Chapter 12 - Echoes in the Hollow
The old Sutton homestead looked smaller than I remembered. Or perhaps the world had simply grown larger around it.
I hadn't set foot on the property since the summer of my high school graduation, back when the gravel driveway was neatly raked and the massive red-and-white excavators sat in neat rows like obedient soldiers. Now, the gravel was choked with knee-high weeds, and the heavy machinery was long gone, replaced by rusted hulls of pickup trucks and piles of discarded scrap metal that nobody bothered to haul away.
I parked my Ford F-250 near the old machine shed, the engine ticking quietly as it cooled in the autumn chill. As I stepped out, the crunch of dry leaves under my work boots sounded unnaturally loud in the dead quiet of the valley.
The front door of the farmhouse creaked open. Inez stepped out onto the porch, clutching a worn knitted cardigan tightly around her shoulders. Her hair, once neatly dyed and carefully styled for every Sunday service, was now stark white and unbrushed. Her face was lined with deep, permanent grooves of exhaustion and bitterness that no amount of makeup could conceal.
"Leo," she said, her voice cracking slightly, riding the delicate line between defensive pride and pathetic supplication. "I knew you’d come. I told Arthur you wouldn't just abandon us."
I stopped ten feet from the bottom of the wooden steps, keeping my hands deep inside my jacket pockets. "I didn't come to rescue you, Inez. I came to see if the rumors about the county tax lien were true."
Inside the dim entryway, my father appeared. Arthur Sutton looked ten years older than his actual age. His heavy shoulders were permanently hunched, his flannel shirt hung loosely on a frame that had lost its muscle and gained a sickly pallor, and his eyes—once hard and unyielding—shifted nervously from side to side, unable to meet my gaze.
"The bank is taking the deed at noon," Arthur muttered, staring down at the splintered floorboards of the porch. "Sheriff's deputies will be here to serve the eviction notice by one. They won't even let us pack the remaining tools in the shop."
"That shop hasn't turned a profit in four years," I said, my voice entirely devoid of inflection. "You were warned by the equipment suppliers, the fuel distributors, and every bank in the county. You chose to keep pumping money into Brayden's nonexistent ventures."
"He's your brother!" Inez snapped, the old flash of fierce, blind favoritism briefly sparking in her tired eyes. "Families don't turn their backs on each other when things go wrong!"
"No," I replied, stepping slightly closer so she could see the absolute coldness in my eyes. "Families don't. But families also don't steal a young man's college fund, hand him a paper plate of potato salad, and tell him he's too stupid to succeed because school was harder for him."
Arthur flinched as if I had struck him across the face. He opened his mouth, his lips trembling, but no sound came out.
"Where is Brayden?" I asked, looking past them into the dim shadows of the living room.
"He's... he's gone," Inez whispered, her voice finally breaking. "Went down to Joplin six months ago with a woman who promised him a stake in a transport company. We haven't heard from him since the last wire transfer bounced."
Of course he was gone. Brayden was a parasite who only attached himself to hosts with a pulse and a bank account. When the money ran dry, he dropped off the edge of the earth without a second thought.
"The county auditor scheduled the public foreclosure auction for next Tuesday," I said, turning my gaze back toward the weed-choked yard where my father used to stand and issue his decrees. "If you're smart, you'll take whatever fits in your sedan and find a small apartment in town before the deputies arrive."
"You can buy it back, Leo," Arthur said suddenly, his voice rising in a desperate, pleading pitch. "You have the capital now. Everyone in Warsaw says you're a rich man. You can buy the farm back from the bank and let us stay in the back bedroom. It's your home too!"
I looked at him—this man who had built an entire identity on the illusion of rugged independence and paternal wisdom—now reduced to begging his discarded, uninvested-in son for a roof over his head.
"My home is five miles down the road," I said softly. "And I built every square inch of it myself. Without your money. Without your permission. And without your advice."
May you like
I turned my back on them, walked back to my truck, and pulled away down the ruined driveway, leaving the ghosts of Sutton & Sons to rot in the afternoon sun.
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