Archive of Our Own

Tom was used to picking up his dad's messes. Not, like – not in a grudging way, seriously, he appreciated the practice. Sure, sometimes it got tiring or frustrating on a day when he had already struggled through a particularly difficult math lesson and he mixed the numbers and letters up and just stared at the page until the time was up because he couldn't read it because he was stupid – but most of the time, it was fine. It was practice.

Cooper was the problem solver. Tom guessed it came with being an engineer. He might not have been the best dad (not that Tom had a lot to compare him to), but he was good at nudging his son in the right direction until the solution presented itself. And that's what Tom needed. That's all Tom needed. He didn't take up much space, really. He had no problem with going to bed hungry a night or two in the winter if it meant Murph got to eat. Sometimes Cooper noticed, sometimes he didn't. Sometimes dad would do the same as him.

Picture it: the two of them, quietly taking shifts off meals, using blinks to communicate which one of them would slide a little extra to his sister.

(Sometimes Cooper would shake his head and replenish Tom's plate from his own.)

(Tom always worked himself to the bone the next day, to make it fair.)

The farm was just another thing he'd pick up from Cooper one day. He liked it, well enough, and to be honest, he didn't have a lot of other choices. He was pretty sure Murph and his dad didn't know, but he spent hours at night poring over a book, any book really, trying to make the letters form words. Sometimes it worked, but sometimes wasn't good enough.

It came naturally to Murph. She'd be the star of the family, one way or another. That was never in question. If you were paying attention, you'd see the way Cooper looked at her, and the way he looked at Tom, and –

(Tom tried not to think about this very often.)

And then Cooper left. It was so fast. Some weird dirt on the floor, and then – boom, there he goes to space. I love you, Tom. Take care of the farm. I'll be back.

I'll be back.

I love you, Tom.

In a way, it felt like he could put everything back to normal, piece by piece. Like it was just another test. If he could fix whatever it was, then Cooper could come back and say I'm proud of you, you did well, and everything would be fine.

Tom fixed a lot of things. He was never as good with the machines as his dad, but he fixed the whole farm, piece by piece as things wore out and were replaced and got burned and then replanted and it was somewhere over the whole process of years and years that Tom realized Cooper wasn't coming back.

He'd known it. The whole time, of course he had. But it hadn't solidified. Hadn't sunk in.

Maybe his dad was alive. Tom didn't know. What he did know was that the corn never seemed to grow exactly right in a weaving diagonal path from the road to the river. There was a similar shape running through their family, and Tom didn't know if it was him or Murph who was on the wrong side of it.

Tom could fix a lot of things. He tried to fix that line, bit by bit, every time Murph stopped by to see Lois or Jessie.

Tom couldn't fix his grandpa, his son.

In a way, Cooper lay in that grave out back with them.

They were starving. The okra was gone. They burned half their fields every year. Not even boiling water could purify it completely anymore, and there was no one to make new parts for the well anyway.

It felt a little like drowning in air. Plain and simple, Tom hadn't fixed anything. And Cooper wasn't coming back.