by Kate Seredy
“Not a bad idea,” Father said to Mr. Van Keuran, laughing. The old man grinned his toothless grin and, lowering his voice to almost a whisper, grunted: “He ain’t married to Em’ly—or he would be singin’ a diff’rent tune!”
“Aaah, see? Mike tell you right,” roared Mike in great amusement. “Jake, he scare of woman. Mike, he boss. Big boss!”
Father, walking toward the door, almost collided with Linka who suddenly filled the doorway. She said something to Mike; it was a short, laughing sentence, but it lifted Mike right out of his chair. He placed his cigar carefully on the mantel and started gathering dishes. He blinked up at Father, gulped and said in a rueful voice: “Ver’ big boss—Linka.”
By the time they had cleaned up, it was milking time. Father and Dick got into their overalls; Mr. Van Keuran, Mike, and Andy were going out to the barn with them to see the new milking machine work. Mrs. Van Keuran boomed:
“I always say, a clean cowbarn is as good a place as anybody’s parlor. I’m a’goin’ too!”
So they all went, all ten of them.
Mike and Linka watched with round, shining eyes and a great deal of appreciative laughter. “It suck like litt’ calf, no pull. Good!” Mike approved. Mr. Van Keuran agreed with him and Andy—Andy was positively bursting at the seams. “What do you say, Gramp? Ain’t it somethin’? Just lookit, Gramp, chore done afore you can say jack rabbit. Clean too, ain’t it? And the powerful lot of time you save. . .”
Mrs. Van Keuran snorted audibly. “Time! What you goin’ to do with it after you got it saved? What’s time for if’n it ain’t for work? Waste it on no good trottin’ horses and hounds, like your Gramp! Or drawin’s! I ain’t seen much money come out of that yet, just fine words!”
The scolding words were the same, but somehow there was no sting in them. The old man just smiled at her and Andy grinned.
“Could do some pretty sewin’ if’n you had the time, Granma. That ain’t wastin’ it!”
“Well, I ain’t got it and never will. Your Gramp an’ I will just drop in our traces like old horses. No use dreamin’ of such things. But . . . I’m right pleased that you got it, Molly. Save them . . . right pretty hands . . .” It was no use. Granma Van Keuran had not spoken words of praise and kindness for so long that now she didn’t know how. But, deep in her heart a timid plant of new found gentleness was trying to bloom and all but herself seemed to know it.
They smiled secretly at each other with the joy of their knowledge. Gran sighed. “Oh well, you never can tell, Em’ly. You get a lot of dreams going and some of them are bound to come true. Come Christmas, come contentment. Oh, Molly,” she exclaimed, looking at her watch, “that reminds me. My favorite program on the radio is just about due—the Hour of Contentment. Could you drive the truck in here? I’d like to hear it.”
Father laughed. “The Prestons entertain in the cowbarn. Some say that cows give more milk when they hear music, so let’s have it by all means.”
Everyone thought it was a good idea and they made themselves comfortable on the heavy floorbeams separating the stanchions from the alleyway. Mother backed the truck in and they closed the big barn doors again. The freshly painted walls gleamed under the new electric lights; the mixed odor of sweet hay and sweet milk, the gentle, humid warmth from the cows made the barn into a really cheerful and cozy place. Mother, turning on the radio, winked at Father. “What do you think of this for an original party idea? We’ll send it in to . . . to. . . oh . . .”
Her voice trailed off into nothing and her eyes stared at Father. For a voice, a tight strangely breathless voice was just finishing a sentence that had begun with a commonplace announcement: “For the sake of those who have not yet heard we are repeating this bulletin from Washington . . .” No one had paid attention to it, Mother had joked through it. But now the voice reached into the cozy, happy gathering and wiped the smile off their faces: “Today at dawn the Japanese Naval and Air forces attacked Pearl Harbor, inflicting heavy damage. Many lives were lost. Battleships are reported sunk. Reports of simultaneous attacks in the Philippines, on Guam, Hong Kong and Singapore have not been verified at this moment.”
The voice went on saying that this bulletin would be repeated at fifteen-minute intervals, then an orchestra began playing and Mother’s cold, trembling fingers turned off the radio. Linka, the only one among them who had not understood the words, cried out: “Mike, w’at is? Mike!” He cast imploring eyes at Father. “W’at I tell Linka? Ver’ bad? War?”
Father slowly nodded and his voice was heavy: “Yes, Mike. Very bad. It is war.”
Gran went pale and her eyes glittered dangerously. “Well! I am . . . I am almost glad! I am,” she frowned at Mother’s unbelieving face, then she smiled a grim smile. “It’s like having a tooth out. Like . . . having someone over your head drop the other shoe. It’s over, the dread and suspense. We can do something now.”
Father bent to remove the suction cups from the last two cows. He went on, doing the job he had started, in a quiet, systematic way, without saying a word. He moved almost like a sleepwalker, doing one little thing after another, little things he had been shown how to do just a few days ago.
Old Mr. Van Keu ran was standing with his back to them, his hands clasped tight behind him gazing out the window. He was quietly but venomously hurtling words at the Japanese, as if the words were so many deadly bullets. No one, not even Granma Van Keuran, told him to stop cursing. Words can be dreadful, but now, the most dreadful of them could not offend. Young Americans were dying in agony at the hands of the treacherous men he was aiming his words at and whatever he said, could not hurt even the children one millionth part as much as their countrymen were being hurt by the deed he cursed.
Mike spoke again: “John, country need litt’ Mike now to fight. We send letter to litt’ Mike, tell him to fight with gun, huh? Linka say yes. She cry, look, John, she cry like baby but she say, yes.”
Father straightened up. He looked at Mike silently for quite a few moments, then went to put his arm around Mike’s shoulder.
“Listen, Mike Mogor, my friend. I am going to tell you something fine and good. Your son had sent two letters. One, I read to you. The other he wrote to a friend who was going to read that letter to you. In it he said that he was already fighting with those who have gone to meet the enemy, to keep them from ever reaching this country. He didn’t want you to know, so you wouldn’t worry. Listen:
He took the typewritten sheet out of his wallet and slowly unfolded it. Then he read the whole letter, pausing now and then to leave out a few words that would have been too cruel, as yet. Hoping again, while he read, that news that could not be concealed from Mike, would never come, that some day this fine, brave man was coming back to them. His voice rang clear on the last sentences and, in the great stillness that followed, he spoke again, his arm still around Mike’s shoulder: “You should be very proud of your son, Mike. He is a fine man.”
Mike shook his head. “Proud . . . no, John. No. Me, Mike, a litt’ sad, a litt’ happy. No proud. God, He no proud w’en He send son, litt’ Jesus. He know, son ma’be die, ma’be hurt ver’ bad. God say, it is for good t’at will come for everybody . . .”
He raised his arms and let them drop again in a gesture of resignation. Then he looked at Father and said: “He good boy, litt’ Mike. Read again w’at he say about country. Slow.”
“He good boy, litt’ Mike,” he repeated simply, when Father finished re-reading parts of the letter. Then he turned to Linka, whose tragic, questioning eyes had flown from one to the other all this while, and spoke to her rapidly, for a long time. Tears were rolling down Linka’s round cheeks, but when Mike stopped talking, she managed a little smile and a little nod that gave her sanction to her son’s deed.
Mr. Van Keuran sighed. He was looking at his wife in a kind, expectant way. Her eyes were wet and there was a new, soft gentleness on her face. She rose and began to move toward the barn door.
“Milkin’ time for us,�
� she announced, her hand on the latch. With out turning, she spoke again, very quickly, in a blurred sort of way. What she said, was the sound of the last battle inside herself, the last, final cracking of the ice and the rushing and welling up of long imprisoned kindness:
“Never had no truck with furriners but this seems diff’rent now. Mike, you brink Linka and yourself for Christmas Eve to our house, hear? I want you.”
With that, she marched out. The old man chuckled. “I’ll be . . . well! It took a war to make her bend, but by gum—she bent!”
Taking Andy by the arm, he went after his wife, calling back from the middle of the yard: “Much obliged, folks, for everything!”
Mike, almost all his beaming smile back on his face, exclaimed: “Me, Mike, go help milk. T’ey old—Mike strong. Linka, we go, huh?”
“Let us go and help them, Mike, you have your own cows to milk yet,” said Father after a wordless conversation with all his family.
“Aaah. All go. One, milk for Jake, two, milk for Mike. Pull like good team, all toget’er, huh?”
“All together,” Gran’s crisp voice repeated. “You said it, Mike, all together. If the attack on Pearl Harbor affects every one of us this way . . . well, maybe that too, will be a blessing in disguise.”
During the following dark, troubled days, Gran remained unperturbed. Newspapers were filled with reports that were anything but good; the Japanese, who had been plotting, planning and waiting for over a quarter of a century for just such an opportunity, were making the best of the bewilderment of this country. Blow after blow fell, but Gran refused to worry about the final outcome.
“We got an awful smack in the jaw. Serves us right for leaving ourselves wide open. I didn’t think they would dare. Millions of us didn’t think they would dare. They did. All right! Now we are all reeling and we have a black eye, but I still say it was a blessing in disguise. It woke us up. Now, we’ll get to work.”
And, throughout the country, in every hamlet and town, in the big cities, in factories and on farms, in schools and stores and offices, in mines and in shipyards, on railroads, busses, and merchant ships, millions of Americans were beginning to say: “It woke us up. Let’s get going now, all together.” Their voices swelled, their voices rose into a mighty roar that shook the country like an earthquake: “All together! Work harder, work longer, pull in your belts, Yanks, and roll up your sleeves—all together, rich man, poor man, women, and children, we got a war to win. We didn’t want it but now we are in it and win it we will—all together!”
Gran, as if she had her ear to the ground, sensed this growing determination and, being part of it, rallied her family around her. More cows, more chickens, a team of heavy work-horses, those were the weapons they were going to fight with to produce more milk, more eggs, grow more food. She clamored for these weapons, no matter what the cost.
Father was as eager as she was, he only had one worry. “We simply haven’t got enough money to buy all that, Mom. We’ll go into debt.”
“All right. We’ll borrow. The whole country is going into debt to achieve something good for the future. We are part of the country. We’ll sink or swim with it.”
So, a few days later twelve more cows arrived. The barn was full. A hundred more good laying hens filled the poultry yard; next spring more chicken houses would have to be built for the still larger flock they were planning to have. Then the team came. It was a beautiful, powerful team of dappled roans with immense muscles and such a gentle disposition, that even Janet could lead them without fear.
Mr. Felter, the auctioneer who had sold the farm to Father, brought the team in his truck. He was very much interested in what the Prestons had done on the farm since June. He admired the freshly painted barns, the fattening herd of Aberdeen Angus, the well kept, shining dairy.
“Well, neighbor,” he said, getting ready to leave, “I didn’t think you were going to stick it out. Tell you the truth, nobody around here did. But I guess you will: You are all right.”
“We started it, we’ll see it through.” Father smiled at his family, including them in this promise. Mr. Felter nodded:
“Yes. And, you’ll come out on top. Hitch up your pants, go to it, keep on slugging, and you’ll win. That’s what I like about us Yanks,” he laughed. “Make us mad enough, put us in a tough spot and we’ll come up slugging to show the world they can’t down a Yank!”
He drove off whistling and Gran smiled at Father. “See? A blessing in disguise. I always say, nothing very bad ever happens without some good coming out of it. We already found . . . our initiative. It was lost for a long time, like Gramp’s birthday.” She laughed and moved toward the stable. “Come on, Yanks, we’ve got to shine up those horses. Clean gun shoots better, clean horse works better.”
They had been busy before, but now days just were not long enough to do all they wanted to do. The farm was humming with activity; every daylight hour and many of them before and after daylight, was filled with work, song, happy laughter.
In no time at all it was the day before Gramp’s birthday. Father had been paving the way, persuading the old people to go to Middletown with him, to do the Christmas shopping. He picked them up very early in the morning, before Mr. Jewens arrived. It was none too early at that, the electrician’s truck passed them before Father reached the fork in the road.
While they were away, Dick and Janet ran back and forth to watch the electricians work. Mr. Jewens and Mat were working as they had not worked before. They were not even taking time off for lunch; just grabbing a sandwich to munch it on top of a ladder, and washing it down now and then with a swig of coffee out of their thermos bottles. Finally, it was quite dark and close to milking time. Mr. Jewens lumbered off the ladder for the last time and yelled to Andy: “Let ‘er go, boy! Throw that switch.”
Andy, his face showing a little pale in the dim light of the lantern, grinned at Dick and Janet, as he reached for the handle. He wanted to say something, but excitement closed his throat, so he just gulped and “let ‘er go.”
The old place blazed into light. “Okay! All done,” Mr. Jewens grunted, walking over to where the children were standing. Andy, after a speechless, almost incredulously happy look at the bright yard, threw the switch back again. Mr. Jewens understood. “Going to have a real surprise! Well, boy, I’ll clear out. It’s a family affair.”
“But—the money,” Andy found his voice. “You got to wait,—I ain’t got it here. Mr. Preston’s got it in the bank.”
“Don’t worry. I’ll send you a bill.” Mr. Jewens was already moving toward his truck and Dick heard him say to his helper: “And I bet I’ll get paid quicker than many a city guy would think of paying . . .” He stepped on the starter and called: “Merry Christmas, kids.”
“And a happy birthday to your Gramp,” Mat waved as the truck drove out.
Andy’s arm found Dick’s shoulder. “I got . . . ants crawlin’ all over me. I wisht they’d come now. Come and see the brightness. You think . . . you think they’ll like it? Comin’ out the dark, expecting nothin’ but what’s been here before . . . old chores to be done in the dark . . . a’stumblin’ over . . . shadows and such.”
“They’ll like it, Andy,” Dick’s voice sounded calm and strong. Janet cried: “They’ll love it. Oh gee, why don’t they come? I can hardly wait! Oh . . . here comes somebody,—look, it’s Gran! Here we are, Gran! Did you see the light? Wasn’t it grand? Are they coming?”
Gran, who had stayed home, had seen the brief moment’s blaze over the tops of trees. She walked over, hurrying, and now she was breathing a little hard.
“They’ll be here any moment. I saw headlights as I came through the gate . . . Yes! Here they come!”
Father’s truck drove in. It stopped and the headlights blinked out. Voices sounded, they were getting out and Dick felt Andy’s arm tighten. Gramp Van Keuran was speaking:
“Powerful late you kept us, John. We got to hustle now. Andy,” he called. “Andy boy! Time for milkin’
. . . where are you?”
No sound came and Granma Van Keuran trumpeted: “Andy! Andrew Van Keuran!”
Silence. “A’dreamin’ some place. That boy, always a’dreamin’ when there’s chores to be done. He’s a one to talk about savin’ time . . . don’t know what time it is, half the time,” she grumbled, quite close by now, for they were walking, Father and Mother right on their heels, toward the barn door. Gran, her eye glued to the crack just as the children’s were, whispered: “Now, Andy.”
Andy grunted. A click, the lights were on and six voices chanted:
“Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday to you,
Happy birthday, Gramp Van Keuran,
Happy birthday to you.”
Then there was only the rustling and lowing of cows, and the soft hum of the cooling plant. The two old people stood, their hands clasped together, speechlessly gazing at their bright yard, at the shining barn, at the miracle that transformed the darkness they had lived in so long, into a new kind of life.
They never saw when Father signaled to his family, never heard or noticed when the Preston truck drove out, for they were looking at Andy, listening to Andy. What Andy said, the Prestons never knew. The last thing they saw was Andy, his eyes blazing blue, reaching out to take Gramp and Granma by the hand. He was talking, but, what he said was, after all, a family affair.
CHAPTER XVI
THE “CRITTER”
FOUR days passed before any of the Prestons laid eyes on any of the Van Keurans again.
“Leave them alone,” Gran said gently, when Dick or Janet were showing signs of impatience for lack of seeing Andy. “They have to get acquainted all over again,” she smiled, “now that they can see each other the way they really are.”