The boy looked at the six plates.
His heartbeat increased.
At breakfast, he asked his father:
“Do you know the gray-haired farmer who helped us load?”
“Which one?”
“Green jacket. Brown cap.”
His father thought.
“Probably the man from Willow Bend.”
“Name?”
The father gave it.
The boy found the number in the county directory.
It was Sunday.
His mother looked at him.
“You are not calling a man at seven-thirty Sunday morning about planter plates.”
The boy stared at the clock.
“Eight?”
“Nine.”
At 9:01, he called.
The gray-haired farmer answered.
The boy introduced himself.
A pause.
Then:
“The scrap boy.”
The boy winced.
“Yes.”
The old farmer laughed.
“I'm joking.”
“What did you find?”
“M-7.”
Silence.
“How many?”
“Six.”
Another pause.
“What condition?”
“Rusty.”
“Cracks?”
“Not that I see.”
“Center hole worn?”
“A little on two.”
“What color under rust?”
The boy looked at his notes.
“Blue.”
The farmer became quiet.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
The boy had not considered that.
“What are they worth?”
The farmer laughed.
“That isn't how selling works.”
“I know.”
“Then why ask the buyer?”
“Because I don't know.”
The farmer was quiet again.
Then his voice changed.
Less amused.
“I've been looking for those for five years.”
The boy sat straighter.
“My sweet corn planter uses them.”
“Dealer hasn't had new ones since eighty-four.”
“I've got one cracked plate welded twice.”
“How much do you think they're worth?”
The boy asked.
The farmer answered:
“To me?”
“Yes.”
“If the holes aren't badly worn, twenty-five apiece.”
The boy stared at the kitchen wall.
Twenty-five dollars.
Six plates.
One hundred fifty dollars.
Nearly half the original purchase price.
For six pieces out of nine hundred.
He thought he had misunderstood.
“Each?”
The farmer laughed.
“Don't sound so surprised.”
The boy looked toward his father.
His father was pretending not to listen from the doorway.
The farmer continued.
“I don't need six.”
“Sell me two.”
“Fifty dollars.”
The boy's mouth went dry.
“Okay.”
“Your dad coming to town this week?”
“Yes.”
“Bring them.”
The call ended.
The boy remained seated.
His father walked into the kitchen.
“Well?”
“Fifty dollars.”
“For six?”
“Two.”
His father stared.
Then slowly sat.
“What?”
“He wants two.”
“For fifty dollars?”
“Yes.”
His father's eyes moved toward the machine shed.
Eight hundred ninety-eight plates remaining.
For the first time, he did not call them rust.
He said:
“You better finish that inventory.”
The boy did.