CHAPTER 5 — WALT ON THE SCREEN
The county hearing room had never seen that many boots.
Farmers leaned against walls. Realtors filled the back row. Church ladies sat front and center like judgment required good posture. Preston Hale’s lawyers occupied one table. Clay and his attorney occupied another.
I sat alone until Lorna from the diner dropped into the chair beside me and placed a paper bag in my lap.
“Biscuit,” she whispered.
“I can’t eat.”
“It’s for throwing if needed.”
Hank stood near the door, face unreadable.
Carla Avery sat behind him with the feed ledger on her knees.
Junebug remained at Willow Creek under temporary hold, which meant Clay could not sell her but I could not take her. The thought made my skin itch.
The county commissioner, Ed Malloy, called the hearing to order and immediately looked sorry he had won re-election.
Clay’s attorney played the video.
My father appeared on the wall screen.
Walt Holt.
Thinner than I remembered. Older. Sitting in his kitchen chair by the window, plaid shirt buttoned wrong at the collar, hands folded.
My breath stopped.
I had not seen him move since the funeral slideshow.
Clay’s voice came from off camera.
“Walt, can you say what you told me?”
Dad stared ahead.
His mouth moved slowly.
“I want Clay to handle the farm.”
The room shifted.
Clay looked down with the false humility of a man enjoying his own performance.
On screen, his voice continued.
“And Maggie?”
Dad blinked.
“Maggie’s gone.”
It felt like being kicked under the heart.
Clay paused the video.
The room was silent.
His attorney stood.
“Mr. Holt made his wishes plain before the stroke severely progressed. My client did what he was asked.”
Lorna muttered, “Convenient little movie.”
The commissioner looked at me.
“Miss Holt?”
I stood.
My legs hated me.
“That video is wrong.”
Clay laughed softly.
The commissioner frowned.
“Wrong how?”
I looked at Dad’s frozen face on the screen.
At the kitchen window behind him.
At the clock on the wall.
At the mug beside his hand.
Something tugged at me.
Not the words.
The room.
Dad’s kitchen clock had been broken since 1999. Always stuck at 4:17. He refused to fix it because that was the time I was born.
On the video, the clock read 9:10.
I stepped closer to the screen.
“That’s not our kitchen clock.”
Clay’s smile twitched.
His attorney said, “People replace clocks.”
“My father didn’t.”
The room murmured.
Clay stood.
“This is ridiculous.”
I pointed.
“That mug isn’t his either.”
Ed Malloy squinted.
“It’s a mug.”
“It says Best Stepdad.”
Clay’s face flushed.
“My daughter gave him that.”
“No,” I said. “Your daughter was born after Dad’s stroke.”
The room went quiet.
Lorna whispered, “Throw biscuit?”
“Not yet.”
I looked at the window in the video.
A truck passed outside.
White cab. Green logo.
Bellweather Feed & Seed delivery truck.
Carla stood suddenly.
“That’s our old truck.”
Clay snapped, “Sit down, Carla.”
She did not.
“We sold that truck five years before Walt’s stroke.”
The room exploded.
Ed Malloy banged his gavel.
Clay’s attorney demanded order.
Preston Hale leaned forward sharply.
The video was not from before Dad’s stroke.
It was older.
Edited.
Repurposed.
A memory weaponized.
On the screen, Dad’s frozen face stared at a room finally learning to listen.
Then Emmett Price, Dad’s old neighbor, rose from the back.
“I was there the day Walt said that.”
Everyone turned.
May you like
Emmett removed his cap.
“He wasn’t talking about the farm.”
