Forevermore

by Cathy Marie Hake

  Asa Bunce arrived with his sons, too. The hopeful looks on their fresh-scrubbed faces made it clear they wanted to become “men” today instead of “helper boys.” Helper boys ran errands and brought water—but most telling, they arrived later in the morning, alongside their mamas.

  Phineas frowned. “We’ve got too many boys.”

  “They can take turns.” Asa hooked his thumbs into the bib of his overalls. “Smith’s boys can take one thresher. Mine will do the other.”

  Moments like this were bittersweet. Jakob knew he ought to feel blessed to have a fine crop and neighbors to help, but deep inside a void yawned. He had no sons. Whenever that thought troubled him, he tried to reassure himself that Annie just might give him a nephew. That would be a fine thing—having a boy to rear to respect and tend the land.

  “What is that?” One of the men shaded his eyes, then let out a whoop.

  Mr. Richardson made a grand appearance. The last man to arrive, he’d taken his time—but for good cause. His horse trotted at a dignified pace, and behind him a team of three horses dragged another reaper!

  “A man with daughters needs help.” He dismounted as everyone chuckled. Mr. Richardson was well-known for making jokes about the fact that he had several daughters. He loved every last one of them, but a farmer still hoped for strapping sons. “I have a . . . sort of a cousin . . . who has sons. He sent two to help, and they brought their reaper. No use in it sitting unused.”

  “I’m obliged.” Jakob couldn’t imagine this blessing. He’d planted more wheat this year than ever before. He’d not been sure they’d bring the harvest in by Saturday night.

  “Not that we aren’t glad for the help,” someone shouted, “but how do you come by a cousin?”

  Richardson shrugged. “He was a good friend on the orphan train. He got adopted three stops back, but we kept in touch. He sent his older boys.”

  “Three,” one of Asa Bunce’s boys said in wonder. “You’ll be running three teams.”

  Jakob turned and gave Smith’s eldest son, Lloyd, a restrained slap on the back. “You’ve grown big this year. Huge.” He made a point of looking the boy up and down, then nodded somberly. “Perhaps it is time for you keep your feet on the ground and let the young boys ride the leads.”

  Manly grunts of approval and agreement filled the air. Every one of those men recalled the day they’d been promoted—it was never a father’s place to do. Someone else in the community always made the gesture. It meant more that way.

  Lloyd stood so straight, Jakob marveled his spine didn’t crack. “I’ll work hard.”

  The three other boys stood awestruck for a moment, then one yelled, “Then we all getta have our own rig the whole day!”

  Jakob rested his hands on his hips. “Psalm one-forty-five, verse fifteen, says, ‘The eyes of all look to you, and you give them their food at the proper time. You open your hand and satisfy the desires of every living thing.’ The Lord has been generous, not only with my crops, but also with my friends and neighbors. I give Him—and each of you—my thanks.” He then said a prayer, and they all went to the fields.

  Work had a rhythm to it. Soon the reaper went through the field, whirring and cutting. Tiny particles flew up, filling the air with a distinct aroma and giving a golden-tan shimmer to the world. Looking like bank robbers, men wore bandanas over the lower half of their faces to keep from choking. The more they accomplished in the early morning, the better off they’d be. Texas midday heat was rough on man and beast. All of them knew it, and they pushed hard.

  Out of the corner of his eye, Jakob saw a dishcloth wave in the air. He turned, smiled, and waved back to Hope. Inserting two fingers into his mouth, he let out a piercing whistle. It took a few repetitions, but the work ceased.

  The men flocked to the edge of the field. Hope stood by her two-wheeled cart. Each of the four corners of her cart held a bucket of cool well water and dippers. She’d remembered his request to bring out peaches—a bushel of them rested in the center of the cart—but in addition to that, two trays heaped with cookies invited the men to help themselves.

  “Stauffer—next year, you should plant more so we have to come help for more time!”

  “Hope—do you hear them?” Phineas grabbed a peach. “You will come back next year, won’t you?”

  Hope hitched a shoulder. “I can’t rightly say. I go where God sends me. I don’t plan or promise; I obey. But I can’t take credit for them cookies. Annie’s the one what baked ’em. Mr. Toomel, you’d best not wave that cookie—” She halted and burst out laughing.

  Mr. Toomel looked sheepish, wiggling his empty fingers. “Serves me right for holding a sweet by a mule. I didn’t think she could see it, with her wearing that hat.” He accepted another cookie.

  “All y’all shore are workin’ at a good pace. Reckon you’ll be starvin’ at midday. I’ll take care to tie Hattie outta the way so’s she won’t take a mind to sample all the food we set out.”

  Toomel took another bite of a cookie and looked at Hope. “When the harvest is done here, I’ll hire you. I need help—I don’t have a wife.”

  “I can help you get a wife,” Richardson declared.

  Uneasy chuckles sounded, so Jakob announced, “Hope’s agreed to stay here awhile.”

  Hope looked at Toomel. “Sir, Mr. Stauffer’s right. I already gave him my word to stick around for a few weeks. Don’t you worry none, though. I’ll represent the Stauffer farm and help all the other ladies what come to feed all you men, no matter which spread you’re harvestin’.”

  Jakob noticed how she refrained from mentioning the baby. Though she admitted to being plainspoken, Hope exercised admirable tact. Pledging that she’d help out at the other farms was good, too.

  Toomel looked longingly at the empty cookie trays. “No one else bakes cookies for us men.”

  “Linette’s good at cookies,” Richardson started in.

  “Betcha you could hire Mrs. Orion at the boardin’ house to bake you some,” Hope cut in. “Her bein’ a widow woman, she could probably use a little cash money.”

  “Widow O’Toole could bake something, too.” Mr. Peterson’s eyes crinkled and his voice lilted with humor. “But with her bein’ a rabid teetotaler, it won’t be rum balls or beer bread!”

  After hooting with laughter, the men turned back to work. They did a quick inspection of the reapers. The knotters on the binders usually required a little attention, and the man in charge of each machine made a point of announcing the binder still had sufficient steel wire to get the job done.

  Jakob recalled how he’d grown up with everyone having to gather and bind the wheat shocks by hand. McCormack’s 1885 light steel binder accomplished that task along with the reaping—an improvement that sped up and simplified harvest. The first year, inspecting the wire supply was done out of worry. Since then, the announcement hadn’t been necessary—but it was a tradition that stuck.

  Work started up again. Shocks of bound wheat dropped behind the machine, and men hefted them into windrows. Muscles strained, the air grew thick again with particles, and the sun beat down upon them.

  Hope skipped up the porch steps. “Them cookies of yours shore did get snapped up. Tonight, we’ll have to make more for tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  Hope took Annie’s hand in hers and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “How’s about us singin’ that verse from the hymn we started this mornin’? From ‘Oh, for a Thousand.’ I’ve been thinkin’ on those words today. You know . . . ‘Jesus, the name that charms our fears.’ ”

  “Fears aren’t charming,” Annie whispered.

  Eleven

  Lord of Mercy, this gal’s hurting so bad on the inside. Whisper to me what you’d have me say to her.

  Her voice shaking in terror, Annie repeated, “Fears aren’t charming.”

  “ ’Course they ain’t.” Hope gave her hands a gentle squeeze. “But the Savior, He’s the One what gots all the power. I reckon it would take a fool not to choo
se up sides with Him. God’s on your side, Annie. You know that, right?”

  Annie swallowed hard and managed a tiny, jerky nod.

  “Your brother talked about David. Ever notice how everybody else got all scairt of that giant Goliath? They all quaked in their boots. Well, I don’t reckon they wore boots— probably sandals. But that ain’t the point. All the shields and swords they had didn’t make ’em feel ready to do battle. But Davy didn’t fret over that stuff. Nope. Not him. He weren’t nothin’ more’n a little boy, but he teamed up with God. Them three little pebbles wasn’t what done Goliath in. ’Twas the power God added. Davy just gave over his fear and trusted God to do His part.”

  “Aren’t you ever afraid?”

  “Shore am. Being ascairt is natural. ’Tis what we do with them fears that matters. The song—it says Jesus charms our fears. When my knees get to knockin’, I gotta get down on ’em. I betcha Davy didn’t bend over and pluck up the first three rocks he spied. I suspect he done went down on his knees and asked God’s guidance and got mighty choosy until he was shore them was the right rocks for the job.”

  Annie wet her lips nervously.

  Hope figured she’d said enough. “I saw some dust clouds in the distance. I reckon the neighbor ladies finished their mornin’ chores and are bringin’ their covered dishes. How’s about me makin’ a quick trip to the springhouse? I’ll fetch butter and more milk. Was there anything else you want me to grab?”

  “I’ve run out of eggs for the corn bread.”

  “I’ll be shore to grab us some. We ain’t gathered eggs yet today. I know you and Mr. Stauffer want Emmy-Lou close by. How’s about if ’n she and some of the other young’uns gather the eggs whilst we have some of the others pick green peas and snap beans?”

  Upon hearing her name, Emmy-Lou galloped over. “Can I? Please?”

  Annie nodded. “Emmy-Lou, first go to the springhouse with Miss Hope and bring back more milk so you children will have plenty to drink.”

  The springhouse sat only a stone’s throw away. Water from the windmill ran through a channel in the cement floor, keeping the windowless building cool and dank—a welcome change from the bright sunlight or the heat radiating from the kitchen stove. Hope stepped inside, then turned in puzzlement. “Why’re you just a-standin’ there, sugar pie?”

  Emmy-Lou clung to the doorframe. “It’s dark in there.”

  “Yup, it sorta is. Since I know where I put everything, it don’t bother me none. How’s about if ’n you stand there and hold the door open just a crack? I’ll pretend I’m a fishy. ’Tis cool and wet in here just like it must be for a lazy old trout in a shady creek. He knows where all the rocks are, so he just sorta floats and swishes along.” Quickly gathering the necessities while she spoke, Hope rejoined Emmy-Lou. “There we are.”

  “You don’t look like a fish.”

  “I’m glad of that.” Hope laughed. “I’m even more gladder that I don’t smell like one!”

  Emmy-Lou giggled. “You’re funny.”

  “Well, fish probably don’t carry butter, but I’m fixin’ to. How’s ’bout totin’ these here eggs back to the house for your auntie?”

  In the short time they’d been gone, neighbors had arrived. Bowls and dishes of all kinds covered the table. The yeasty scent of breads vied with the sugary sweet aroma of cakes and pies. Older girls sat on the porch peeling potatoes while Mrs. Richardson organized a few of the boys to take pails of cold water out to the fields. “Gramma,” a woman somehow related to the Smiths, took charge of other children and went out to garden and gather eggs.

  Delighted squeals came from the front porch. Sydney Creighton came in laughing. “I brought the latest Godey’s Lady’s Book. The older lasses have asked to look at it as soon as they’re done with the potatoes.”

  Tilting her head toward her sewing basket, Lena Patterson laughed. “I sneaked the new Peterson’s Magazine in past the girls. I thought it might be fun for us to all bring our feed sacks to the last harvest and have a swap so we can match up the patterns. Then, a week or so later, we could have a sewing circle.”

  “You can hatch your plans later.” Velma elbowed her way in and set a large roasting pan on the seat of the nearest empty chair. “Someone taller than I am needs to put this on top of the warming box. I’m too short.”

  “ ’Twas mighty nice of y’all to bring all this here food. Annie and me—we’ll be shore to pitch in and help when ’tis your farms the men are harvesting.”

  “Ja, we will.” Annie reached for the roasting pan.

  Hope smoothly swiped it first. “This is heavy.”

  Velma shrugged. “We butchered a cow a couple days ago. No use in trying to preserve much in this heat, so I made a roast.”

  “My husband has a sweet tooth,” Sydney said with a smile. “That peach pie you sent home with us yesterday captured his attention. He insisted on sending over the roast so I can get your recipe.”

  “Oh, Annie’s the one what seasoned up them peaches.” Hope stood on tiptoe and balanced the roasting pan on top of the almost-full warming box. “Annie, we’re a-runnin’ outta table space. How’s about you sittin’ on the piano stool and using a bench to work on? Slice up some watermelon and put it in a washtub. Ain’t nothin’ more refreshin’ than a big old chunk of melon.” Hope turned toward the other women. “Y’all, I wanna make shore I do my job. Mr. Stauffer, he hired me to do the cookin’ and such.”

  Her announcement took care of several details—the women came to her with their suggestions or questions, and they also took the cue to make sure Annie only did light chores. Hope added more coal to the stove, plunked down the largest skillets, and started frying chicken. Buckets of water, soap, and towels were set out on two benches so the men could wash up before eating. Everything hummed with the same industry as a beehive.

  “Mmm, that chicken smells delicious!” Lena finished mixing flour and water so she could make the gravy.

  “Thankee.” Hope scooted to the side of the stove and kept turning the chicken breasts. “You got enough room here?”

  “Goodness, yes. Jakob bought the largest stove available for Naomi. Cooking for harvest here is always a pleasure because there’s so much room!”

  “No doubt about it,” Mrs. Smith said. “He doted on his wife. Took losing her and his son mighty hard. I didn’t think he could look worse—but he did the day he left to take Emmy-Lou off to your place, Annie. You coming here’s been a sacrifice on your part, but your mercy and compassion made it so Jakob didn’t have to give up his daughter.”

  Annie bit her lip and blinked back tears.

  “Oh no.” Hope forced out a little laugh. “There she goes. Annie has the most tenderest heart of anyone in the whole, wide world. Velma, you’re the granny woman round here. Do you find gals you’re minding seem built close to the water?”

  “Heavens, yes!” Velma nodded. “And they weep a fair bit for weeks after the babe comes.”

  “I used up every last hanky I owned one morning a couple of days after Mandy was born.” Daisy Smith shook her head at the memory. “My mama told me she’d done the same thing.”

  Hope pounced on the opportunity and announced, “Mr. Stauffer—he done asked me if ’n I’d be willin’ to stay on for two weeks after the baby comes.” She dredged more chicken in the breading and slid it into the sizzling skillet. She shot a smile over her shoulder at Annie. “It’s a pleasure to be asked.”

  “You’ll stay?” A tear streaked down Annie’s cheek.

  “Well, I dunno. If ’n the thought makes you wanna cry, maybe I—”

  “I want you to stay! I do!”

  “I hoped you’d say so.” Hope waggled her brows. “Is this a good time for me to beg you for your peach pie recipe? Ain’t just your brother and Phineas and Sydney’s husband who love it!”

  ; “Dinner!” A trio of little boys shouted from the end of the wheat field. They waved feed sacks in the air to signal the men— just in case they hadn’t heard them.

&n
bsp; Hard work sharpened a man’s appetite, and Jakob’s mouth started to water as he thought of the meal that awaited him. He let out a piercing whistle, and work halted.

  Volkner slapped him on the back. “If dinner’s half as good as those cookies and peaches we had earlier, I might decide to sell my place and hire on here.”

  “You’d never sell.” Jakob gave him a wry smile to cover for his concern. Leopold’s farm seemed to experience more than its share of woes. In fact, the fields there managed to sprout more rocks and lower yield each year. Water—the lifeblood of any farm—managed to make itself scarce. In the unexplainable vagaries of weather, storms would drop their rain on the neighboring farms and cease when passing over the Volkners’.

  Leopold didn’t crack a smile. “I don’t know. My brother—he went on to better land. I cannot provide for my mother and sister if I can’t bring in the crops. This year, I had high hopes, but the greenbugs . . .” He shook his head.

  Mr. Richardson started to approach. Jakob murmured, “The man coming—Mr. Richardson—he has several unmarried daughters.”

  “No sons?” Leopold quirked a brow.

  “He’d gladly settle for sons-in-law.”

  “So that’s why he sent for those so-called nephews to help with the harvest.”

  “Ja. It is only fair that I . . .” Jakob halted before he said, warn. He didn’t want to be unkind. “It is only right that you know his oldest daughters will help serve us today.”

  The men all stopped in the barnyard and lined up at the washtubs on the benches. Groans of pleasure vibrated in the air as the water refreshed and cooled the men down. Even so, the men didn’t linger. Hunger led them to the tables. They jostled into places as the women scurried out with the last platters and bowls to set on the tables.