I held the two ears of sweet corn against my canvas apron, my fingers tightening on the husks.

“Did he give you anything toward it?” I asked.

“No,” Carl said.

“I covered his half out of my shop reserve account.”

My mother, Grace, stepped out of row five, her canvas apron gray with dust and bits of corn tassel.

She wiped her hands over and over on the front of her apron before reaching for a wire basket.

“Nora, Ben’s canvas track shoes are splitting down the side seams,” Grace said softly.