“Press may attend, but not with cameras or notebooks, or to question anyone present. St. Luke’s has organized ushers, to seat everyone. Those from Chicago or elsewhere will be on one side of the church, and those from Park Ridge on the other, with the neighborhood children together in the choir. They will sing three songs. It will be short. I will speak, then the pastor, with the songs between, and it will end.”
“I will not be near you.”
“No, my darling. I shall be on one side of the church, and you on the other, as at a wedding. I begin with a quote from St. Augustine. Shall I tell it to you?”
“Yes, tell me.”
“St. Augustine said, ‘The law detects; grace alone conquers sin.’ ”
“My grandfather used to say that grace is God’s mystery, and the mystery of grace is that it can never come too late.” She rested her head on his chest, for something dark had dropped within her. “But what is grace, William? How is sin conquered, when it has tortured and killed?”
“Grace is an element of the divine, within the realm of the natural world, in which time passes. Or that is what I believe.” He gathered her hair in his hands. “You are grace, or we approach grace, for this is surely goodness between us, and this gift, so unexpected, does not end, for if I never touched you again or saw you near me, you are with me. That is what we have, possibly all we have. It is so much. I have no conception of a god or gods, but we have this.”
She pressed her ear close against his chest. “I hear your heart, William.”
“Emily, don’t be afraid.” He kissed her eyes. “You are strong on their behalf. There have been, and will be, men like Powers. The difference is only details.”
“Evil does not consider,” Emily said. “Surely Powers is evil.”
“He is a man who bent things to his will, to have what he wanted, to feel arousal and climax in the only way possible for him.”
“Yes, it’s that simple, on that level.”
“It comforts us to think that those who commit horrors are a species apart. Men and women sin, while animals act on instinct.” He pulled her close and laced her fingers in his. “Yes, humans are animals, thank god. But we are aware of time. We contemplate sin and goodness. What is most horrifying and reasonless, we must simply accept and mourn. I think this is the truth.”
“Will you say so, at the service?”
“No. I will try to say how Anna Eicher fought to keep her children in their home, that Annabel was, in a sense, the celebrant, with her plays and drawings. And I must speak of Grethe and Hart, together at the bank. That will be difficult.”
“You could not have saved them, William.”
“You have said that, in trying to comfort me. But I could have saved them. Many in the town might have saved them, and I must say so, for everyone must acknowledge it. We cannot blame Anna Eicher for her hopefulness, for to find such a creature as she found is surely as rare a catastrophe as being struck by lightning.”
They lay together, listening, for rain had begun, gently, in the sunlight.
X.
Advertisements in cheap, pornographic (“love” and “art”) magazines . . . are packed with announcements of “red hot” photographs, vigor tablets (“Glow of Life”), bust developers, sex secrets, aphrodisiacs (“Essence of Ecstasy”), contraceptives. Plentiful also are the advertisements of so-called matrimonial bureaus. . . . Stressed in the advertisements, prominent on the lists are Wealthy Widows:
“LONELY HEARTS—Join the world’s greatest social extension club, meet nice people who, like yourself, are lonely (many wealthy). . . . We have made thousands happy. Why not you?”
—“We Make Thousands Happy,” Time magazine, September 14, 1931
September 4, 1931
Chicago, Illinois–Waverly, Oran, and Fairbank, Iowa
Emily Thornhill: Iowa, Oh, Iowa
She was in the sanctuary at St. Luke’s, and Duty had got loose from his leash. The dog was sitting by the altar; Emily must retrieve him without disturbing the service. The children, dressed in white, were singing “Jesus Loves Me” in a jaunty round, and the words of another rhyme bled through as they joined hands and formed a circle before the pews of mourners: Ashes, ashes, we all fall down! The stained-glass window behind them was intensely blue, and the lamps above the congregation swung wildly on their long chains. The children began to pull one another to and fro; Emily looked through their flashing legs for Duty. She could not see the dog and rose from her seat. The reverend had gone but William stood naked behind the pulpit, visible from his chest upward, his broad shoulders achingly beautiful. No one seemed to notice his nudity. She saw herself, through his eyes, standing in the congregation, calling attention to her own distress in the packed church. He signaled her to leave, and motioned more urgently, speaking to her across the distance between them, but she could not hear him, or the children, for the shrill ringing in her ears.
She opened her eyes, in her own bed, relieved, troubled, for the phone was ringing. It was not yet six in the morning. Good news did not come at such an hour. She got to the phone and took up the receiver, the straps of her nightgown fallen off her shoulders.
“Emily, I’m sure I woke you, but I must fetch you in half an hour. We are going to Iowa. We must leave by seven.” It was Eric, calling from a booth on the street, for she heard a streetcar turning, clanging its bell.
“We’re driving? I must pack—”
“We are not driving, Emily. There isn’t time. We are flying and will be back before dark, to make the evening edition.”
“Have you got an airplane, Eric?”
“Yes, and a pilot. The Tribune has hired the plane. We fly to an airstrip in Waverly, which will put us—”
“Fifteen miles from Sumner, and twenty from Fairbank. I know those towns, and can direct you. You’ve found a car there?”
“Afraid not. We’ll see what we find in Waverly.”
“You mean you have no car?”
“Emily, let me surprise you. Warning: the flying itself can be dodgy, but the air is still today. It’s a beautiful plane, a Tin Goose. I like it so much that I want one for myself.”
“On your salary?”
“No, cousin. A trust fund purchase, perhaps, drawn from the capitalist profits generated by large and small pistons.” His voice dropped; he seemed to turn away from the phone, as though checking his watch. “Wash your face, and dress for walking in fields. I have a thermos of coffee and your typewriter, and will be there in twenty minutes.”
They rang off. Iowa. She’d not been back since her grandparents’ deaths, and selling the farm. Duty seemed to study her woefully from his pillowed basket. She raced past him to throw on her clothes. There would be dirt roads and paths, fields to barns. She wore thin cotton socks under her leather boots, which laced to the ankle. She had never flown and preferred trains, which were so civilized. Eric must have been up all night, arranging this. She pinned her hair tightly, hastily, and was at the elevator, then downstairs, where she gave instructions to Reynolds, to walk and feed Duty. Reynolds had installed a basket for the dog under the reception desk; Duty often sat with him during the day, when no one was about.
Emily stood on the sidewalk in front of her building. She was nearly chilly; rain had cooled Chicago overnight and autumn would be upon them. Already, the tips of the foliage were reddened; the big oak opposite, in the park, flared with yellow.
A cab drew up to the curb before her.
“Emily. Join me.” Eric leaned across to open the passenger door.
• • •
They walked from the terminal to the edge of the paved runway. The plane sat alone; it seemed a thing of myth, Emily thought, a shiny tin creature with a snout, the gleaming wings a single span over the cabin. The front wheels splayed far out on their struts, tilting the plane’s nose and fierce propeller skyward. The runway glistened, still wet.
Eric was at her elbow, pulling her forward.
The steps folded down magically, a
nd a man disembarked to help them in. Bags of mail took up much of the passenger cabin. The pilot and copilot were outfitted in caps and goggles as though to conceal their identities, and directed their two passengers to sit just behind them on child-size jump seats. The roar of the engines dwarfed all sound and the propellers turned faster, invisibly; the aircraft bounced along straight down the runway, flying forward on the bigger front tires like an elongated car with fins. There was a whoosh of sound and they were airborne. The ground dropped away dizzyingly fast.
“How high can we go?” Eric shouted.
“She’ll make six thousand feet, but no need today. It’s clear, almost no wind. We can cruise at half that, and keep the passenger windows open.” The pilot checked his instruments.
They looked to Emily like an assortment of toy dials. The floor pedals reminded her of treadle sewing machine paddles. They were climbing, pillowed in air, dropping and ascending by turns. She would have been ill in the enclosed passenger cabin, but here she felt almost as if she participated in flying the plane. Suddenly the ride was smoother, and the roar dulled.
In minutes, Chicago was behind them. Eric leaned over the copilot’s seat. “My god, the flat Midwest. Everything but Chicago is Iowa.”
“It’s not Iowa yet,” Emily said. “Iowa will seem a grid from the air. The fields, this time of year, are wheat or corn. Pale yellow or bright green, like a checkerboard.”
“Perfect for flying over,” he said.
• • •
The airstrip in Waverly looked ridiculously short, but the pilot circled, dipping lower and lower, until he set the tapping wheels on the dirt. Braking sharply, the plane stopped just a few feet from the edge of the runway and made a tight turn; the wings ruffled the tops of the corn and the force of the glinting propeller shivered the field. They coasted slowly back toward a small outbuilding. A parked car and farm truck sat to the side, and a man stood, arms folded, watching the plane.
“Leave the typewriter,” Eric said. “We’ll use it on the way back.” He waited for the sound of the propellers to cease, then stood as the copilot let down the steps. Emily followed Eric. “Eric, who is that man, standing by the field?”
“That is Mr. Jacob Aukes. I sent him a telegram from you, in the interest of time. He’s driven here from Ackley and very much looks forward to a ride in the plane.”
Emily walked briskly toward Mr. Aukes. Her boots did nicely on the dirt of the airstrip. “Mr. Aukes, how good of you to come.” She grasped his hand.
“That’s quite a contraption,” he said, looking at the plane. He was dressed in overalls and a straw hat of some age. “You said in the telegram that you need to drive to Oran. I have business in Waverly. My grandson drove our truck over, followed me. You can borrow it, exchange for a plane ride, if you can be back by five or so. I reckon this airplane will be waiting for you.”
“It certainly will, Mr. Aukes,” Eric said, “and we shall be back long before evening, depending on the accuracy of your information. Can we buy some refreshment here? We’re pleased to swap a plane ride for the loan of the truck, but we’ll need directions to Oran.” He indicated a small building just ahead that seemed to serve as a terminal.
Inside, the luncheon counter was unmanned. Bottles of root beer sat in rows beside the cash register. They left generous payment and opened three bottles. Emily sat down with Mr. Aukes and Eric, to take notes. “Mr. Aukes, you contacted William Malone of Park Ridge to say you recognized newspaper photographs of Harry Powers.”
“His name is Harm Drenth. His mother was my wife’s cousin. My parents were born in Amsterdam, but my wife and her family were from Beerta, little town in a farming region called Drenthe. We married here, after her family came over to settle near Kanawha.” He looked at Eric. “Kanawha is other side of Belmond. Lot of Dutch settled there. Farmers, or those wanted land to farm.”
Drenthe, region of Netherlands, Emily wrote, Beerta, Kanawha. “Did you know of this, Harm Drenth, as a child? Did you know the mother? The father? Was there a sister? Powers told a minister, in jail, that he had a sister named Greta, but said his parents were dead.”
Aukes was looking out the window at the airplane. His grandson stood talking to the pilot. “My grandson is sure excited about this plane ride.”
“I’m sorry to keep you, Mr. Aukes,” Eric said. “We are extremely interested in your answers, however, and in finding—”
Aukes interrupted. “You’ll want Drenth’s father, Wilko Drenth, who lives near Oran now, ’bout two mile from Sumner, with his son-in-law, Evert Schroder. Harm Drenth’s mother was Jane Druker, same surname as my late wife. They were cousins. It was known in the family that Wilko sent the son, Harm—you might say Herman, here—to America when he was eighteen, to work on a farm. The Drenths had a small store in Beerta; Harm would not go to school, he drank, got into trouble. He broke into his parents’ store once through the roof tiles, to steal money. Harm was given free rein as a boy, and was too spoiled to do as he was told, or that was the story in the family.”
“Spoiled?” Emily asked.
“Or maybe he just did as he liked, and no one could stop him.”
“When did you last see him?”
“About nineteen year ago, make it about 1912. He came to visit his sister. Showed up in a new Model T Ford town car, said it was borrowed from a well-off employer. Drove my wife and me, with Greta and her husband, back to Greta’s to see his parents, on a Sunday afternoon. They were staying with Greta, near Geneva, visiting from Wisconsin. The parents were renting their farm, up in Cumberland, and trying to buy another in Crookston, Minnesota.”
“A car like that must have been quite unusual here. Did the parents ride in it?”
“Wilko wouldn’t get in the car. I do remember that. Greta was quite pleased to.”
“He was on good terms with his parents, though, as you remember that visit?”
“The mother hoped for the best, as mothers will. It seemed he was doing well. They gave him their savings, to go and pay the balance on the Crookston land. He gave notes instead, which proved false, and skipped out with the money. The family never saw him again.”
“Did the family look for him?” Emily asked. “Look for the money?”
Aukes shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. Says something, I’d guess.”
“Did they report the theft?”
“Wilko is not a man who reports his son to police, even for stealing a life’s savings. It would shame the family. Harm did enough of that—soon they heard he was jailed, up in Wisconsin—state penitentiary at Waupun, almost two year. The parents left the state, then. They’d lost the Crookston farm, and came back to Iowa.”
“Harm Drenth was jailed? For what, Mr. Aukes?” Emily was writing.
Aukes folded his hands. “Not certain. Harm’s mother wrote to him at the prison, but they returned the letters unopened after his release. She died not two years later. The family always told that she pointed to her son’s picture, within arm’s length of her deathbed, and said, ‘He is alive. He will come back someday.’ That was the story.”
“They thought Harm was dead?” Emily wrote, Shame. Didn’t look for him. Afraid? Not sister. Rode in front with Harm.
“Maybe,” Aukes said, “or there was a story he went to South America. Wilko Drenth moved in with his daughter’s family, after he was widowed. Evert Schroder is sensible, respected; Wilko got on with him. There are two grandsons, namesakes, Wilko and Evert. Young men by now, I’d say—fourteen, fifteen. All of them farming. Hard work.”
Two generations, same names. Emily paused, looked up. “And Greta?”
“Died about four years ago. Remember her funeral. My own wife was ill at the time.”
“Ah. I’m sorry, Mr. Aukes.” Powers did not know his sister, his mother, were dead. He told women, in his letters, that he had a large property near Cedar Rapids, and mentioned the Midwest in his personal ads. What was the wording? As my properties are located through the Middle West, I beli
eve I will settle there when married. Yes, those were the words. She had the ad itself, taped to the cover of her notebook, cut out from the American Friendship Society circular.
Eric leaned across her, and put his hand on Mr. Aukes arm. “We should go. Your plane ride must be fifteen minutes, so that we have fuel to get back.”
Aukes nodded. “We got plenty of chores in town, after the plane ride. Meet you here. No rush.”
“The plane is a beauty,” Eric said. “I shall return your truck within four hours, and you shall return my airplane.” They shook hands.
• • •
The truck was a Chevy, with a rattling bed in back. A farm truck, Emily knew, for hauling seed and supplies. “He has a record, just as Grimm thought; I must telegraph Grimm. Eric, we have found him. Harm Drenth. That his name is Harm—”
“Yes, I know. Don’t say it.” Eric was starting the engine, turning a wide circle onto the road. “Now, if the truck works. It’s straight over on Route 3. Oran Savings Bank was one of the few banks in the state that did not close last year, or at all since the Crash.”
“Their money here is in their land,” Emily said. “My grandfather used to say that land is real, and money is not.”
“I know you are fond of your grandfather’s words, but one must have money to buy land. No one knows better than Wilko Drenth.” He looked over at her. “Does it look familiar?”
“Oh yes,” she said. “It is home.” She fell silent as Eric drove, smelling the dark soil through the open windows, and the sweet grassy smell: fields, both sides of the road, flared into distance, vibrantly green, sunlit. Acres of growing corn. The sky was a palette of shifting color and clouds. Rain here blew up like biblical storm; clouds boiled forward and rain slanted down in sheets. And the Drenths had come from Holland, where the sea was always near, to these inland, endless plains, where they could farm their own land and every householder had five or six cattle, a henhouse, fresh eggs. Or that was so until the last decade. Now times were hard, very hard for some.
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