A blanket on a footstool.  Some quilt made by an Amish woman. Mason jars on shelves. A few with handpicked daisies in them. Two wooden benches under the dinner table, father made years ago. Exposed brick walls and a toilet with a pullstring above. Copper pipes.

Spring came and went. One day, it was thirty-five, and the next eighty-two. A couple of tornadoes passed over. All stayed in place. We kept in the storm cellar, listening as the winds stirred and grumbled. Dad said it was God showing his anger for our sins. Mother kept quiet.

At the dinner table, dad said grace. He prayed for a nation to heal. Prayed for the Lord’s return. We all said amen.

Sundays were for church. Mom and dad wore their best while I dressed in slacks and button-down shirts from the Goodwill store. There wasn’t money to waste, dad said. One must save.

All the women in church eyeballed  him. Tall and handsome. A deacon who tipped his straw hat to the married as well as the single. Mother walked behind him. I held her hand.

I remember hearing about it. She was young and with child. Father didn’t say much about her. Mother said the poor girl had made a mistake. Mom said we all do. Dad would just look at her and say pass the biscuits. He made us quite aware of what acceptable dinner conversation was. Father preferred if we broke bread in silence. He hated gossip. Said it was the devil’s language. We would continue eating in silence.

Sundays passed. Summer turned to fall. Halloween was upon us. Candy and caramel apples for kids. Hay rides on a dirt road. Mazes in cornfields. Dad turned his eyes away while mom took me trick or treating. I dressed as a ghost every year. A white sheet over me with holes cut out. I carried a basket she had woven together with a handle on it. We would knock on doors till it was filled. Laughing the whole time. Your father doesn’t know what he’s missing, she said. Don’t tell him. Don’t talk about it. He’ll just get made, she told me. Hide your candy in your room. When he’s gone, I’ll help you eat it. She giggled as we walked home.

The goods didn’t last long. Candy was gone before the middle of November. And so was dad.

Mom said he was in the hospital. Said he’d be in there a long time, she cried. The pickup was gone. So were his clothes and tools. The straw hat was left behind.

Some said that pregnant girl had gone with him. Said she tempted him long ago. A sixteen year old with eyes that make men weak. I didn’t pay attention. Dad always said gossip was the devil’s language.