At ten minutes, I rolled my window down.
“Mom. Get in the car.”
“He asked me to stand here.”
“He can’t make you do that.”
“He can ask,” she said, without turning around. “And I can stand.”
The sun was coming straight down. There was no breeze. The corn didn’t move at all. A grasshopper landed on the hood of the Buick and sat there like it was waiting to see what would happen too.
At twenty minutes, he finally got out. I thought it was over. I actually let out my breath.
It was not over.
He walked up and stood too close to her. Closer than you stand to a stranger. He asked where she was headed. He asked whose car it was. He asked how long she had lived at the address printed on the paper.
