East of Denver by Gregory Hill

want to talk to him.” My voice was getting loud. I tried to sound calm. “Tell him I’m here, willya? It’s important.”
    She stopped smiling. She pointed to the one of the goofy signs on the wall behind me.
There will be a $5 charge for whining
. I said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to. Please.”
    Without speaking, she turned and walked toward the back of the bank. A moment later, she returned. “He said he can spare you a few minutes.”
    ----
    Mike Crutchfield, master of the Keaton State Bank, was staring at a laptop. He was just a skinny guy with thick ears and a big chin. In his fifties, probably. Brown suit and bolo tie. He moved the computer aside. He grinned at me and his whole face stretched.
    â€œMr. Williams,” he said. He didn’t stand up. He leaned back in his chair. “Thanks for taking the time to come by.”
    The people of Strattford County have an accent. It’s not Southern, it’s not cowboy, and it definitely isn’t Texas. A linguist might say that the Strattford County accent can be identified by the fact that “pen” and “pin” sound the same, or that, depending on the usage, “do” sometimes has one syllable and sometimes has two. In reality, the Strattford County accent is defined by the layer of bullshit that coats every word, like the speaker is always messing with your head. I’ve seen funerals where I wasn’t sure if the preacher wasn’t maybe
glad
that the so-and-so had died. I don’t know what it is, but it’s there and, even though I grew up with it, I can never tell what people are saying.
    Mike Crutchfield didn’t have that tinge. He sounded completely sincere. And he pronounced every vowel in every word he spoke.
    He said, “I understand you’re living with your father now. It is noble of you to take on this responsibility. Emmett is a great man. He has always been an upstanding member of this community. He lives a respectable life, he is known throughout the region for his wits, and, together with your mother, he contributed a great deal of time and money to those who needed both.
    â€œUnfortunately, things have changed and now your father has neither a great deal of time nor money. I cannot speak on the subject of the thing that has shortened his time other than to say that his most precious years are being robbed of him, plain and simple, by a universe whose ultimate plans for us all are as mysterious as they are unfair.
    â€œI can say more about the subject of money and perhaps what I say will be of help to you. Before his capacity to manage his affairs became overly restricted, your father enrolled much of his land in the Conservation Reserve Program, of which I am sure you are aware. Income from this program was instrumental in maintaining his quality of life. CRP contracts last for ten years. Unfortunately, your father’s contracts expired two years ago and he was not able to renew them in time for the payments to continue. What’s more, a quirk of the latest farm bill makes it impossible to bring land back into the program once its contract has expired.
    â€œWithout being farmed and without the government handouts, the land has no value to your father. I suppose you could attempt to rent it for pasture or even sell it, but I am not currently aware of anyone who would be willing to pay anything, much less a fair market price, for that land at this moment. I work with most of the farmers in this community and I can tell you that the economy is not strong. Plus, the land has been in your family for generations and, in spite of the fact that you currently do not have plans to farm it, I suspect you are very reluctant to sell it outright.”
    He was correct and he knew it. He smiled so that his eyes deepened in their sockets.
    â€œNaturally, you’re also curious about the subject of your father’s airplane.” He reached into his desk