Martha's arm slid under Jonathan's and around his waist, a small effort to keep him close in some way while his mind drifted further toward a place she still couldn't seem to reach.

"I suppose I should get going after breakfast," she said, as they walked along together toward the house. "Both my parents will be home soon and they're probably starting to wonder. Will you be all right?"

"Yeah," he replied, not giving the answer much apparent thought. He kept his head down, watching the ground pass underneath his feet as his arm came to rest across her shoulders. But even he must have realized how vague and feeble it sounded. "Yeah, I'm fine," he said again with more certainty, giving a quick nod.

Yes, of course he was. He was always fine. Martha had an idea that the world could shatter like broken glass around him and when asked about it, Jonathan Kent would be "fine." She worried at her lip and considered letting things lie before deciding she'd done more than enough of that.

"You don't seem fine, Jonathan," she said carefully and stopped their walk to look directly at him.

He didn't look up, and she thought perhaps he might avoid answering altogether until, finally, he raised his head and took a breath. "I..." He studied her eyes and blinked his own, slowly. "I...just..."

But before he could finish whatever it was he was about to say, the sound of a car rolling into the Kents' front yard brought his attention over her head. "Who's that?" he muttered, more to himself then to her, and squinted against the bright morning sun as he tried to make out the visitor. Martha pivoted and spotted the stranger stepping out of his car and heading up to the house with what appeared to be a briefcase at his side. Jonathan set off at a jog and she followed just behind him.

"Excuse me, can I help you?" he called as he approached.

"Maybe." The man stopped and extended a hand when he reached the front step. Jonathan took it, giving it a firm shake.

"I'm looking for Jessica Kent. My name is Harold Anderson. I'm from the bank." Despite the cool weather, he seemed uncomfortable in the gray suit he wore and tugged at his shirt collar.

"She's inside," Jonathan replied, his tone markedly less friendly. "I'm Jonathan Kent. What's your business here?"

After a nervous look up and down, the man shook his head and smiled weakly. "I'm afraid this is something only Mrs. Kent can help me with. If you'll excuse me," he said, attempting to pass.

Jonathan put a strong hand on his shoulder and blocked his way.

"Maybe you didn't understand the question the first time. What's this about?"

He was probably ten years younger than Mr. Anderson, but what he lacked in age, he made up for in stature, a fact not lost on either man as Jonathan moved closer and tightened his grip.

"I really, um," the man swallowed, "I really think I should speak to Mrs. Kent."

Martha placed a hand on Jonathan's arm. He looked over his shoulder at her, having forgotten for a second that she was still there. "He's not gonna go in there and upset her. Not today." He turned back and brought himself eye level with his unwelcome guest. "Why can't you people show some respect!"

His hard glare and harsh words had their desired effect-- Anderson tried to back away, hoping to break the younger man's rough hold. Martha's hand stayed just where it was, though, patient. For several moments no one moved, breathed, then, reluctantly, Jonathan let go with a hard shove.

"Jonathan, don't," Martha whispered tensely.

"Hey! Look, I'm...I'm just doing my job," the man stammered. He set his briefcase at his feet and hastened to straighten his disheveled shirt, tucking it neatly back into his waistband and smoothing his coat.

"What's going on out here?"

Mrs. Kent stood with the front door open, surveying the scene in front of her, one hand still on the doorknob. Martha now had both hands on Jonathan's shoulders, speaking to him in hushed words. She'd only seen that kind of anger in him once before--when a certain inebriated gentleman had stumbled upon them--and she was only too aware that charged emotions plus available target could equal big trouble.

"Can I help you?" the older woman asked. From what she could see, it certainly appeared so.

"Mrs. Kent?" the man inquired, watching Jonathan warily from the corner of his eye as he spoke. She nodded. "Well, as I told this young man here, my name is Harold Anderson and I wanted to speak with you about, well, about some financial matters, if I may."

Jonathan tried again to intervene. "Don't worry about it, Mom. I'll get rid of this guy."

"You'll do no such thing. Come on in, Mr. Anderson," she said and stepped aside. With one more glance in Jonathan's direction, taking note of his still angry expression, Anderson made sure to keep his distance as he picked up his briefcase from the ground and started up the stairs.

xxxxxxxx

"As you know, Mrs. Kent, the bank has carried your husband for some time now and we just don't see the benefit of making any further investment at this time."

"I see." Mrs. Kent held the document but by then was only distantly aware of it. They had all sat and listened to the finer points of finance, which all boiled down to one thing--the farm had been losing more money than it was making and for too long. Now, there it was on paper, just in case anyone wasn't clear about it.

She shook her head from side to side, coming back to herself. "I knew things were bad, I just never imagined-" The words wouldn't come as the cold reality began to set in. Her voice nearly broke, but she'd managed to keep it steady while folding the paper and setting it back on the table. "How long do we have?"

"Thirty days," the man said simply, then glimpsed Jonathan over in the corner against the doorframe, arms crossed, one foot hooked over the other, brooding. "Maybe a little longer."

Martha watched him, too, from much closer, and put her hand at his back, traveling it up to his shoulder.

"That's not much time. There's--" Mrs. Kent cleared her throat, swallowing back the beginnings of tears. "There's so much to do."

Jonathan shifted restlessly in his spot, his teeth clenched.

"I know how you must feel," Anderson offered. "And I am sorry."

Jonathan opened his mouth to speak this time, but his mother responded first. "No, I don't think you are. I don't think you are at all," she said, keeping her composure. "And you don't know how I feel. I pray you never do. I think I'd like you to leave now."

"Mrs. Kent, I assure you, this is in no way--"

"I believe my mother asked you to leave."

Martha looked apprehensively from one man to the other and could only hope that Anderson didn't need the farm he'd come to collect from to be dropped on top of him before he took the hint and made himself scarce.

"Thank you for coming by," Mrs. Kent added politely, probably catching the same tone from her son that Martha had, and got up from her seat.

Luckily, Anderson's suit wasn't the only smart thing about him, and he quickly gathered up his papers, reshuffled them, then put them inside his briefcase, and stood. "Yes, well, I apologize for taking up so much of your time. I wish you folks the best of luck." He forced an awkward smile, thought about putting out his hand, then dropped it by his side. "Good day."

When he was gone, the room went into motion again. Jonathan paced a few steps and Mrs. Kent pushed in her chair and started quietly upstairs.

"Mom."

But she ignored her son's soft entreaty and continued up the steps.

The kitchen chair suffered the brunt of his frustration, the top half of it hitting the table, legs clattering loudly back onto the floor after being thrust furiously forward.

Martha walked to his side again. She hadn't said anything, wouldn't know what to say, but he didn't seem to care that she didn't. Her closeness refocused his attention and his anger drained away, leaving only sadness in the softened contours of his face.

Wordlessly, she put her arms around him and exhaled when she felt him relax just a little and hold her closer.

TBC...