Marshall whispered, “How would I know who you’re thinking of?”
“Like that dead writer. You know.”
“Lots of dead writers,” Marshall said. “That’s the best kind, you ask me.”
“Sorry to bother you,” the man said affably. “I’m Dave Stenson. My friends in Chicago call me Stenko.”
“Hemingway,” Sylvia muttered without moving her lips. “That’s who I mean.”
“Sorry to bother you at dinnertime. Would it be better if I came back?” Stenson/Stenko said, pausing before getting too close.
Before Sylvia could say yes, Marshall said, “I’m Marshall and this is Sylvia. What can we do for you?”
“That’s the biggest darned motor home I’ve ever seen,” Stenko said, stepping back so he could see it all from stem to stern. “I just wanted to look at it.”
Marshall smiled, and his eyes twinkled behind thick lenses. Sylvia sighed. All those years in the cab of a combine, all those years of corn, corn, corn. The last few years of ethanol mandates had been great! This was Marshall’s reward.
“I’d be happy to give you a quick tour,” her husband said.
“Please,” Stenko said, holding up his hand palm out, “finish your dinner first.”
Said Marshall, “I’m done,” and pushed away from the picnic table, leaving the salad and green beans untouched.
Sylvia thought, A life spent as a farmer but the man won’t eat vegetables.
Turning to her, Stenko asked, “I was hoping I could borrow a potato or two. I’d sure appreciate it.”
She smiled, despite herself, and felt her cheeks get warm. He had good manners, this man, and those dark eyes…
SHE WAS CLEANING UP the dishes on the picnic table when Marshall and Stenko finally came out of the motor home. Marshall had done the tour of The Unit so many times, for so many people, that his speech was becoming smooth and well rehearsed. Fellow retired RV enthusiasts as well as people still moored to their jobs wanted to see what it looked like inside the behemoth vehicle: their 2009 45-foot diesel-powered Fleetwood American Heritage, which Marshall simply called “The Unit.” She heard phrases she’d heard dozens of times, “Forty-six thousand, six hundred pounds gross vehicle weight… five hundred horses with a ten-point-eight-liter diesel engine… satellite radio… three integrated cameras for backing up… GPS… bedroom with queen bed, satellite television… washer/dryer… wine rack and wet bar even though neither one of us drinks…”
Now Marshall was getting to the point in his tour where, he said, “We traded a life of farming for life in The Unit. We do the circuit now.”
“What’s the circuit?” Stenko asked. She thought he sounded genuinely interested. Which meant he might not leave for a while.
Sylvia shot a glance toward the SUV. She wondered why the people inside didn’t get out, didn’t join Stenko for the tour or at least say hello. They weren’t very friendly, she thought. Her sister in Wisconsin said people from Chicago were like that, as if they owned all the midwestern states and thought of Wisconsin as their own personal recreation playground and Iowa as a cornfield populated by hopeless rubes.
“It’s our circuit,” Marshall explained, “visiting our kids and grand-kids in six different states, staying ahead of the snow, making sure we hit the big flea markets in Quartzsite, going to a few Fleetwood rallies where we can look at the newest models and talk to our fellow owners. We’re kind of a like a club, us Fleetwood people.”
Stenko said, “It’s the biggest and most luxurious thing I’ve ever been in. It’s amazing. You must really get some looks on the road.”
“Thank you,” Marshall said. “We spent a lifetime farming just so we…”
“I’ve heard a vehicle like this can cost more than six hundred K. Now, I’m not asking you what you paid, but am I in the ballpark?”
Marshall nodded, grinned.
“What kind of gas mileage does it get?” Stenko asked.
“Runs on diesel,” Marshall said.
“Whatever,” Stenko said, withdrawing a small spiral notebook from his jacket pocket and flipping it open.
What’s he doing? Sylvia thought.
“We’re getting eight to ten miles a gallon,” Marshall said. “Depends on the conditions, though. The Black Hills are the first mountains we hit going west from Iowa, and the air’s getting thinner. So the mileage gets worse. When we go through Wyoming and Montana-sheesh.”
“Not good, eh?” Stenko said, scribbling.
Sylvia knew Marshall disliked talking about miles per gallon because it made him defensive.
“You can’t look at it that way,” Marshall said, “you can’t look at it like it’s a car or a truck. You’ve got to look at it as your house on wheels. You’re moving your own house from place to place. Eight miles per gallon is a small price to pay for living in your own house. You save on motels and such like that.”
Stenko licked his pencil and scribbled. He seemed excited. “So how many miles do you put on your… house… in a year?”
Marshall looked at Sylvia. She could tell he was ready for Stenko to leave.
“Sixty thousand on average,” Marshall said. “Last year we did eighty.”
Stenko whistled. “How many years have you been doing this circuit as you call it?”
“Five,” Marshall said. “But this is the first year in The Unit.”
Stenko ignored Sylvia’s stony glare. “How many more years do you figure you’ll be doing this?”
“That’s a crazy question,” she said. “It’s like you’re asking us when we’re going to die.”
Stenko chuckled, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.”
She crossed her arms and gave Marshall a Get rid of him look.
“You’re what, sixty-five, sixty-six?” Stenko asked.
“Sixty-five,” Marshall said. “Sylvia’s…”
“Marshall!”
“… approximately the same age,” Stenko said, finishing Marshall’s thought and making another note. “So it’s not crazy to say you two might be able to keep this up for another ten or so years. Maybe even more.”
“More,” Marshall said, “I hope.”
“I’ve got to clean up,” Sylvia said, “if you’ll excuse me.” She was furious at Stenko for his personal questions and at Marshall for answering them.
“Oh,” Stenko said, “about those potatoes.”