I hurried to the auction office and asked who had brought the tractor in. The woman behind the counter refused to reveal the consignor’s information, but yard manager Wendell Kroeker recognized me. He checked the list, ran his finger down the page, and quietly told me that Brent had brought it in on Thursday. My stepson had taken his father’s tractor while Virgil lay in intensive care, unable to speak. Just one day earlier, Brent had stood beside me in the hospital waiting room, crying over his father. I had held his hand and believed we were grieving together. Now I understood what he had done while I sat beside Virgil’s bed reading him the hockey scores.
I begged Wendell to withdraw the tractor until Virgil could speak for himself. But there was no title, no written objection from the owner, and no simple way to stop the sale. A constable in Davidson listened to my story but called it a family dispute. The auction was scheduled for nine the following morning. Sitting alone in my truck, I finally called Brent. I asked him to bring his father’s tractor home. He barely hesitated. “Dad’s never going to drive that thing again,” he replied. Then he admitted he was behind on loan payments and added, “Besides, half of it’s mine anyway.” He hung up before I could answer.
THE STORY CONTINUES ON THE NEXT PAGE… 👇👇👇
