“How heavy?”
He smiled.
“That’s the spirit.”
By autumn, Adah’s machine shed had become something Harold would have loved and hated.
Loved because every workbench held a project.
Hated because almost none belonged to their farm.
Old hoists.
Gearboxes.
Gate actuators.
Manual pumps.
Farmers began bringing machinery other shops refused.
Adah never called herself a mechanic.
Other people did.
She charged enough to buy parts.
Sometimes a little labor.
Sometimes nothing.
Walt came twice a week.
He taught her how to recognize different worm profiles.
How lubrication changed self-locking behavior.
Why excessive polishing could actually reduce holding friction.
Why some worm gears back-drove easily and others did not.
One afternoon, Adah asked the question that had bothered her for months.
“Why did you leave?”
Walt stopped filing a shaft.
“District?”
“Yes.”
He continued working.
“They didn’t need me.”
“That’s not true.”
“They thought it was.”
“What happened?”
He sighed.
“Automation came.”
“So?”
“So young engineers arrived with catalogs.”
“You hate engineers?”
“No.”
“Sounds like it.”
Walt smiled.
“I hate people who know everything before touching anything.”
Adah waited.
“They replaced manual gates one by one,” he said. “Some needed replacing. Some didn’t. I argued for mechanical backups.”
“They refused?”
“Too expensive.”
“Compared with four-thousand-dollar motors?”
“Backup systems cost money too.”
He put the file down.
“Then management decided experienced gate tenders were unnecessary.”
“They fired you?”
“Retired me.”
“You didn’t want retirement.”
“No.”
Adah understood.
After Harold died, people had started trying to retire her from her own competence too.
Not officially.
More politely.
You shouldn’t lift that.
You shouldn’t handle cattle alone.
You shouldn’t rebuild that tractor.
You should lease the land.
You should sell.
You should move closer to town.
Concern could become its own form of erasure.
“What did you do?”
Walt shrugged.
“Left.”
“Where?”
“Wyoming. Idaho. Oregon.”
“Doing what?”
“Fixing whatever people broke.”
“Why come back?”
He looked at the restored winch.
“Ferd said somebody bought this.”
“That enough?”
“No.”
He looked toward her.
“He said Harold Ferris’s wife bought it.”
Adah stiffened.
“You knew Harold well?”
“Better than a little.”
She waited.
Walt reached inside his coat.
He removed a small folded paper.
Adah recognized Harold’s handwriting before he opened it.
Her breath caught.
“What is that?”
“Letter.”
“To you?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“About six months before he died.”
Adah sat slowly.
“What does it say?”