Chapter 11: Dirt Poor

As the week's episode of "The Millionaire" came to a close, Allie Henderson switched off the TV, turned to Jeff and Pop, and launched the family's version of the popular show. "So, what would you do with a million dollars?"

"I always go first," Pop said. "Your turn, Allie."

She leaned back on the sofa. "First, I'd pay all the bills, and the mortgage. I'd buy Jeff that three-speed bike, and Pop, I'd spruce up your office."

"Don't waste your money," Pop said.

"Things are just slow," she countered. "They'll pick up, the closer we get to Christmas. They always do."

Pop shrugged and said, "Jeff, you go."

Sitting on the rug, Jeff didn't turn around. "It's a stupid game."

"You always liked playing it before," his mother said, trading a surprised look with Pop.

"It's a TV show, Mom. Nobody's giving us a million dollars," Jeff said over his shoulder. "Face it, we're dirt poor, and always will be," he said bitterly, running from the room.

Mystified, Allie said, "What's that all about?"

Pop stood up. "I'll talk to him." He found Jeff on the front-porch steps and sat down beside him. "Your Mom's worried about you, Jeff."

"It's nothing," Jeff said, staring at his sneakers. Pop waited. "It's just something one of the guys at school said."

"Yeah?"

"That we're dirt poor." They could see their breath in the night air.

"Hmm," Pop said, weighing the words. "Do you know what that means?"

"Yeah, that we don't have any money."

"That's one way to look at it, I guess," Pop said, cupping his chin.

"And that's what we are, isn't it, Pop?" Jeff demanded.

"Dirt's not poor," Pop said. He gestured at the fields. "How can it be poor if you can grow crops in it that feed an entire country?" His hand swept over the shadowy woods beyond. "And raise holly trees that help folks put food on the table and presents under the Christmas tree?"

He put his arm around Jeff and pulled him close. "Jeff, the way I see it, dirt may look poor, but it's rich. Rich with possibility. And as long as we have it, so are we."

Jeff nodded. "I guess you're right."

For a moment they sat in silence.

"Pop, are the Russians still in Cuba?" he said.

"I think so. Why do you ask?"

"We had another air-raid drill at school today. We're learning how to duck and cover."

"Well, I wouldn't worry too much. Kennedy got that Khrushchev fella to back down. It looks like it's blowing over."

"It doesn't hurt to be prepared, though, right?"

"Course," Pop said. "Better safe than sorry."

"Well, that's good." Jeff shivered. Pop got up. "Come on, let's get back inside before your Mom thinks we've run off."

"Pop?"

"Yes, son."

A sly smile spread across Jeff's face. "So what would you do if you had a million dollars?"

"I got some things in mind. How about you?"

"Yeah," Jeff said. "Me too."

THE NEXT MORNING, a gray sedan pulled up outside Pop's office. John Turner got out, took in the weather-beaten building, its small hand-painted sign advertising "Holly Wreaths for Sale," and shook his head. He limped up the stairs and opened the door.

The old man on the phone waved him toward an empty chair.

"Bill's retired? Good for him. So who's the new nursery buyer?" Pop asked. "Arnold Sheckman?" He wrote the name down. "Could you put me through to him, please? Well, when he's out of his meeting, would you have him call me?"

Pop listened, and made a fist. "Of course, I could write a letter," he said angrily, and then took a deep breath. "But your order's usually in by now, and I always spoke with Bill about this kind of thing." He listened again.

"Oh, I see, Mr. Sheckman prefers correspondence. Fine, I'll send him a letter then. But if he still could give me a call, I'd appreciate it. I'd just like to say hello. Hello? Hello? Miss? Hello?"

Turner cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he said. "I'm looking for the owner." Pop hung up the phone. "You got him."

Next chapter: The Country Code