"Hey, Jon-boy, you get down from there. Your ma would have your skin and mine, if she saw you."

Jonathan hopped down from the high-point of the new roof and moved cat-like over several planks to where his father crouched, hammering another section of wood. "Aw, mom's not even around. She's in the garden. She'd never know anyhow."

Hiram looked up from his work at his eleven-year-old son and shook his head at his boy's indifference. "A woman always knows, sooner or later. One day, when you're married, you'll find that out."

The boy crinkled his nose at the thought, not at all enamored of the idea of girls and even less of marriage. "Uh, I don't think so, dad."

Hiram laughed and slid another board into place. "I used to feel that way when I was your age. You wouldn't be here if I still did, though..." he added with a smirk.

Jonathan's mouth fell slightly open and his expression changed from one of mild aversion to looking as though he'd just been told he was having liver and spinach served to him in a single meal. "Dad! Gross! I don't wanna hear about that stuff."

"Well, excuse me," the man replied lightly, "I didn't mean to offend."

Jonathan shrugged and grumbled something about moms not being like real girls. Then he squatted in front of his father, trying to catch the man's eye as he worked. "How much longer are we gonna be?"

Hiram lifted his head briefly. "Gotta hot date?" He wiped his sleeve across his brow and continued his hammering.

"No," Jonathan replied sharply, annoyed at the teasing. "Just a game," he muttered to himself, too softly for anyone to hear.

Hiram sat back on his heels and wiped his brow again. "You know a farmer's day never ends. I expect I'll be busy 'til supper time. You finish your other chores yet?"

The boy stood and rolled his eyes. "Yes, dad," he groaned and began listing all the things he'd done that morning. He'd only gotten part way through when Hiram laid down the hammer, held up his hand and nodded.

"All right, son. All right," he answered, half smiling at his boy's browbeaten tone. "You go on and have yourself some fun. I'll just be a while longer." And he took up his hammer again.

Jonathan frowned and shoved his hands in pockets. He dropped his chin and tried not to show his disappointment, but it didn't change the fact that his father hadn't remembered again. Hadn't remembered or didn't find it of much importance. He had said before that games were games but his family couldn't live on them. Still, it didn't stop Jonathan from wishing that his father would surprise him and come to a game or practice just once. He'd promised one day he'd make the time, but so far that day hadn't come.

He brought his head up and cocked it to one side. "Dad...?"

"Yeah, son?"

Hiram still busily hammered and nailed, not looking up from his work.

"Nothing," the boy mumbled.

"Jonathan?"

Quietly, Martha crept up next to him and brushed at the lock of hair that fell across his forehead. There he was, sitting and sleeping soundly on a stack of hay, leaning to one side, resting against the barn wall. Her whisper hadn't awakened him, but he started at her touch and blinked several times before righting himself and staring back her, confused.

"I think you fell asleep," she told him. "It's no wonder. You must be exhausted."

Rubbing at his eyes and still not quite aware of where his was or what exactly he had been doing before that instant, Jonathan wondered briefly just how long he'd dozed off. Then he sat up straighter and rolled his shoulders, trying to work out a kink that had settled at the base of his neck.

"I was, um, I was just finishing up the stalls," he said hastily, taking hold of the rake handle that stood against the wall beside him.

"I can see that," she answered agreeably as she picked a stray piece of straw from his hair and dropped it to the dirt floor.

His side glance in her direction said he was sure she wasn't fooled for a second. He came forward, rested his weight on the wood handle, clasping both hands over the top of it, then nodded up at the ceiling. "Did I ever tell you that my father and I built this roof?"

"No. No, you didn't."

"I was only eleven and he did most of the work but he let me do a lot of things, too. It took weeks, just the two of us. Every day we'd climb up there and work for hours." A quiet melancholy seeped into the words as he spoke them, each more heavy than the last until they stopped entirely. Martha sat down beside him, put a hand at his knee.

"Don't give up just yet. It's not over."

He seemed surprised at her directness, but still doubtful. "Fifteen thousand dollars, Martha. I couldn't come up with that kind of money if the lives of everyone in Smallville depended on it. If I could, we wouldn't be having this conversation right now."

"You talk as if you're the only one involved in any of this. I could ask my father to help. He could..."

Jonathan got to his feet with a disbelieving huff, his back to her as he shook his head fervently at the idea. "No. No way. Your father already thinks I'm some ignorant hick from Loserville, Kansas. I am not about to go asking him or anyone else for a hand-out."

Martha stood and strode around to face him. "Who cares what he thinks? You'd pay it back and you'd get to keep the farm. Isn't that the most important thing?"

Jonathan crossed his arms and tried without success to find a suitable place to fix his gaze. "This was--is--my father's home," he explained slowly, carefully, so that she could not somehow misunderstand. "He never asked anyone for anything in his life. He was proud of the man he was, of what he did. No one looked down on him. This is his home," he said again. "And I am his son."

His eyes met hers briefly before he started past her and toward the open yard.

xxxxx

"What am I supposed to do, mom?"

Sarah Clark looked up at her daughter from the sofa and sighed with understanding. "Well, honey, if he doesn't want you to interfere, I really think it's best that you don't. A man's pride is a fragile thing."

That wasn't helpful. Nothing was what she'd been doing so far and it didn't seem to make things any better. "But there has to be something-" she started to protest in earnest.

"The only thing that you can do is be there for him, honey."

Martha dropped onto the sofa and let her head fall back with a dramatic flair. "I can't even do that. Every time I try, he acts like nothing's wrong. He can be so hard-headed."

"Welcome to my world," her mom said with a gentle smile and an arm around her shoulder. "The secret to dealing with a hard-headed man is knowing when to pick him up and when to let him find his own two feet...and every now and then, when to knock him on his behind."

They both giggled softly. "So I just wait?"

"For now."