‘‘Jack, what are you doing?’’ His father’s question echoed in his mind. But Jack played dumb and refused to answer.
Anna Mae hummed as she served Marjorie and Dorothy their breakfast. A lightness filled her heart—a happiness that bubbled upward. She examined herself for the root of her joy and discovered making peace with Harley had allowed her to make peace with herself. Even if his letter hadn’t overflowed with proclamations of love, it had felt good to tell him how she felt. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you had always been the rule when she was growing up, and she realized that doing right just made a body feel good all the way to her toes.
What would Harley think when he got her letter? Would all his frustration with her melt away with the reading of her loving thoughts? She hoped so. Even with him miles away, she didn’t want him to stay angry with her. Maybe this time apart would prove good for both of them—make them realize how much they meant to each other. There was so much to admire in Harley—his desire to take care of her and the girls as well as the farm, his honesty, his innate sense of fairness. Those were the things that had appealed to her from the beginning.
The drought, the lack of money, and Harley’s stubborn refusal to believe in God had pulled her focus away from the positive aspects of her relationship with her husband. She remembered when Mama fell ill, and the doctor had said there was no hope. Anna Mae had cried a river of tears, but then Mama had said it was time to stop looking at the dark underside of the cloud and try to see the silver lining—heaven just around the bend. The peaceful look on Mama’s face as she’d slipped away had assured Anna Mae the silver lining had become reality for her.
Well, now Anna Mae needed the glimpse of a silver lining, and the only way she’d see it was to look for it. She made the determination to look, and she found it in the security of a steady paycheck, Harley’s promise to Dorothy to return, and her own prayers. When Harley came back, they’d make more of an effort to hold frustration at bay and really work together as a team. She offered a prayer for that to occur.
‘‘Whatever it takes, Lord,’’ she prayed under her breath as she cleared the breakfast table, ‘‘to pull us together and give us strong roots to weather any storm. . . .’’
‘‘Mama, who’re you talkin’ to?’’ Dorothy’s face scrunched in query.
Anna Mae sent a smile in her daughter’s direction as she scrubbed at a plate. ‘‘I was talking to my Father God, darlin’.’’
‘‘You were praying?’’ The child sounded shocked.
‘‘Yes, I was.’’
‘‘But your eyes were open!’’
Anna Mae released a light laugh. ‘‘Well, God doesn’t mind if we talk to Him with our eyes open, Dorothy. Just as long as we talk to Him at all, He’s happy.’’
Dorothy tipped her head, obviously deep in thought. ‘‘Then how come my Sunday school teacher got so mad at me when she saw me peeking during a prayer?’’
Anna Mae coughed to cover her laugh. Sometimes Dorothy asked the funniest questions. ‘‘In church we should always close our eyes when we pray. But you don’t have to when you’re doing dishes.’’
Satisfied by the answer, Dorothy hopped down from the table. ‘‘I’m goin’ out to play with Ol’ Smokey.’’
‘‘Stay close,’’ Anna Mae admonished, ‘‘since we’ll need to water the garden soon.’’
‘‘Okay.’’
Once the kitchen was clean again, and the garden had received a thorough watering, Anna Mae joined Dorothy and Marjorie under the weeping willow tree for a tea party. Those moments in the dappled shade provided by the slender, nearly luminous leaves of the willow transported Anna Mae back to the simple days of her own childhood. She wondered if someday Dorothy would serve dirt clods on slabs of bark to her own little girls under this very same tree.
Sitting there giggling with Dorothy while Marjorie squirmed in her lap, she wondered how she could have ever considered leaving the farmstead. This was her home, the place that held all of her growing-up memories as well as those of her brother, mother, and father. A feeling of belonging welled up and filled her, and tears pricked the corners of her eyes. This was home, and it always would be. The realization increased the lightness of her heart, and she offered a silent prayer of gratitude for the job Harley had found and the means to keep this farm. The silver lining she’d sought earlier lengthened, hiding a bit more of the cloud’s gray underside.
Sliding Marjorie from her lap for a moment, she struggled to her feet. ‘‘Okay, darlin’,’’ she told Dorothy, ‘‘this has been fun, but lunchtime is just around the corner, so I’m going to have to go in.’’
Dorothy heaved a sigh. ‘‘Okay.’’ She pushed her straggly bangs away from her eyes. ‘‘Can I stay out here a little longer? Please?’’
‘‘Yes, but you come when I call you for lunch.’’
Dorothy nodded her agreement and turned her attention back to the odds and ends that served as plates and cups.
Anna Mae scooped up Marjorie and headed for the house. While Marjorie banged on the tray of the high chair, Anna Mae prepared their lunch. Dorothy came running when called, and they munched cheese sandwiches and pickled beets, drowning it all with glasses of milk. Midway through eating, Anna Mae released the buttons at her waistband. The pinching had become nearly unbearable.
Dorothy pointed. ‘‘How come you did that?’’
‘‘My dresses are too tight.’’ Anna Mae winked at Dorothy. ‘‘There’s a new baby growing inside of Mama, and it’s taking up more room than my clothes will allow.’’
Dorothy’s blue eyes grew so wide Anna Mae thought they might pop from her head. ‘‘Really, Mama? A baby?’’ At her mother’s nod, she exploded, ‘‘A girl baby or a boy baby? When will it get here? Can I name it?’’ She clapped her hands, bouncing in her chair.
Anna Mae laughed. Dorothy’s unbridled enthusiasm gave her the first real taste of excitement concerning this new life. ‘‘We won’t know if it’s a brother or a sister until it makes its appearance, and that’s a ways off yet. As for naming it . . . You’ll have to ask your daddy about that when he gets home.’’ She pushed aside the unhappy memory of the night she and Harley fought about the baby’s name, choosing to focus instead on Dorothy’s happiness. ‘‘And as soon as Marjorie is down for her nap, I’m going to get my maternity clothes from the attic so the baby will have room to grow.’’
Dorothy trailed behind her mother as Anna Mae changed Marjorie’s diaper and placed her in her crib. Back in the kitchen, the little girl tugged her mother’s skirt. ‘‘Get the ’ternity clothes now, Mama, so my new baby can grow.’’
Anna Mae tweaked Dorothy’s nose, then grabbed hold of the rope attached to the overhead stairway in the corner of the kitchen. It took three tugs to pull the stairway free of its frame. With a creak, the ladder unfolded until the shoes of the side rails met the floor. Anna Mae placed one foot on the bottom rung and peered upward through the hole that led to the attic. She took a deep breath. How she hated these steep stairs! But she had to have those clothes. If only Harley were here to go after them for her. Maybe she should wait and ask Jack to . . . No, Jack had done enough already. She could retrieve her own maternity clothes.
Dorothy stood beside her mother, her little face creased with concentration. ‘‘Mama, how’re you gonna carry the box down?’’
‘‘I’m not,’’ Anna Mae replied. ‘‘I’ll just drop it from the hole. Nothing in it can break. But you stand back. I don’t want it to land on you.’’ She managed a smile. ‘‘It would squash you like a bug.’’
Dorothy scuttled behind the table. ‘‘I’ll stay over here.’’
‘‘Good girl.’’ Anna Mae took hold of the side rails and made her way slowly up the rungs, one by one. Her palms began to sweat when her head popped through the attic floor and stuffy air slapped her face. This was the part she hated. There was nothing to hold on to for the last three steps. Dizziness made her head spin as she released the side rai
ls. With a silent prayer, she managed the last few steps. Relief washed over her when her feet stood securely on the wood floor of the attic. The dead air, laden with dust motes, made her nose twitch, and she sneezed.
‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice sounded hollow. ‘‘Can you see?’’
‘‘Yes, darlin’, I’m fine.’’ The dust-encrusted windows at either end of the attic allowed in enough murky light for Anna Mae to locate the box of maternity clothes. She pushed it to the opening, then called down, ‘‘Dorothy, stay back. Here it comes.’’ With a grunt, she sent the box through the opening. It bounced against the ladder halfway down. The box popped open and tipped upon impact, spilling its contents across the kitchen floor.
Anna Mae groaned. Another mess to clean up. Oh well, they’re down where I can get to them, at least.
Dorothy appeared at the base of the ladder. ‘‘Mama, want me to pick these up?’’
‘‘Yes, that would be a big help. Thank you, darlin’.’’
‘‘You’re welcome,’’ the child chirped.
Kneeling at the opening, Anna Mae lowered one foot through the hole and found a rung. Her hands on the sturdy floor, she put her other foot through and began the downward climb. As she connected with the fourth rung, the ladder seemed to shudder. She heard an odd sound—like a twig snapping—and then, to her horror, the ladder gave way.
She grabbed frantically for the frame of the opening overhead. Her nails tore at the floorboards as her fingers slid along the wood. She experienced one panicked moment—Dorothy stood beneath the ladder—and she heard her daughter’s shriek of fear. Her body connected hard with the kitchen floor. She registered pain as she heard the thud of her head against the linoleum, and then . . . nothing.
17
‘‘PHIPPS, YOU GOT SOME KIND OF DEATH WISH?’’
Harley paused, the shovel ready for another thrust, and glanced over his shoulder at Nelson. The man stood with his weight balanced on one hip, glowering in Harley’s direction. Harley propped his elbow on the end of the shovel handle. ‘‘Whadd’ya mean by that?’’
Nelson’s squinting gaze flitted to the clear sky and then back to Harley. ‘‘It’s close to noon—hottest time of day. An’ you’re shovin’ that metal in the ground like there’s no tomorrow. You thinkin’ you gotta get this job done right now? You’re gonna kill yourself, hot as it is.’’
Nelson’s comment made the searing heat that baked Harley’s scalp and shoulders seem to increase in intensity. But he only snorted and turned back to his task. He forced the shovel into the hard ground and strained, popping loose another clump of grassless sod.
‘‘I said, you’re gonna kill yourself.’’ Nelson bumped the back of Harley’s leg with the blade of his shovel.
Harley spun and shot the man a warning look. ‘‘I was hired to do a job,’’ he grated through clenched teeth, ‘‘an’ I intend to earn my keep.’’
Nelson strode forward and curled his fingers around Harley’s shovel handle. ‘‘Slow down, Phipps.’’ The tone prickled the hairs on the back of Harley’s neck. ‘‘You’re makin’ the rest of us look bad. ’Sides that, it ain’t safe to work this hard when the sun’s so high. Give yourself heat stroke.’’
Harley jerked the shovel free of Nelson’s grasp. ‘‘I reckon that’s my own business.’’
Nelson backed up a step, shaking his head. ‘‘You are by far the most stubborn cuss I’ve ever encountered. Fine. Drop dead out here. But don’t expect none of us to cry over your grave.’’ Nelson stomped several feet away, threw down his shovel, snatched up a water jug, and took a long draw.
Harley swiped his hand across his forehead. His throat felt parched. A drink would be welcome. But perhaps the drink would do more than soothe his dry mouth—it would cool his anger. And Harley wasn’t ready to let loose of that yet.
He’d never been a man prone to flights of imagination, but the pictures tormenting his mind wouldn’t leave him alone. Some of them sprang from the directions he’d given Jack: Jack sitting next to Annie on the leather seat of his Model T or beside her on a wooden church pew. Others were pure conjecture: Jack at the table in the kitchen, laughing while he ate a snack, or working side-by-side with Annie in the garden.
Harley drove the shovel blade into the ground with such force the handle vibrated, stinging his palms. Sweat dribbled down his forehead, stinging his eyes. Images of Jack and Annie haunted his mind, stinging his heart.
He yanked at the shovel, trying to dislodge it from the dirt, but it refused to budge. With a loud oath, he slapped the handle and spun around. Yanking off his hat, he flung it on the ground, then turned his gaze to the sky.
The sun wavered against the backdrop of blue, appearing to grow larger as Harley stared, panting. The anger grew within his chest until it became a fury he wasn’t sure he could contain.
‘‘What’s a matter, Phipps? Finally wearin’ down?’’
Harley swiveled to meet Nelson’s sardonic expression. Here was a target for his temper—a means to dispel some of the frustration. Balling his fists, he took two steps in Nelson’s direction.
‘‘Phipps!’’
The authority in the tone stopped Harley in his tracks. He looked over his shoulder. Mr. Peterson strode toward him, a stern look on his lined face.
Harley released his fists and straightened his shoulders, willing himself to calm.
Mr. Peterson came to a stop not more than twelve inches from Harley. ‘‘What do you think you’re doing?’’ Although the man’s voice was low, intended only for Harley’s ears, Harley didn’t miss the admonition in the tone.
Harley clenched his jaw for a moment. He considered telling the truth—saying he intended to pummel Nelson into the ground—but in the end he barked out one word. ‘‘Nothin’.’’
‘‘It sure looked like something,’’ Mr. Peterson countered. His gaze bored into Harley’s, his expression communicating that he knew exactly what Harley had been planning. ‘‘You are aware that fighting is grounds for dismissal.’’
Harley gave a brusque nod. More sweat dribbled into his eyes, but he kept his arms at his sides, welcoming the distracting smart of pain. Took his mind off the ache in his heart.
Mr. Peterson stood, silent, looking hard into Harley’s eyes for another few moments. Harley waited, contributing nothing, his gaze pinned to his boss’s face yet keenly aware of Nelson standing a stone’s throw away. Finally the boss sighed and threw an arm around Harley’s shoulders, guiding him away from the pit.
‘‘Listen, Phipps, you’ve been going at it hard and strong this morning. Take off a little early for lunch—go sit in the shade, get a good drink, cool off.’’
Harley recognized the message beneath the words. He nodded again.
‘‘You’re a good worker. I don’t want to lose you on the project, and I certainly don’t want to see you lose the income. I suspect your family can use it.’’
Again, Harley understood the warning. He forced himself to answer calmly. ‘‘You’re right, sir. Thank you.’’
The boss headed back toward his shack, and Harley turned to scoop up his hat, careful not to look in Nelson’s direction. If the man so much as smirked, Harley knew he’d barrel into him whether it meant a lost job or not. Besides, he thought as he settled into the shade cast by the towering pile of shale, if he got fired, he could go home. He could find out what Jack had been up to. And if it was anything like his mind told him, what he planned for Nelson would seem like pat-a-cake compared to what he’d do to Jack.
‘‘Now, you’re going to have to stop that crying. It’s not helping anything.’’
The voice drifted through the blackness as if from a distance. Familiar, warm, bringing with it a rush of disjointed memories from earlier years. But Anna Mae didn’t understand the message. She wasn’t crying. Or was she? A second voice sobbed, ‘‘Mama, mama . . .’’ Was it her own voice? ‘‘Mamaaaa.’’ She wished her mama were here. Mama would be able to make sense of all this confusion.
What did it mean? Her eyelids felt weighted, but with great effort, she managed to force them open. Light hit her eyes, striking her with a wave of pain so intense she gasped. She felt her face contract with the abrupt slamming of her lids, but in the blackness she found blessed escape from the pain.
She chose to remain in the dark void.
Harley waited until the other two workers moved away from the boss’s shack. The shack reminded Harley of a roadside vegetable stand—the top half of each wall folded down to flop against the bottom half, creating large window openings. The roof overhead protected Mr. Peterson from the relentless sun, but the boss could see the entire work site thanks to the wide-open windows. The man now glanced up from the table that sat inside the shack and gestured for Harley to enter. Harley yanked off his hat as he ducked through the doorway.
‘‘Phipps. You cooled off now?’’
Funny how Peterson could ask something like that and make it almost teasing. If Nelson had asked the question, Harley would be tempted to take the man’s head off. But he heard no animosity in the boss’s tone, so he gave a nod in return and said what he’d been waiting to say. ‘‘Thanks for suggesting that break. Helped me get my . . . heat . . . under control.’’
The older man’s lips twitched. ‘‘Glad to hear it. I’d like to keep you on this project.’’
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