14
‘‘GOD, PLEASE PROTECT ME and those with me as we travel the road to Hutchinson. Give us a pleasant day. Amen.’’ With a smile, Jack called over his shoulder, ‘‘Hold on, Dorothy! Off we go to the picture show!’’
Dorothy squealed with excitement as the car headed through the gate.
For the first several miles, Anna Mae sat, stunned, unable to think of anything except the simple prayer Jack had offered for travel safety. To her shame, she realized not once had she petitioned her Father on how to respond to Jack’s invitation. Thinking back, she couldn’t remember the last time she’d prayed—really prayed—since Harley had left. Her mind had been so caught up in taking care of the house, taking care of the garden, taking care of the girls—and spatting with Jack—that her deep, daily communion with God had turned into snatches of time wedged between other concerns.
Tears pressed behind her lids. What was happening to her? The drought had already taken so many precious things—the crops, the mules, Harley. Would it steal the joy of her relationship with God, as well? Her heart pounded hard. She couldn’t let that happen!
‘‘Mama, look at the cows!’’ Dorothy’s excited voice pulled Anna Mae from her thoughts.
She looked out the window. ‘‘Yes, I see them. Can you count them?’’
‘‘One, two, three . . .’’ Dorothy counted loudly, giggling between numbers.
Anna Mae’s heart lifted. Even if she hadn’t prayed about this outing, Dorothy’s pleasure at rolling across the countryside on a spring day made it all worthwhile. She leaned back in the seat, determined to enjoy this birthday celebration.
It turned out to be a pleasant ride with the windows down. A steady breeze kept the passengers comfortable, although Dorothy’s hair and Marjorie’s ribbon were both wild by the time they reached Hutchinson. Jack parked the Model T along Main Street, and they walked around the corner to the theater. Anna Mae imagined what they must look like to the passersby on the street—a complete family with grandfather, father, mother, and children. Despite her earlier decision to simply enjoy the day, the churning began again in her stomach.
Jack stepped up to the cast-iron ticket booth, his father at his elbow, watching the transaction. Dorothy pranced in place while Anna Mae tried to finger comb the child’s hair back into her ponytail. The moment Jack turned, tickets in hand, Dorothy pulled away from her mother to grab Jack’s hand. Anna Mae’s stomach rose into her throat at the sight.
‘‘Dorothy, get over here with me,’’ she ordered.
Dorothy’s face puckered with hurt, but she released Jack’s hand and returned to her mother. Anna Mae made a show of fussing with the child’s hair some more. ‘‘Now, stay with me, and don’t touch anything.’’
Holding Dorothy’s hand and balancing Marjorie on her other arm, Anna Mae turned toward the theater doors. Jack opened the door, Mr. Berkley gestured for her to enter, and she stepped into another world.
Dorothy’s mouth formed a perfect O as she stared in wonder at the spacious foyer with its geometric-patterned carpet and curving staircase that led to a gold-railed balcony overhead. The little girl’s head turned this way and that, trying to take in everything at once. When her gaze bounced upward, she exclaimed, ‘‘Mama, there’s stars on the ceiling!’’
Anna Mae’s gaze followed her daughter’s pointing finger, and she gasped. ‘‘Oh my!’’ The ceiling, set with some sort of gold triangular plates, did give the appearance of stars set side-by-side. ‘‘That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.’’
Then she had to rethink her statement as she examined the sparkling chandelier that sent out beams of golden light. ‘‘That thing’s bigger than one of our mules!’’ She heard the wonder in her own tone and, for a moment, felt embarrassed by her childish exclamation, but Mr. Berkley’s gentle smile eased her discomfiture. His eyes seemed to tell her to relax and enjoy, so she did.
She and Dorothy exclaimed over the gilt carvings above door openings and impossibly large, gilt-framed mirrors that hung on peach-painted walls. Dorothy skipped to the wide staircase and balanced on the first riser, resting her chin on the polished wood handrail of the gold metal railing. ‘‘Mr. Berkley, what’s up there?’’ She pointed to the top of the stairs.
Jack crossed the floor to place his hand on Dorothy’s straggly hair. ‘‘The balcony, honey. People can sit in seats up there to watch the show.’’
‘‘Can we?’’ Dorothy’s eyes sparkled with desire.
Jack shook his head. ‘‘I’m sorry, Dorothy, but warm air rises, and it’d be too hot up there today. The balcony’s best for wintertime.’’
Dorothy’s face drooped into a pout.
‘‘But if it’s okay with your mama,’’ Jack compromised, ‘‘I can take you up and let you look down at the main floor. There’s a railing up there, so you can wave down at her. How would that be?’’
Dorothy’s smile immediately returned. ‘‘Can I, Mama?’’
Anna Mae nodded, then watched Jack and Dorothy climb the stairs together. Dorothy’s small hand stayed on the handrail all the way up. When they reached the landing, Jack looked back and teased, ‘‘Well, if we’re going to wave at you, you better go on in.’’
Anna Mae giggled self-consciously.
‘‘C’mon,’’ Mr. Berkley encouraged, putting his hand on the small of her back.
They walked past two uniformed, smiling young men, and entered the theater. Electric sconces along each wall gave the large room a homey glow, illuminating more gilded carvings and cream-and-peach-striped walls. Anna Mae heard Dorothy call, ‘‘Mama? Mama?’’
Stepping from beneath the overhang of the balcony, she looked upward. Dorothy’s happy face peered over the edge of the metal railing. The little girl waved, and Anna Mae waved back. Dorothy’s giggle echoed through the room. Other moviegoers, already waiting in seats, smiled in Anna Mae’s direction, and she sent them a sheepish grin.
‘‘It’s our first time at a picture show.’’ Then she turned her gaze back up to Dorothy. ‘‘Come on down now and pick us some seats, okay?’’
Dorothy gave one more wave before disappearing. In a few minutes, she and Jack joined Anna Mae in the aisle between rows of seats upholstered in a pattern similar to that in the plush carpet.
‘‘Where do you want to sit, honey?’’ Mr. Berkley asked.
‘‘Front row!’’ Dorothy begged.
Anna Mae needed to be where she could get out with the baby, if necessary. Jack must have read the hesitance in her expression, because he intervened with a second compromise.
‘‘Dorothy, it’s been my experience that the middle is the best place to see everything. How about right here?’’ He pointed to a row of seats in the center of the theater.
Dorothy nodded, her hair bouncing, and skipped to the seats. She counted as she entered the row. ‘‘One, two, three, four. You sit here, Papa Berkley.’’ She directed him to the fourth seat in. ‘‘Then Mr. Berkley can sit by his daddy, I’ll sit next, and Mama can sit on the end.’’
‘‘I’ll be right back,’’ Jack said. He paused, looking down at Anna Mae. ‘‘Do you want a box of popcorn, too?’’
Anna Mae hesitated. The warm, buttery smell of the popcorn tantalized her taste buds. It was so nice to be past the time of queasiness in this pregnancy. But she didn’t want to be greedy. With some regret, she answered, ‘‘No, I’ll just share with the girls.’’
Jack headed up the aisle. Dorothy entertained Marjorie with a finger game, and Anna Mae visited with Mr. Berkley while they waited for Jack to return. When he came, he balanced four boxes of aromatic popcorn on one arm, and three sweaty bottles of Royal Crown Cola dangled from his other hand.
Dorothy reached eagerly for a box of popcorn and immediately began munching.
‘‘Jack, this is too much,’’ Anna Mae protested when he held out a box of popcorn and bottle of soda pop.
‘‘Nonsense. Take it.’’
Reluctantly, Anna Mae relieved him of t
he box and bottle.
‘‘They didn’t have any birthday cake,’’ he quipped.
Anna Mae couldn’t stop the smile that tugged at her lips. ‘‘No, I suppose not. But this is just as good. Thank you, Jack.’’
‘‘Thank you, Mr. Berkley,’’ Dorothy said around a mouthful of popcorn.
Jack smiled in return.
Others entered and filled in seats around them, whispered voices and occasional muffled laughter giving the room a feeling of hushed expectancy. Anna Mae’s excitement built as thick gold curtains, hung beneath an arched canopy of silver and gold gilt carvings, slid apart to reveal the movie screen. At the same time, the lights dimmed, sealing them in a murky gray that only added to the anticipation of the moment.
Dorothy released a loud gasp, perching on the edge of her seat. ‘‘Is it starting, Mr. Berkley? Is it starting?’’
Jack put a finger against his lips and cautioned, ‘‘Yes, honey, it’s starting. And people will want to listen, so you have to hush now, okay?’’
‘‘Okay!’’ Dorothy settled back, feet straight out in front of her, her gaze pinned to the screen.
From somewhere behind them booming music, as if performed by a full orchestra, filled the auditorium. Marjorie jumped, and for a moment Anna Mae feared the baby would cry and she’d be forced to take her out. But then a beam of light met the screen, capturing the baby’s attention. Marjorie’s wide-eyed gaze blinked as numbers flashed in quick succession. The music turned fanciful, accompanying a cartoon mouse that danced its way across the screen. Dorothy’s face lit with pleasure, and baby Marjorie, with two fingers in her mouth, stared unblinking at the wondrous sights unfolding.
Laughter erupted at several points during the cartoon escapade, Anna Mae’s as boisterous as Dorothy’s. She couldn’t help it—she’d never imagined anything as clever as drawn images becoming a lifelike, talking, prancing animal.
After the movie ended, Anna Mae couldn’t decide which she’d enjoyed more—watching the story about the curly-haired street urchin or witnessing her children’s enchantment with the movie. Several times she’d caught Jack’s eye over the top of Dorothy’s head, and the wink he sent each time told her how much he enjoyed the children’s fascination. Anna Mae recognized his growing affection for the girls, and another quiver of trepidation struck hard. She pushed it aside, however, reminding herself that Harley had asked Jack to take care of them. He was only doing what Harley had requested.
Anna Mae experienced a sense of loss when the show ended, the lights came up, and people filed past them to leave. They waited until all others were gone before falling in line. It had been an afternoon of delight, and Anna Mae understood completely when Dorothy sighed and said, ‘‘Oh, that was so wonderful my heart feels bigger.’’
Both girls slept all the way back to Spencer. It was past suppertime when they pulled into the yard. Dorothy sat up groggily when Jack stopped in front of the house. She hugged Mr. Berkley, then leaned over the seat to give Jack a thank-you hug before running to the house and sitting on the back porch stoop. Anna Mae climbed out of the car, cradling the still-sleeping Marjorie, and leaned slightly to peer through the open window at Jack.
‘‘Thank you so much for the treat, Jack. The girls had a marvelous time. And . . .’’ She debated with herself—should she say it? He’d been exceptionally generous. He deserved the truth. After swallowing, she admitted on a breathy sigh, ‘‘So did I.’’
His smile lit his eyes. ‘‘Good. I’m glad.’’ His gaze dropped to Marjorie. ‘‘I know she won’t remember it, but I will. Thanks for letting us be a part of her first birthday.’’
A lump filled Anna Mae’s throat—a lump of longing she didn’t understand. Unable to speak, she nodded.
‘‘Well, good-bye, Anna Mae. I’ll be by on Sunday to take you to church.’’
Jack shifted gears, and the car rolled toward the gate. Dorothy wandered back to stand beside her mother and waved. When the Model T had wheezed around the corner, she looked up and asked, ‘‘Mama, can I check the mail?’’
‘‘Sure, see if anything came.’’ Anna Mae watched as Dorothy skipped to the end of the lane, pulled down the door on the metal box, and rose on tiptoe to peek inside. The child’s face broke into a smile, and she plunged her arm in almost to the elbow to withdraw an envelope. She waved it over her head as she ran back to her mother.
‘‘Lookee, Mama! A letter! A letter from—’’ she examined it, scratching her head—‘‘somebody.’’
Anna Mae laughed and took it. Her laughter immediately died when she saw the return address. For some reason, her heart skipped a beat and a wave of guilt washed over her. The letter was from Harley.
15
ANNA MAE WAITED UNTIL THE GIRLS were tucked into their beds before sitting down at the kitchen table and opening Harley’s letter. It had seemed wrong to read it immediately after spending time with Jack. She didn’t understand why, yet she’d felt the need to clear the afternoon from her thoughts before focusing on the letter. Now they’d eaten supper, the dishes had been washed, and the girls had been bathed and settled between their sheets. The house was quiet, Dorothy’s cheerful babble stilled. The picture show was tucked neatly into Anna Mae’s memory bank. She could concentrate.
Before opening the envelope, she held it flat on the table and ran a finger over the messy printing that formed her name and address. Closing her eyes, she tried to envision Harley—seated on the ground, perhaps, a tablet balanced on his knee, a pencil in his work-roughened hand, face creased with concentration. A smile twitched at the corners of her mouth. How he disliked any kind of written work.
She lifted the envelope and pinched it. It was thin—probably no more than one sheet of paper resided within. She allowed herself to chuckle. He’d never be a novelist, that was certain. But she knew what she wanted to see inside. An apology. An outpouring of I love you and I miss you. Her heart swelled, making her chest feel tight, as the words she wanted to say in return rolled through her mind.
How she regretted the anger that had held her aloof his last day here. If she could go back and do it all over again, she’d run down the lane like Dorothy had, wrap him in a hug, and promise to never let anger come between them again. They’d wasted too many days allowing frustration with things that were out of their control to keep them apart. But this separation had taught Anna Mae something—her love for Harley went deep, like a root on a willow tree. It continued to flourish despite the hardships, despite the time apart, despite the anger that had soured their last hours before he walked down the road.
Little wonder the Good Book advised folks to never let the sun set on anger—the resulting regret was a terrible burden to carry. But she would apologize. Now that she knew where to reach Harley, she could tell him how sorry she was, how much she loved him, how she longed for his return.
Eagerness to see Harley’s words got the best of her. She opened the envelope at last and slid out a single sheet, folded in thirds. When she unfolded it, a thin piece of paper slipped loose and floated to the tabletop. She picked it up, and her breath caught. A check for $23.50. She released a huge breath of relief. Now she could reimburse Jack for the shoes and buy groceries and all the other little things they needed. Harley had said he would provide for them, and he had. Sitting there holding that check between her fingers, she felt rich.
It took a few moments for her to remember the letter. Sliding the check back into the envelope, she lifted the sheet of paper and read.
Dear Annie and Dottie and Margie,
How are you doing. I am fine. The work is no harder than what I did at home so I do fine. I found a friend. His name is Dirk. He’s pretty green but he’s a good man and we get along. Nice to have someone to talk to. He reads his bible and prays so you’d like him. Man in charge is nice enough.
Names Peterson. Me and Dirk stay in a shed out behind his house. No running water. Kinda like camping. Its okay. Don’t cost us nothing which is good. Take the money I sent an
d buy Dottie some shoes and whatever else you need then set the rest aside for taxes. Forgot to tell you they come due first of August. Not enough there to cover it all but I’ll send more money later. Have Jack take you to the county courthouse to pay the bill.
Harley
She placed the letter on the table, her shoulders sagging with disappointment. Although she hadn’t expected a lengthy narrative, she had hoped for something . . . personal. The apology and declaration of love she needed was notably absent. He might as well have been writing to a stranger! And his biggest concern seemed to be the farm, not the people residing on it.
No mention was made of Marjorie’s birthday. Surely Harley remembered their baby’s first birthday? Anger stirred in her breast, but she did her best to squelch it. She didn’t want to feel angry with Harley anymore. She sought ways to allow for his brusque, impersonal communication and lapse of memory concerning Marjorie’s big day. He was busy, caught up in this project—she would allow him one moment of forgetfulness.
The sentence about the man named Dirk who read the Bible caught her attention. Her heart thumped in a hopeful double beat. Harley had made a friend who must be a Christian. This pleased her: God was looking out for Harley even though Anna Mae’s prayers had been sparse lately. It warmed her, reminding her of God’s faithfulness. What was that verse in Psalms Mama had liked so much? It came from a short chapter—Psalm 117, Anna Mae thought. It gave a reminder of the greatness of God’s love and enduring faithfulness. God was certainly faithful, placing a Christian man on that work team, and Harley accepting him as a friend.
Anna Mae folded her hands beneath her chin and sent forth a prayer of gratitude for Dirk. At first she struggled to find words, prayer having been set aside far too long, but after a few stumbling thoughts, the words began to flow, the ease returning. She felt the comfort of God’s presence settle around her shoulders like a soft quilt as her prayer continued. She lifted up Harley, Dirk, herself, and her girls. She begged forgiveness for staying away so long and vowed to do better. Then her thoughts turned to Jack.
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