Russell finally admitted that two weeks after Frank died, he had tried starting the splitter and discovered a leaking hydraulic cylinder, a damaged hose, and a fuel problem. He had paid nearly seven hundred dollars to repair it himself because he knew Tyler and I would need it before winter. He never mentioned the money because he knew how stretched my finances were. Instead, he had convinced himself that charging me fifty dollars whenever I used it would slowly reimburse him without forcing him to ask a grieving widow for money.
I stared at him. “Then why didn’t you simply tell me?” Russell’s shoulders dropped. He said Frank had always been the brother who could fix things, lend money, and help neighbors without asking for anything back. After Frank died, Russell wanted to be that person too, but he was embarrassed that he couldn’t afford the repairs without eventually recovering some of the cost. So instead of explaining himself, he acted like the machine belonged to him. Mrs. Lindgren shook her head. “Pride,” she said quietly. “Just like I told you.”
Russell disappeared into his garage and returned carrying a folder. Inside were every repair receipt, all dated after Frank’s death. He handed me the fifty dollars back and then gave me the splitter’s spare key. “It was always yours,” he said. “I should have asked instead of pretending otherwise.”
I removed the rental receipt from the feed-store bulletin board that afternoon and replaced it with something else: a note thanking Russell for repairing Frank’s splitter when our family needed it most. The following weekend, Russell joined Tyler and me cutting another cord for Mrs. Lindgren. Nobody charged anybody fifty dollars. Frank’s old machine worked steadily beside us, his name still visible across the tank. I had been right that the splitter belonged to me. But I had been wrong about one thing: Russell had not taken it because he wanted what Frank left behind. He had been trying, awkwardly and proudly, to become the brother Frank had always been.
