL ESTATE PURCHASE AGREEMENT
Sellers: Ostrander Heirs
Buyer: Harlan Swine Partners, LLC
Purchase price: $1,456,000
There were four signature lines.
Three were already signed.
Glenn's big loop.
Tammy's little circles over the i's.
Krista's, as "spouse of heir," which isn't a thing.
"Sign tonight," Krista said.
"We'll walk it into Pruitt's together."
"Like a family."
"And if I don't?"
She sat down across from me and folded her hands.
She still had the voice for when the bank says no.
"Then tomorrow Glenn tells Pruitt what everybody at church already thinks."
"That you got a sick old woman alone out here, and she signed whatever you put in front of her."
"Glenn's talked to a lawyer in Des Moines."
"Undue influence, they call it."
"It's expensive, hon."
"For you."
I picked up the agreement.
Krista smiled, because she thought I was looking for where to sign.
I was reading page six.
Nobody in this family reads page six.
14. Buyer's obligations are subject to the Manure Application Easement of record in Book 431, Page 12, granted by June A. Ostrander.
I'd never heard of Book 431.
Mom never said the word easement in her life.
"What's this?"
Krista didn't even look.
"Dwight's lawyer stuff."
"Standard."
"Sign on the line, Nell."
I put the pen down beside the stack.
Cap on.
"You want Tuesday to go easy?" Krista said.
"This is easy."
"This is the easy version."
I thought about the Zillow photo of our porch.
Glenn's screenshot in the group chat.
Tammy's post with its hundred and twelve hearts.
Every one of them had put something in writing that week.
"No," I said.
Krista's nail tapped the empty line.
Tap, tap.
Like the patting.
"You already posted everything you need."