The Virus

by Janelle Diller

  We waited, weed like, in the room for a ‘coon’s age. The fidgety mouse woman Alice came in several times to tell us Bernard hadn’t returned yet. We knew this already. She didn’t offer us anything to eat or drink, so I knew she wanted us to give up and leave.

  Once, the front screen door slammed. The three of us twisted our necks to see if this might be the bankerman, but it was only a long, lean boy with round brown eyes who took the steps three at a time.

  Dad kept taking out his pocketwatch to check the time even though the grandfather clock ticked loudly enough to keep track of every single second that passed. Nobody talked. Simon tried to a couple of times, but Dad—who never was any good at small talk even in the ‘40s when wheat prices improved—certainly wasn’t inclined to small talk in the flowery sitting room of the man who intended to cheat him out of his farm. So mostly we just listened to the clock tick tock.

  Long after the clock had gonged the hour at least twice, the short, bald-headed man finally came in the door. He took off his hat and hung it on a hall tree. He was something to stare at because the top of his head was as pasty white as his chin and cheeks. I didn’t know many men who didn’t make their living in the sun.

  “Simon, Ezra,” he said and nodded at each of them. He gave me a quick, nervous nod, too. “What can I do for you?”

  Even at my age I knew this to be a stupid question. He had done business with my Dad that morning. My dad had pounded on his window at the bank and shouted to him this afternoon. And now we’d been sitting in his silly looking parlor for close to eternity with a fistful of papers.

  “He wants you to sign the papers.” The words just popped out of my mouth. The clock stopped its tick, tick, ticking. Dad looked at me. I waited for the floor to open up and let me crawl in, but it didn’t cooperate.

  Miracles never happen when you need them the most.

  “That’s right, Bernard,” my dad said, but he looked at me first, then the bankerman. “I came because you forgot to sign the deed. I made my last payment this morning. You gave me the paperwork, but you didn’t sign it.”

  “Well, Ezra, why don’t you stop by the bank on Monday—”

  “You won’t be open on Monday, Bernard.” Dad’s voice actually sounded like Dad instead of that tight-voiced stranger I’d heard all afternoon.

  Mr. Hibble cleared his throat and shuffled a small dance step backwards.

  “Well, that’s true. We won’t be open on Monday. Tell you what, I’ll take the papers with me, and I’ll get someone to notarize them next week.”

  “No,” my dad said and planted the papers in a peony patch. He took out his fountain pen and offered it to the bankerman. “Simon and your wife can witness your signature.”

  Mr. Hibble didn’t touch the pen but took out a wilted handkerchief and mopped up little beads of sweat on his upper lip. He wouldn’t look my dad or Simon in the eye. “Ezra, I just can’t sign these papers here. I’m sorry about all the confusion, but you’ll just have to talk to someone next week about this.”

  Simon sighed grandly, “Bernard—”

  But my dad touched Simon’s arm. “Bernard,” my dad said softly, “does the bank own my farm or do I?”

  Mr. Hibble cleared his throat and mopped his upper lip again. He also took a swipe at his brow and the top of his head. He didn’t look very bankerly. And he still wouldn’t look at Dad.

  “I paid off the last dime I owed on my farm, but you didn’t sign the papers. I’m askin’ you again. Do I own my farm or does the bank?”

  Mr. Hibble’s face wrinkled for a moment. Then he stuttered, “Well, you’ll need the…uh bank to sign off before… um before the farm is really uh…really yours.” He still didn’t take the pen.

  There my dad stood, roses and peonies and dahlias swirling overhead and underfoot. Finally, Dad gently poked Mr. Hibble’s chest with the fountain pen. Twice. Dad, Simon, and I shuddered ever so slightly. We’re Mennonites, which I don’t expect you to understand, but this was his Mennonite equivalent of throwing a punch. “Then I know you’ll do the right thing, Bernard. I know you to be an honorable man.” This time, pacifist that he was, he didn’t poke Mr. Hibble’s chest again. I watched. But he still held out the pen.

  The bankerman mopped his full face and head one more time. And then he mopped the back of his milk-white neck. The part of his white shirt that was showing looked like it was doing some mopping, too. He finally looked at Simon who nodded. I think. Mr. Hibble sighed the kind of sigh I’d been hearing from my dad all my short life, and he called to his wife. “Alice. Come here please.”

  No one said a word as they scritch-scratched with a pen on the papers four times. Mrs. Hibble kept patting her tummy.

  The entire afternoon and evening had pointed to these few minutes, and now we were done. Even with all the day’s wrong turns, Mr. Hibble couldn’t stop being a gentleman. So he ushered us out onto the front porch for some Kansas small talk before we left. For the few minutes the adults chatted about the weather and the wheat prices, the world wasn’t teetering on the precipice of a cataclysm. But finally, Simon asked, “What’s going to happen, Bernard?”

  Mr. Hibble stood with his back to the corner street lamp, so I could only see the sad shake of his head and not what was on his face. “I don’t know, Simon. I hadn’t thought things could get any worse, but they just have.” And then he lit a cigarette and let feathery strands of smoke drift around us.

  We sat on the street in the puttering truck a few minutes before Dad stopped shaking enough to drive. None of us said anything. Finally, I tugged at his sleeve, and he put the truck in gear. The papers signed, we drove down the dirt street into the soft charcoal evening. Behind us, back in the direction of the bankerman’s house, it sounded like a car backfired once.

  Pop!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Any work of fiction depends on so many people and events. I’m grateful for the people at Bookfuel for taking my manuscript to the next level: Sam Raines, author advisor extraordinaire; Elizabeth Cameron, the editor who made the manuscript sing; and Chris Moyer, for his distinctive cover design and layout. I especially appreciate the people who read this manuscript in many forms, especially my ever-faithful sister Patrice Erickson and my ever-faithful friend Lisa Travis.

  In addition, thank you to the following people for your willingness to read, give feedback, and encourage me: Teresa Barnes, Patricia Castillo, Janet and Tom Crago, Dusty Diller, Gwen Diller, Jesse Diller, Marjorie Ehrhardt, Sandy Elvington, Christie Gilbert, Erica Good, Nan Graber, Geanna Gravois, C.J. Hague, Jayne Heller, Mardell Hochstetler, Peg Hunter, Jodi Derstine Miller, Gerry Jurrens, Joseph Kolb, Yamini Natti, Ashley Rice, Meryl Roth, Cameron Smoak, Diane Sternberg, Delphine Stevens, Shannon Stubblefield Braden, Karen Valdez, Gary Van Voorst, Ingrid Wiese, Andrea Williamson, and Colleen Yoder-Andres.

  And, of course, thank you to my most important critic and supporter, Steve. Lucky me that I found you.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Janelle Diller worked for many years as a communication consultant for a high tech company. This role gave her ample opportunity to find interesting ways to say boring things. Having survived the chaos of the high-tech world for nearly a decade without getting laid off once, she knows firsthand the grinding exhaustion of the road-warrior’s life. Eventually, she was able to liberate herself. Technology implementations went on without her.

  Currently, she and her husband divide their time between living the good life in Colorado during the summer and sailing the Mexican coast in the winter. In addition, she writes early chapter book mysteries for the award winning Pack-n-Go Girls Adventure series. They’re a ton of fun.

  She’s grateful she no longer has to write about technology implementations.

  Janelle loves to connect with her readers in person when possible and on Skype with book clubs and classrooms. Contact her through her website at www.janellediller.com.

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