black coffee into a matching mug for me. He set the pot down carefully, the heavy stoneware landing with a dull thud on the table.
“Is Travis busy with the harvest?” Dad asked.
“He will not do it,” I said.
Dad did not ask why. He picked up his mug, took a sip, and looked past my shoulder toward the peg by the back door where his good green seed corn cap hung. That cap only came down for Sunday service and funeral visitations.
“What time should I show up?” he asked.
“Six o’clock,” I said. “The girls line up at six fifteen.”
“I will be at the door by five thirty,” Dad said. He rested his hands flat on the table, his knuckles swollen from forty years of milking cows. “A girl ought to have her family on the floor.”
“Your hip has been bothering you,” I said.
