“Collect your things before he gets away,” August said, already moving toward the woods.
There was nothing to do but obey, and as they strode, soon picking up speed to a frantic crash through the trees, he tried to lock in his mind the particulars of this fine afternoon: the ringing of each thrust still rolling through his ears; the place at the edge of the pond where his body had made an imprint in the grass; the matching depressions in the mud where August had placed his knees and mounted him. Even if the world learned their secret, and even if the punishment was severe, he would always have access to these memories. They were his alone to be hoarded—protected from the outside world in even the darkest of times.
*
For weeks before seeing August he’d spent his days working the fields, awaiting the blooms on the peanut plants. He did not care for his father’s new hobby, or for farming in general, really. He found the work tedious but drifted to it every morning for lack of a greater purpose, and also to satisfy his mother’s wish that he stay close to his father. And they were close. He would pull the same stunts he had as a boy, threatening to slap Ridley’s behind and send him galloping as his father rode atop the donkey and protested wildly, “Don’t you dare, don’t you dare.” And when his father swung his hoe down with such force that he pitched forward, face-first into the dirt, so that Caleb had to race alongside the brothers to help him up as tears of amusement ran down their faces, the incident fueled dinner conversations for many nights to come. He and his father touched on matters more serious, too: a plan to use new ground for the next planting cycle, perhaps even seed another crop by fall. Cucumbers grew fast enough in the heat that they could mature before the first frost, and while it was a bit late for rice, there might even be time for that if they hurried, though the irrigation work necessary might prohibit it this year.
When discussions fell on business, they were often in the field, and they talked like men talk. Standing and spitting, filling the silence with grunts. Caleb wondered if these were the only two modes they might exist in: either conversing on practical matters or evoking their shared history, overlaying the present moment with the nostalgia of times long gone to them. It wasn’t vexing, exactly—just an awareness that his father had his limits, and that there were hallways of thought, of emotion, which would always remain behind closed doors.
What they shared was nothing like what Caleb shared with August. Yet it was a great source of misery that his friend hadn’t called on him since their day at the pond, now many weeks ago. On the two occasions Caleb had gone to his home, August’s mother had told him—in an icy tone, barely meeting his gaze—that her son was at work. It did not take much to gather the reason for this snubbing. If his father’s farm had directed the ire of every man in Old Ox against his family, then his mother’s outburst at the Beddenfelds’ had done the same with the women. On the orders of her husband, Mrs. Webler informed him, neither he nor August was to be disturbed. When Caleb asked, on the second visit, when August might be free, she said she was far too busy arranging her son’s wedding to be of further use.
Going into Old Ox proper was an equally cold proposition. Wade Webler, or someone he was involved with, had spread word of his cowardice, and his welcome among the townsfolk had become even chillier than the one Mrs. Webler had given him. The saloon bartender had a way of looking him off when he raised his hand for a beer. When he sought the services of Jan and Albert Stoutly, who had started fitting harnesses and carts （the sort that might ease Ridley’s load a bit）， they told him new orders would be fulfilled by the following year, yet the man outside the store was delighted with how fast they’d produced his and apparently promising him more for the rest of his stable in the coming weeks. Even something as simple as buying feed had grown troublesome with all the stares. The prospect of a haircut was out of the question; he’d sat in the waiting chair at the barber’s for so long that he’d heard the same stories repeated to three different customers, all of whom had come in after him.
So he passed his time at home. The days were infuriatingly slow, and the distraction of August in town followed him about like the shadow of the sun creeping over the fields. He would often go off to a patch of dirt alone and turn the soil mindlessly, hating the effort of his longing, the pathetic nature of his being. His father, battling his own unknown demons, paid his aloofness no mind, but Caleb was surprised to hear from him one night that Prentiss and Landry thought they had caused some offense and were shunning him.