Where Willows Grow

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Harley nodded again, his head down.

  Mr. Peterson rested his elbows on the table. ‘‘Listen, Harley, I know Nelson’s got a big mouth. Most of the men haven’t welcomed you and Farley with open arms. There’s a reason for that: you took two positions that might have been filled by local men.’’ When Harley would have spoken, Peterson held up his hands, staying his words. ‘‘I’m not defending them—you have just as much right to this job as any of them—I’m trying to help you understand the animosity.’’

  Harley nodded. ‘‘I understand. I’m willing to look past it. But Farley . . .’’ He grimaced. ‘‘Farley’s pretty defenseless against it.’’

  Peterson leaned back, his elbow draped over the ladder back of the chair. ‘‘I know Nelson ribs poor ol’ Dirk constantly. But I need Nelson on this project. He’s got a grasp of bedrock and bucking that exceeds anyone else on the team.’’

  Harley wasn’t sure what the boss meant by bedrock and bucking, but he understood the underlying message: Nelson wasn’t going anywhere, so Harley might as well learn to get along with him. ‘‘Yes, sir.’’ Without meaning to, his gaze lit on the drawn plans stretched across the desktop, and he pointed. ‘‘That what the castle’ll look like when it’s done?’’

  Peterson flicked his fingers at Harley, a silent invitation to come near. When Harley stood on the opposite side of the table, the man flipped the drawing around so Harley could look at it right side up.

  ‘‘A fascinating thing, a blueprint,’’ Mr. Peterson mused. ‘‘A map, really, of how to put materials together into a three-dimensional form. See here?’’ He pointed. ‘‘By reading these marks, a person can determine the height, width, and depth of the structure, as well as placement of windows and doors. If the building were wired for electricity or required pipes for plumbing, there would be separate plans to show where light sockets belong and plumbing lines run. The drawings work together to show how the whole building will be constructed.’’

  Harley looked at the crisscrossing of lines, the tiny numbers indicating feet and inches, and he walked his fingers up the drawing of the enclosed stairway. ‘‘It’s somethin’, all right. How does a body learn to draw one of these things?’’

  ‘‘Where does anybody learn anything? School, Phipps.’’ The man tipped his head, his brows coming down into a thoughtful expression. ‘‘That interest you?’’

  Harley chuckled, rubbing his finger under his nose. ‘‘Oh no, sir. I’m just a farmer. Couldn’t make it in school. Couldn’t afford it, either.’’

  Peterson leaned back in his chair. ‘‘Well, I used to teach at the university in Kansas City—world history. There’s a lot to learn about architecture when studying the different cultures of the world, so I picked up things here and there. You’re right that it costs to go to school, but it’s worth it. Might be something to think about.’’

  Harley shook his head. ‘‘I’m only a farmer,’’ he insisted.

  ‘‘Okay.’’ Peterson glanced at a pocket watch that lay on the table. ‘‘It’s nearly quitting time. Do you and Dirk want to join the missus and me for supper tonight?’’

  Harley blinked twice, taking an awkward step backward. Although Mrs. Peterson had occasionally carried out a plate of food to the shed in the evening, never had Harley or Dirk been invited into the house. A gust of wind gave him a whiff of his own body, and that was enough to convince him he had no business sitting across a dinner table from Peterson and his missus.

  ‘‘Thank you for the invitation, sir, but I reckon Dirk and me will just grab us a bite at the café.’’

  Peterson shrugged. ‘‘Suit yourself.’’

  Harley turned toward the door, but just as he was ready to step through, Peterson called his name. He looked back over his shoulder.

  ‘‘If you change your mind about that blueprint reading, just say so. Learning new things can be good for a man.’’

  Harley nodded, slapped his hat on his head, and clopped toward the shale pile where Dirk was finishing up. ‘‘Learning new things can be good for a man.’’ The words replayed themselves in his head, and for a moment he fought the temptation to go back and tell Mr. Peterson he’d like to learn about blueprints. Just then, off to his right, a meadowlark burst from a clump of brown brush and shot into the sky. Harley watched it go, recollecting times he’d startled up a bird from the cornfields at home. The reminder of the cornfields was all it took to help him remember that he had a farm waiting for him in Spencer. A farm he’d promised to care for.

  Harley wasn’t here to learn new things. He was here to save the farm. Better to keep focused on his original goal. And he’d best keep his temper under control, too.

  ‘‘Our goal at this point is to keep her still and comfortable. . . .’’

  Doc Warren’s droning voice carried from the bedroom to the kitchen, where Jack and Pop sat on opposite sides of the table, each holding one of Anna Mae’s girls. Pop cradled Marjorie, who dozed against his shoulder, too young to be concerned about her mother. Jack held Dorothy in his lap as he listened to the doctor’s instructions to Mrs. Stevenson.

  Dorothy had hardly left Jack’s side since she came panting into the yard earlier today, her frantic cry scaring Jack out of ten years of his life. And when he and Pop had come through the back door to see Anna Mae sprawled across the kitchen floor, white and silent, he’d lost another dozen years. These Phipps females would be the death of him yet.

  Thank goodness Doc Warren had been in his office when Jack had called. He’d agreed to drive out immediately. The man hardly made house calls anymore, with his advancing years and the arthritis slowing him down, but he’d delivered Anna Mae, and it was obvious in the way he’d hovered over her bed that he took a real interest in keeping her healthy.

  At first he’d said he wanted Anna Mae in the hospital, but then he’d asked where Harley was. Little Dorothy had piped up, ‘‘Daddy’s away building a castle.’’ The doctor had sent Jack a knowing look and instead instructed Jack to go back to town and fetch Mrs. Stevenson. She was a fair-to-middlin’ nurse, he’d said, and she could give Anna Mae care while keeping an eye on the little girls, too.

  Mrs. Stevenson, a widow with a bulky frame and two chins, came at once when Jack explained the situation. Her only stipulation was that she must also bring her cat. To Jack’s knowledge, Anna Mae had never had an animal in the house, but given the circumstances, he wasn’t in a position to argue. Anna Mae needed help. The fuzzy black-and-white critter now curled in a ball next to the stove, its purr providing a background hum to Doc’s endless list of to-do’s.

  Doc entered the kitchen and stopped at the table. His gaze on Dorothy, he said, ‘‘Let me peek at your face, young lady.’’

  Dorothy shrank back against Jack, so the doctor leaned forward to examine the little girl’s injury. When he pressed his fingers to the large bruise on her forehead, she whimpered but didn’t pull away.

  Finally Doc smiled. ‘‘You’ll be fine, Dorothy. That bump’ll give you a headache, but it’s nothing serious. In fact, it should be easily cured with a—’’ he dug in his bag and withdrew a pink-and-white-striped candy stick—‘‘peppermint stick.’’

  ‘‘Thank you!’’ Dorothy stuck the candy in her mouth at once.

  ‘‘And Anna Mae?’’ Jack asked, holding his breath.

  Doc’s smile faded. ‘‘I’ll be back tomorrow morning first thing. Mrs. Stevenson knows what to do. I told her to have you call me if something should change.’’

  Jack shifted Dorothy to the floor, gave her a pat and a whispered order to stay put, then walked the doctor out to his car. Outside of earshot of the girls, he asked, ‘‘Will she be okay?’’

  Doc scratched his chin. ‘‘Anna Mae will survive, but I can’t say the same about her baby just yet.’’

  Jack felt like someone had punched him in the gut. ‘‘You mean she could lose the baby?’’

  Doc shrugged, tossing his bag into the seat. ‘‘That’s really not up to me at this point,
Jack.’’

  ‘‘Then who?’’

  Wordlessly, Doc Warren pointed skyward, lifting his brows. Then he climbed into his vehicle.

  Jack watched him drive away. When the doc was out of sight, he lifted his gaze to the blue sky overhead. A chill went down his spine.

  18

  A JUMBLE OF VOICES—one deep, one high-pitched, one babbling—forced their way through Anna Mae’s subconscious. She frowned, slapping her hand at the sound.

  Hush now, I want to sleep.

  Soft laughter, more talking.

  If you’re going to talk, at least talk clear enough for me to understand you. If you can’t do that, then hush!

  Another burst of laughter followed by a fierce ‘‘Shhh!’’ from a new voice stirred Anna Mae to full awareness. Although she kept her eyes closed, sealing herself in a cocoon of comforting gray, her other senses were keenly aware. She recognized the firm softness of the mattress supporting her body, the cradle of a fluffy feather pillow beneath her head, a teasing breeze from an open window, the sweet trill of birdsong, the smells of morning—fresh dew and pungent barn and spicy bacon . . .

  And pain.

  She was acutely aware of pain. In her head, shoulders, and hips. Yet she found it bearable, unlike her last memory of a deep, stabbing pain that had sent her scuttling for blessed disconnection.

  ‘‘Now sit up here and eat,’’ came the deep voice that had awakened her. Even though it still came from a distance, she could understand the words. ‘‘Say your prayers first.’’

  ‘‘Okay, Papa Berkley,’’ was Dorothy’s cheerful concurrence, then, ‘‘God is great, God is good . . .’’

  Anna Mae twisted her head against the pillow, struggling to make sense of what she’d heard. Why was Jack’s father here, cooking breakfast? Why was she still in bed? She should be up. She shifted her body, an effort to pull herself into a seated position, but before she could accomplish it, two hands clamped on her shoulders.

  ‘‘Don’t you do that, Mrs. Phipps,’’ a waspish voice scolded. ‘‘You stay right there in that bed. I’ll fetch Doc.’’

  Doc? Doc Warren? He was here, too? Something must be seriously wrong! She needed to open her eyes. But the remembrance of pain made her scrunch them more tightly shut instead.

  ‘‘Doc! Doc, come in here.’’ The offending voice blared in Anna Mae’s ear. ‘‘She’s wakin’ up, and I don’t know if I can hold her down.’’

  Footsteps—more than one set—thundered close, then a warm, soft palm pressed to Anna Mae’s forehead. ‘‘Anna Mae, can you hear me?’’ Doc’s voice—how well Anna Mae knew it.

  She opened her mouth, willing her dry tongue to form words. All she emitted was a low moan.

  Something slapped her cheek twice. The motion made her headache increase. She grunted and moved her head to avoid the contact.

  A low chuckle filled her ears. ‘‘Oh, get feisty now, that’s what we need to see.’’ Pat, pat on her cheek again. She shifted. The hand followed. Pat, pat, pat. With a rush of irritation, she opened her eyes, focused blearily on Doc Warren’s face, which loomed over the bed, and rasped, ‘‘Stop that. It hurts.’’

  Doc burst out laughing and looked toward the foot of the bed. ‘‘She’s okay. If she’s complaining, she’s okay.’’

  Anna Mae squinted at the figures lined up behind the iron footboard. Jack Berkley, Ern Berkley, Dorothy, and Mrs. Stevenson from church, all grinning at her like fools. ‘‘What—what’s everybody doing here?’’

  ‘‘Dorothy fetched Jack when you fell. He put you to bed and left his father to stand guard, then he called me. I had him fetch Mrs. Stevenson to take care of the girls.’’ Doc’s calm voice filled in the gaps.

  When I fell . . . ? Confusion clouded her brain. And then she remembered—fetching the maternity clothes, climbing down from the attic, the breaking ladder, and landing hard on the floor.

  Dorothy had gone for Jack? What a brave girl . . . Anna Mae tried to send the little girl a smile, but when she focused on her daughter, all she could do was frown. The child had an ugly bruise on her forehead. ‘‘Dorothy, what happened to your head?’’

  Jack put his arm around Dorothy and tucked her against his side. ‘‘She told me when you came down, your feet pushed her into the table. It looks worse than it is, right, honey?’’

  Dorothy beamed upward. ‘‘It don’t hurt much, Mama. I’m okay. Mr. Berkley says I’m a trooper.’’

  Yes, she remembered Dorothy picking up the scattered clothes from beneath the ladder. She should have told her to wait. She should not have fallen on her child. Tears stung her eyes—how foolish she had been to endanger her daughter!

  ‘‘Tell me where it hurts, Anna Mae,’’ Doc prompted, pulling her attention back to him.

  ‘‘Head . . .’’ It was so difficult to form words—her tongue felt swollen and dry. ‘‘Hips. Shoulders . . .’’ She grimaced as the pain pounded through her head. She pressed her hands to her hips, and her fingers brushed across her belly. Fear raised her from the bed. ‘‘My baby!’’

  ‘‘Shhh.’’ Doc’s hands caught her shoulders, gently pushing her back onto her pillow. ‘‘Now, don’t fret about that.’’

  ‘‘Did I—um, did I—?’’ She couldn’t ask the question. Not until that moment had she realized how very much she wanted this new baby. What if her carelessness took the life of her unborn child?

  ‘‘You didn’t lose it.’’ Doc’s soft assurance cast a wave of relief through Anna Mae’s aching body. But his next word pierced her with fear once more. ‘‘Yet.’’

  A bitter taste filled Anna Mae’s mouth. ‘‘Yet? You mean, I . . . I could still—?’’

  Doc took her hand. ‘‘You took a hard fall. You’ve had some bleeding, but it’s under control now. Still, I want you to take it easy for a week at least, limit your activity. It’ll be the best chance for keeping that baby where it belongs.’’

  Although she’d struggled so hard to open her eyes, all Anna Mae wanted to do at that moment was close them and pretend none of this had happened. She had a farm to care for—she couldn’t be lazing around in bed. What would she say to Harley if the garden failed? All the things that needed doing had to be done by her. When Harley heard about this, he’d be home in an instant. But then there would be no money coming in. And they would be back where they started, living with the constant threat of losing the farm.

  ‘‘B-but,’’ she argued weakly, ‘‘Harley’s not here, and I have to—’’

  ‘‘You have to stay in bed.’’ Doc’s firm tone rose in volume with each word. ‘‘There’s nothing more important than the life of your baby, Anna Mae. Remember that.’’

  The farm’s more important. Did she say the words or only think them? If Harley were here, he’d say them. The farm—keeping the farm—was more important to him than anything else. That’s why he was gone right now. But Doc had said nothing was more important than the baby. Was he right, or was Harley right? The dull ache in her head became a throbbing pain. She turned her face away from Doc and closed her eyes. A hand squeezed her shoulder.

  ‘‘That’s right, Anna Mae.’’ Doc’s voice soothed the tattered edges of worry from Anna Mae’s mind. ‘‘You sleep. Your body needs the rest. So sleep.’’

  Anna Mae allowed herself to drift away.

  ‘‘Papa Berkley, what’cha doing?’’

  Ern Berkley looked up from the writing tablet. Dorothy peered across the table, her chin and fingertips resting on the wooden edge. The bruise on her forehead had perfectly matched her blue eyes the day after Anna Mae’s fall, but over the past week it had changed to an angry yellowish green, the color of a frog’s underbelly. He shifted his gaze from the bruise to the child’s eyes. ‘‘I’m writing a letter to your daddy. Your mama asked me to let him know she got hurt.’’

  Dorothy pulled out a chair and climbed up, pressing her palms to the tabletop. ‘‘Is Mama hurt real bad?’’

  Ern glanced toward the bedroom doorway. He could he
ar Mrs. Stevenson’s plodding footsteps as she puttered around the room. For a week now, the woman had been spoon-feeding Anna Mae, giving her sponge baths, and waiting for her to regain her strength. Anna Mae had always been a fighter, but lying on that bed, pale and weak, she didn’t appear to have much fight left in her.

  ‘‘Papa Berkley, I said is Mama hurt real bad?’’ Dorothy’s voice rose, a hint of panic underscoring the childish tone.

  He reached across the table to tap the end of her nose. ‘‘Your mama’s just tuckered, Dorothy. She needs a nice, long nap. But she’ll be fine.’’

  ‘‘Are you sure?’’

  Ern tipped his head and wiggled his mustache. ‘‘Well, now, haven’t we been praying for just that? You think God isn’t listening?’’

  Dorothy didn’t smile. ‘‘Daddy says God doesn’t hear prayers.’’

  Ern swallowed the disappointment that rose with Dorothy’s innocent comment. Harley should have more sense than to trample a child’s faith. But he managed another smile and said, ‘‘Well, your daddy’s right in most things, honey, but this time I think he’s wrong. I’ve been saying prayers since I was littler than you, and I know God answers. So you just trust your mama is going to be okay, will you do that?’’

  Dorothy released a long sigh. She scraped her thumbnail at a bit of loose paint on the table’s edge. ‘‘I’ll try.’’

  ‘‘Good girl. Now, can you do something for me?’’

  ‘‘What?’’

  ‘‘Can you go get your color crayons from your room without waking Marjorie? I think your daddy would like a picture from you in this letter.’’

  The child’s eyes lit up. ‘‘I’ll draw him a rainbow! We talked about rainbows in Sunday school yesterday.’’

  ‘‘That’s a good idea.’’ He tugged a piece of paper loose from the tablet. ‘‘Here’s some paper. Go fetch your crayons and get started. I’ll make sure it gets mailed.’’