A dry breeze rippled the tall, brown grass. If Charles set fire to the grass today, the flames would tear through the thirty acres and leap to the surrounding fields. They would race through the orchards and the vineyards and the cornfields, charring the already parched and blighted crops. Charles watched the tall weeds for a few minutes, waiting for the breeze to die. But it remained steady.

He turned when he heard the wheezing motor of his own pick-up truck. It was coming toward him at a distance, bouncing along the uneven dirt path and raising a cloud of dust. When it pulled close, his son leaned out the window and called to him.

"Ready to go?"

"If it's time."

"Mom wants to talk to you."

Charles looked past the truck in the direction of the house. He couldn't actually see the house behind his own peach orchard, but he could barely make out the motion of the windmill over the trees.

"I'll talk to her after work."

Hal raised his eyebrows, but threw the driver door open for his father and moved over. Hal was Charles' eldest son and the one who slept in Charles' own childhood room. He was taller than his father, but thin and always hungry. He could eat half a loaf of homemade bread buttered with sugar and cinnamon and afterwards ask for the other half. But his hunger came from adolescence rather than sickliness. He was strong in the way that all farmboys are strong. Right now his forearms were disproportionately large from his summer job milking at the dairy.

"Mind if I turn on the radio?" he asked. There was no radio built into the car, but Hal had his portable.

"Not at all, if you want to listen to the farm reports."

Hal grinned. Charles wasn't a fan of rock and roll. "I guess we can do without."

Charles didn't say much as he drove. He was already tired from his morning chores. Instead, he spent his spare attention on the passing farms. The fields were spotted with houses that had been built within his lifetime. He remembered when his house was the only real house for miles. Everyone else made do with converted pumphouses and sheds. The other families used to come to his house in the evenings. His mother would open her kitchen to all the other women and they would cook huge ethnic hodgepodges of meals. The men would sit on the porch sharing crop tips and forecasting the weather. Then everyone else had built new houses and Charles' house had stayed the same.

"Are you going to replant that field?" asked Hal.

"Hmm? Oh, no, not this year. There's no sense wasting the money in this drought."

Hal nodded. They were approaching the fire station now, and Charles slowed slightly to read the sign in front. "NO BURN," it said.

Satisfied, he returned his attention to his son. He nodded at Hal's library book on the dashboard. "What are you reading?"

"Greek philosophy."

"Who are you reading? Plato?"

"It's on Greek philosophy."

"Why are you reading a book on Plato? You should read things for yourself."

"I am reading for myself. It's summer."

"I read Plato when I was your age."

"Sure, but he was a personal friend of yours."

Charles smiled. Actually, he supposed he must have been a couple of years older than Hal when he read Plato. He remembered reading the dialogues under the stars in some far off prairie. It must have been while he was driving cattle.

"Guess what? The Carsons just got a television." Hal nodded at his girlfriend's house as they passed it.

"Oh, yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't have to go all the way to the Lucases' to see the shows anymore. I'll just pretend I'm coming over to see Jane."

Charles tsked-tsked in mock disapproval. They pulled up to the dairy. "You've got a ride home?"

"Yeah, Rick said he'd drop me off."

"All right."

Hal climbed out, but came around to Charles' window. "Hey, Dad, I'm going straight home after work. Is there anything you want me to do until you get there?"

"Sure. Read Plato."

Hal rolled his eyes and grinned before walking toward the buildings.

Alone, Charles thought about his son. Smart kid, and not just academically. That boy had a good head on his shoulders. He knew how to work, too.

Charles pulled into the parking lot in front of the jail. Bill Whitney was already there with the prisoner work crew Charles supervised. He handed Charles his list as the convicts climbed into the back of the truck.

By the end of the day, Charles just wanted a shower and a nap. He never had any trouble with the convicts. Only the reliable ones were allowed out on crew. Most of them never even said much. But he had to keep walking around to make his presence obvious to both the prisoners and the passersby. The job was hot and demoralizing. He thought it was a bit like herding sheep, but the fact that the sheep were humans depressed him.

His sons greeted him quietly when he came home. The younger two were sprawled on the rug reading comic books. Hal was sitting in the patched easy chair reading the library book from that morning. Charles tapped the cover and shook his head, winning a subdued grin from his son.

At the far end of the main room, the part that served as a kitchen, Charles' wife was peeling carrots over the sink. Vivian's back was to Charles; she didn't turn around when he came in. The only sound in the room was the measured snip-snip of her peeling.

He approached her slowly with his hands in his pockets and waited for her to look at him. She didn't. "Did your son tell you that I wanted to speak to you this morning?" she asked over the snip-snip.

"Yes, but we were running late."

She glared at him and he took a step backward. Wiping her hands on her apron, she said, "Let's talk in the pantry."

"I need to feed the animals."

"We need to talk."

Charles glanced at his sons. They were all staring at their books. He followed Vivian to the pantry.

She pulled the cord to the one bare lightbulb and illuminated the shelves of dusty cans and neatly labelled jars.

"Did you talk to Grosbeck today about buying the thirty acres?"

Charles fingered the handkerchief in his pocket. "No. I told you, I don't want to talk to a buyer until I clear it off. We'll get more money that way."

"You keep saying that."

"Well, I can't burn off the grass until the weather changes. Do you want me to set the whole valley on fire?"

"It's not a house, Charles. It's a piece of land. Nobody cares if it's clear."

"We'll get more money for it if it's clear. It's psychology. I've talked to people. They've all said to clear it before we try to sell."

"I've talked to people, too." Vivian's voice was hard. "I've talked to women whose husbands don't have to work menial jobs to feed their families. Who are able to buy clothes and television sets and go out to dinner sometimes."

"Is that what this is about? New clothes." He looked at the dress she was wearing. It was a plain cotton dress, storebought but clumsily mended in several places.

"No, Charles, it's not about new clothes. You're a man, I couldn't expect you to understand that. Look at me, Charles. Am I the woman you married? Not just my clothes. Look at me."

Charles looked at his wife. He looked at her creased and smudged face and her disheveled wispy hair. He looked at the rough hands she held out to him.

"I never told you we'd be rich," he whispered.

"You never told me we'd be poor." The hardness had drained out of her voice. She leaned against a shelf and let her head droop. "When are you going to talk to Hal?"

"That's a different matter."

She pursed her lips. "When are you going to talk to him?"

"I don't know. Tonight, maybe."

She nodded. "Tonight."

Charles took Hal with him when he fed and watered the animals. They had sold the cows, but they still had sheep and chickens and geese. They both felt around to make sure the hens hadn't laid any eggs in strange places. Charles liked working with Hal. The boy joked easily and talked about books he had read and places he wanted to go. He asked Charles to tell stories about his own youth, about driving cattle and helping to excavate Carlsbad Caverns. Charles sometimes felt guilty about enjoying Hal's company so much.

"I told my friends you were a real cowboy. They asked me why you never wear the hat."

"Too big. A hat this size is much better for a farmer."

He had often told his son the story behind his adventures. Money had been tight when he was in high school, so he and his brother had made a deal. First Charlie would travel around doing odd jobs and sending money back so Sammy could go to college. Then, after four years, they would switch. Charles had put Sam through Stanford University with a degree in journalism. Magna cum laude. He had sent Sam a card from Arizona asking if that was the best he could do. Then it had been Charlie's turn.

Charles had never blamed Sam, he was always quick to point out. No one was prepared for the Depression. In four years, the world had changed. When Dad died, Sam had sold Charles his half of the ninety acres for much less than it was worth. Sam didn't care about being a farmer, but he was a fair man.

Talking to Hal, Charles wondered if he had even been the loser in the deal. What stories did Sam have to tell his children? And what did he have to leave them when he died? Each of Charles' sons would inherit thirty acres.

Charles and Hal were deep in conversation when they returned to the house. They were planning the trip they would take to Africa some day. They would take a boat all the way down the Nile. They made each other laugh with fantastic stories about what they would see. Charles' wife was sitting at his mother's old pine table when they came in. He avoided her eyes.

The breeze hadn't died the next morning. Charles woke to the creaking of the windmill. After his chores, he drove Hal to work again. The "NO BURN" sign still hung in front of the fire station.

"These Greeks sure drank a lot of wine," joked Hal.

"Do you know why they had so many vineyards around Athens?"

"Was it a Spartan plot to get them drunk?"

"It was the land. Very hilly and the soil can't support much. But grapes do very well on that kind of land. Olives too."

"So why do we waste so much of the land around here on grapes?"

"There's a market and they don't require as much water as fruit trees. We should probably switch some of our land to grapes."

"Maybe that thirty acres."

Charles didn't answer. He dropped Hal off at the dairy and drove to the jail. The prisoners in their identical gray overalls were waiting for him solemnly. Charles thought they looked tired and dusty.

"Nice breeze today, isn't there, Charles?" said Bill Whitney.

"Not bad."

The windmill was still turning when Charles came home. He stopped to listen to it. The windmill was ineffectual now. Water from a canal irrigated his crops. He paid a fee to have it piped in. Running water still came from the well, but it was now pumped electrically. He had disconnected the windmill years ago, but left it up. The house wouldn't have seemed the same without it.

Charles drew out his chores to avoid entering the house. He even denied himself the pleasure of Hal's company so he wouldn't have to face his wife. But he knew better than to show up late for dinner. That would only compound her anger.

At the table, the boys joked nervously to cover their parents' silence. Kit and Wes were ten and thirteen and still prone to childish bickering. Charles sometimes wondered if Hal's maturity had given them the freedom to remain immature. Neither of them took much interest in school or the farm. Charles could never trust either with much responsibility. He noted grimly that their appetites were starting to catch up with Hal's.

"You eat like a pig," Kit accused Wes, stuffing his own mouth with fried chicken.

"Yeah? Well, you eat like a hippo."

"As if either of you have ever seen a hippo eat," Hal pointed out.

"Well, I've seen a pig eat, and he looked like Wes."

"At least I don't snore."

"You do so."

"Do not."

"Quiet, boys," said Vivian. The boys were instantly silent.

"It's a silly thing to argue about anyway," said Hal. "In a year, you'll each have your own room, and it won't matter who snores."

Charles kept his eyes on his plate so he wouldn't have to look at Vivian. Vivian cleared her throat.

"What's for dessert?" asked Wes.

Vivian started to collect dishes. "Dessert's going to take a few minutes. Why don't you boys listen to the radio?"

"Do you want some help, Mom?"

"No, Hal, I think you and your father should go have a talk."

"All right." Hal looked at his father questioningly. Charles gestured him out to the porch.

Now that the sun had set, the breeze was almost chilly. Charles matched the creak of his rocking chair to that of the windmill.

"So what's Mom making such a big deal about?"

Charles lit his pipe and watched the smoke drift toward the yard. "I've been putting off telling you something, Hal. I'm sorry. I should have been straightforward with you."

"What is it?"

"Your mother and I have looked over our finances. We can't afford to send you to the university next year."

"Oh." Hal's voice was soft.

"We kept hoping, but this drought . . . You'll have to go to the J.C. for the first two years. You'll still be able to finish up at Berkeley. It won't make any difference in the long run."

"Of course not."

"It won't be so bad. I know you were looking forward to getting out on your own, but we'll make sure you have your freedom. And your brothers will take on some of your chores so you can study."

"It's okay, Dad. Most of my friends are going to the J.C. anyway. This way I won't have to leave Jane. It's okay."

Charles leaned back and smoked his pipe. He knew Hal was trying to make this easier for him. It didn't matter that the boy's friends were going to J.C. It didn't matter that he would still graduate with the same final degree. Charles knew they had made an implicit pact. He looked at Hal's enlarged forearms and felt hollow.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"I know money's been tight. If you want me to work for a couple of years after high school instead of going to J.C., I don't mind. You've got Wes and Kit to worry about. I really don't mind."

Charles stood up. "I don't want to hear any more about that."

"Dad."

"Listen to me, Hal . . ." He stopped and fumbled for the right words. All around him there was only darkness—vast acres of unlit farms and empty country roads. Ninety acres of this belonged to them. A man could do so much with ninety acres. But only so much.

"I don't want to hear any more about that," he repeated. "Are you coming in?"

"In a minute."

Charles nodded and went inside.

The younger boys were sprawled by the radio, playing dominoes. "Ladies," said the radio announcer, "are you still washing your clothes by hand?" Charles walked over to the kitchen where Vivian was washing dishes. A fragrant peach pie cooled uncut on the table.

"Did you tell him?" she whispered.

"Yes, he took it well."

"I knew he'd take it well," she said sadly.

Charles picked up a plate and dried it clumsily.

"When are you going to talk to Grosbeck?"

"Vivian, I keep telling you, it won't make any difference."

"Shh." They both looked over at the boys. They were studiously playing their game.

"It won't make any difference, Vivian," he whispered. "We've been through the figures. Even if we sell the thirty acres, we can't afford four years at a university. Even if Hal works, we can't afford it. Even if we take out another loan, we can't afford it. Even if . . ."

"Fine, Charles, but what happens in two years? What are you going to tell Hal then? If we sell the land we can at least afford two years at the university. Don't you want that? Or do you want to keep him here forever?"

Charles carefully folded the dishrag. He didn't have an answer.

That spring, the Chamber of Commerce had held their annual scholarship competition. The first phase of the competition was based on academic merit. Hal had placed first. The final phase was based on need. The scholarship committee had looked at Hal's financial record and seen all that land.

The next morning, Charles woke to the crowing of their rooster. He sat in bed for a moment, listening to his wife's measured breathing. Nothing else broke the silence. He dressed and ate his biscuits without looking out the window. He kept waiting for the familiar creak. When he stepped out on his porch, the air was perfectly still. That doesn't mean anything, he told himself. It all depends on the humidity. It may still be too dry.

"Ready to go?" asked Hal after they had both finished their morning chores. Charles nodded and climbed into the truck. They were both quiet today. Hal said he was thinking of entering one of the lambs into the county fair. He had to say it twice to get Charles' attention.

"Dad, are you still upset about last night? Because it's fine. It's really fine."

Charles nodded. He was concentrating on the farms. Every tree, every cornstalk remained still, covered by a film of dust.

"You know, my chemistry teacher, Mr. Charters, is always going on about how great the junior college is. And I've been to some of their plays. Maybe I'll take drama."

They were approaching the fire station. Charles slowed the truck.

The wooden sign was propped against the building. Nearby, a few firemen were lazily washing one of the trucks.

Charles sped up again.

At the jail parking lot, Charles leaned his chin on the steering wheel. Bill Whitney was giving the prisoners their instructions before sending them off. Charles glanced at their solemn faces. He sat up.

"Ramirez!" he called out as the men came toward him. Ramirez looked at him and blushed. He was new to the prison work crew. He had been among the men Charles had hired to pick his peaches earlier that summer. He came over to the truck and greeted Charles quietly. Charles felt bad about singling him out. "Times are hard," he commiserated.

Bill Whitney snorted. He had come up behind Ramirez to give Charles his list. "Stop making excuses for these guys. Times are the best they've ever been."

Charles thought about that on the way to the work site. In the Depression, when they had brought food baskets to their neighbors and welcomed tramps to their tables, they had told each other, "Times are hard." In the War, when men had died or come home cripples, when families had struggled to hold their farms together while praying for their absent sons, they had told each other, "Times are hard." What do people say to each other in a boom?

When he came home that night, Vivian was standing on the porch. Charles noticed how her cotton dress fell limply over her slender frame. "Tell Hal I need him," he said.

She went inside and, a moment later, Hal came out. "Help me gather as many buckets as we can find and fill them with water," said Charles. Hal looked puzzled, but hurried to help.

Once they had loaded the buckets into the truck, they drove out through the peach orchard to the thirty acres. Neither of them said anything. Charles knew Hal was watching him. Charles was looking at the orchard. He was looking at the parched leaves and the dry, cracked soil. He was looking at the film of dust covering everything. Covering the trees, covering the truck, covering the people who worked the land. He saw the dust piling up, layer after layer, year after year. He saw the floods that would eventually follow the drought, and the droughts that would follow the floods. He saw Hal, a grown man with a family, trying to carve out of thirty acres what Charles could not carve out of ninety.

He parked the truck a few yards from the grassy field and told Hal to stand ready with the water in case the flames got out of hand. Hal nodded without saying anything. Charles walked to the edge of the field and felt in his pocket. Match in hand, he waited. Waited for a breeze to ripple the grass.