"It's bad, really bad..." Sam kept repeating to himself in his head.
Forty minutes had passed since the storm had begun violently shaking the trees around the Green Buffalo Farm. The barn door had come off and fallen onto the tractor parked right in front of the entrance. A group of three men formed a semicircle around the destroyed tractor. Their wrinkled faces, weathered by wind and with cracked lips, gave no sign of good news.
"It can't be repaired, Sam! It's completely destroyed. I'll come tomorrow with Jeff to tow it to Solomon's scrapyard. Maybe he can salvage some parts and give you some cash."
Sam Webb reached for his chest pocket and pulled out a crumpled pack of Kent cigarettes. He wedged one between his yellowed, sparse teeth, biting down hard on it. He had been smoking since he was fifteen, ever since he met Judy, his wife. He moved the cigarette around in his mouth as if waiting for an idea to come to him, but all he could think about was Judy. Last year, the same door had killed his wife when, during an April storm, the door came loose and fell with its full weight onto the poor woman.
"It's like a curse," Sam said, without taking his eyes off the large piece of wood that had killed his wife and now had taken away his last source of income.
Joey Willard, a fat, bald man with red cheeks and cracked lips, patted him on the shoulder, trying to take his mind off what had happened the previous year.
"I told you, Sam, I'll come tomorrow with Jeff to take the tractor. I'm sure Solomon can find some good parts left in it and give you some money."
Deep down, Webb wanted to leave. To walk away from everything and move to his son's place in Chicago. He would have his own room in the attic so he wouldn't bother anyone. He could spend time with his three grandchildren, take them to the park, teach them how to ride a bike, and buy them ice cream and cotton candy. He would do all the things he hadn't done with his own son, whom he had often neglected in favor of alcohol and prostitutes.
"Thanks a lot, Joey. I feel like just walking away from it all. It's clear I'm too old for this. Things aren't like they used to be."
"Have you thought about selling the farm? You'd get a good sum and could head to Chicago in peace."
Sam gave him a strange look, then pulled his hat over his eyes as if ashamed of the question.
"Some guys passed by here yesterday... Moreau and someone else... They offered me a million and a half. But I told them I'm not selling. They can go to hell."
Joey smiled slightly at the corner of his mouth and then swiped a cigarette from Sam's chest pocket, lighting it and taking a greedy drag. He found the old man downright amusing. He knew the old man wanted to leave and leave everything behind. He also knew that Webb hadn't left yet because, in his entire life, he hadn't saved a dime. Women and booze had eaten up every penny. Sam Webb had been a down-and-out man all his life, and now, when God was giving him a chance to go to Chicago, he was mocking it. He had the opportunity to fix his mistakes, spend time with his grandchildren, and leave them a more than generous inheritance. Only a fool would turn down that offer, and Joey found it terribly amusing.
"You're crazy, old man," Joey said in a playful tone, trying not to offend him.
"Maybe I am crazy. I'm definitely old. Too old to take care of this farm and too old to leave and start a new life. I've never lived in a city as big as Chicago. And to be honest, I wouldn't have wanted to. Too much chaos. And Judy wouldn't want me to leave here. This is our home."
Willard held back the biting comments he could have made. He'd always felt sorry for Judy. She cared deeply for Webb, but it never seemed like he cared about her.
A year ago, after she died, Sam decided to quit drinking. He regretted it. He regretted that on the day his wife died, he was drunk at Jack's bar. When he came home that evening, he found her dead in front of the barn, half-crushed under the weight of the door. At her funeral, he didn't shed a single tear and didn't speak to anyone. He sat alone in a corner, cursing his life. Only then did he start to care, but it was already too late.
"Sam, I know you don't want to accept it yet, but Judy is gone. But your son and your grandkids are in Chicago. They're alive. Take the money from Moreau & Sons and go live with your family. With that money, your grandkids could go to Harvard. All three of them. Your son invited you there. I don't think he holds a grudge against you anymore, if that's what you're worried about."
The old man took a few more puffs, then threw the cigarette into the mud and crushed it under the thick sole of his boot. He shoved his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans and turned his gaze toward the forest at the edge of the farm. It was as if he were trying to hide from Willard, as if Willard were judging him now for everything he had done in the past.
"No, I don't need the money. No amount is going to fix things. And neither is my leaving. I'm staying here."
The old man reached for his chest pocket again. He pulled out another cigarette with his yellowed fingers, rubbing it between his palms as if trying to warm it. He then stuck it between his dry lips and began frantically searching his pockets for a lighter.
"I sold the farm," Joey said. "They gave me almost two million for it. I have four daughters, Sam. The youngest is starting college this year. The other three are in New York and married. I'm signing the contract next week. I want to ensure a better future for them, to leave them something before I'm gone for good."
Webb remained completely unresponsive. He seemed to be staring into space, as if his mind had left the real world. Joey wanted to say something to the old man, but his attention shifted to Jeff, who was struggling to lift the barn door off the tractor by himself.
Jeff, the youngest of the three men, had begun lifting the fallen door on his own. He had tied it with a thick hemp rope, like the ones used on ships. He was a well-built guy but a bit "slow," so he didn't think much before stretching his muscles to the limit, trying to lift the massive piece of wood. He pulled hard on the braided rope, struggling to keep his balance on the muddy ground of the farm. His palms started to burn from the friction, and his knees buckled, drawing dangerously close to the mud. Even though it was cold outside, drops of sweat trickled down his forehead. One of those drops was bound to get into his eye, and inevitably, he would let go of the rope and drop the door back onto the tractor.
"What the hell was I thinking?" Jeff wondered. "If this thing falls again, the remaining good parts are toast. Sam will curse me out. Why did you make me so dumb, God?"
He hadn't even finished his thought when he saw Sam spit out his cigarette and rush toward the tractor. He immediately thought the rope must have loosened at some point, so he tried to release some tension in his grip to prevent it from snapping.
Sam ran toward the door, trying to grab it with both hands and push it toward Jeff, who, not understanding what was happening, nearly let go of the rope.
"Keep pulling and don't stop! Joey, go help him. Under no circumstances let go of the rope."
"What the hell is going on?" Jeff shouted.
"There's someone under here, trapped beneath all this metal..."
"Under the tractor? How the hell did they get there? Who is it?"
"I don't know, but they're not moving."
The two men pulled with all their strength, hoping the knots Jeff had tied wouldn't give way. As the door lifted high enough, the tractor began to rise from the mud in which it had been buried under the weight of the door. A small gap formed between the tractor and the ground, just enough for Sam's hands to pull the person out. The old man's hands clenched around a fragile wrist, like that of a woman, which seemed to emerge from deep within the earth.
"Pull, pull! I've got her hand. I think it's a woman... Don't let go of the rope!"