My father looked at him for a long moment.
Then he bent down, very slowly, and picked up his bucket from the gravel. The old dented metal bucket he’d been carrying since I was a little girl.
He held it out to Brent.
“Beans are on the left,” he said. “Nine rows. Your mother likes the yellow squash, but she’ll need beans too. Pick from the bottom up. The ones near the ground are ready first.”
Brent stared at the bucket.
He didn’t take it right away. I watched his face. I watched him think about County Road 9. About the trailer. About the dirt under his fingernails that wouldn’t come out. About six years of being called Bean Boy.
His mother was watching him too. Her face was so full of something it was hard to look at.
Brent reached out.
He took the bucket.
“Bottom up,” he said quietly.
