“Mornin, Cecil. Mornin, Vernon. Mornin, Earl. Good to see you fellas aint blowed away.”

Cecil wiped grit from his eyes. “Not yet, maybe. About another day a this and I’d just as soon blow away. I got about half a some fella’s red-dirt ranch up in Wyoming all over my beet field.”

Emaline poured three cups of coffee. Cecil took his spot at the end of the counter, still wiping grit out of the corners of his eyes with a hankie. “How do, Emaline?”

“I’m doing, Cecil. I’d be a lot better if it wasn’t for this dust all the time. Wet sheets and tape won’t keep it out.”

“Aint it the truth? Can’t imagine what my Betsy would say, if she was still with us. She always kept a clean house.”

Hank Crippen hawked and spat into the garbage pail as he scraped his grill. There was music on Hank’s radio. Have you ever been lonely, have you ever been blue. The song always made Emaline feel lonely and blue. The music stopped, a nasal voice started in on the Iowa hog markets. The farmers paid no attention. Prices were so low it didn’t pay to listen.

Earl took the stool next to Cecil and glared out the window at the dust. “A fella can’t win for losin. First we got that late freeze, turned the damned ground to cast iron. It warmed up enough to plow, then we got a duster. You put a crop in, and it goes like my flax did last year. Got so damned hot, the seeds cooked right in the ground. I never thought I’d live to see a hundred and eighteen degrees in Nebraska, I surely did not. Might as well try to farm Death Valley.”

Cecil chuckled. “Hell, Earl, you couldn’t farm the Garden of Eden.”

“The hell you say.”

“If you was in charge, that apple tree would a shriveled up and died. Eve wouldn’t never tasted that apple, saved us all a lot of trouble.”

“You got to have dirt to farm. The way it’s blowin, them New Dealers will be pickin up Nebraska dirt in Tennessee. Sell it back to us, dollar a bushel.”

While they needled each other, Vern Schneider sat watching Emaline with those puppy-dog eyes. He was short and wide and homely. His eyebrows grew together in a line straight and black as a crowbar.

“Mornin, Emaline.”

“Morning, Vernon.”

“Come with me to the dance tonight, Em?”

“No, Vernon.”

“It’s because I’m shorter than you, aint it?”

“No, it’s because I don’t want the stink of your Wildroot Cream-Oil up my nose.”

“You say the same thing every week.”

“That’s because you ask me the same thing every week.”