One for me.
One for herself.
Then she looked toward the old document on the counter.
“Well,” she said, “that was an interesting Saturday.”
Hoy began laughing.
I tried not to.
Then I laughed, too.
For a moment, the tension finally loosened.
We didn’t hear from Dad’s lawyer.
No ownership claim arrived.
No formal challenge.
Nothing.
The documents remained exactly as they’d always been.
And the company continued operating.
Monday morning, a white Jeep pulled into the lot shortly before seven.
Skyler stepped out wearing sneakers and carrying a large water bottle.
For a moment, I stared.
Then she approached.
“Is the route job still available?”
I looked toward her.
“Yes.”
She nodded.
“I’d like to try.”
I smiled faintly.
“All right.”
I assigned her to work with Junior.
He was patient and knew how to teach someone without making them feel embarrassed for not knowing.
Skyler lasted a little more than a day.
The summer heat was difficult.
The work was physical.
And she discovered that setting up equipment at a construction site required more effort than she’d imagined.
When she told me the job wasn’t right for her, I didn’t argue.
I thanked her for trying.
Arranged the pay she’d earned.
And wished her well.
For the first time, our conversation wasn’t about which of us was smarter.
It was simply about work.
That felt like progress.
Dad never applied.
He continued searching for a financial position.
I heard he’d taken temporary work while trying to find something closer to his previous career.
I didn’t criticize him for that.
He had skills.
Experience.
And financial responsibilities.
I hoped he’d find a good opportunity.
But I wasn’t going to create an unnecessary executive position just to protect his pride.
Later that summer, I saw him at the state fair.
I was checking equipment near the grandstand when I noticed a familiar figure standing in the parking area.
He wore a bright safety vest and a sun visor.
He was helping direct vehicles into organized rows.
My father.
For a moment, I stopped.
He saw me.
I could tell from the way his shoulders changed.
Then he lifted one hand, indicating the direction I should drive.
I nodded.
Continued toward the service area.
And let him work.
There was nothing shameful about directing cars.
Nothing shameful about earning an honest wage.
I hoped he understood that now.
That evening, after the fairgrounds became quiet, I drove back to Warsaw.
Hoy was sitting on the tailgate of his old white truck.
He was eating sunflower seeds and looking toward the shop.
I sat beside him.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
Then I said.
“I saw Dad at the fair.”
Hoy nodded.
“Parking cars.”
I looked toward him.
“Yeah.”
He offered me the sunflower seeds.
Then said.
“Honest work.”
For a moment, I smiled.
“That’s what you told me when I started.”
Hoy nodded.
“Still true.”
We sat quietly.
The evening air smelled of cut grass and diesel.
Beyond the gravel lot, the company trucks were parked in neat rows.
Several restroom trailers stood beside the service building.
The old wooden sign hung above the entrance.
EMMETT AND SONS PUMPING.
The paint was fading.
One corner had begun curling away from the wood.
For a moment, I studied it.
Then said.
“We should restore that sign.”
Hoy looked up.
“Maybe.”
“I know somebody in Clinton who restores old wood signs. We could keep the original lettering.”
He nodded.
“Good idea.”
Then I hesitated.
“Uncle Hoy?”
He turned.
“Yeah?”
“Why didn’t you change the name after Dad sold his share?”
He looked toward the sign.
For a long time, he didn’t answer.
Then he said.
“Your grandpa painted it himself.”
I nodded.
Hoy continued.
“He was proud of both his boys, even when we made different choices.”
For a moment, I looked toward him.
Then he smiled faintly.
“I wasn’t going to take a son off that sign because one of us decided to leave.”
I swallowed.
For several seconds, neither of us spoke.