by Lynn Austin
Luke would throw the ball for Winky to fetch, but the plump little dog couldn’t seem to run in a straight line to where the ball landed. It took him forever to find it, then every time he headed back toward Luke with it in his mouth, his bad eye would cause him to veer off to one side and he’d end up missing Luke by five or six feet. Poor Winky would stop and look around, bewildered and offended, as if Luke had deliberately moved off to one side to trick him.
Luke laughed so hard he dropped to the ground. Tears came to my eyes as I watched him giggling and rolling in the snow with the little dog licking his face like he was a lollipop. What a glori-ous sound Luke’s laughter was! The child inside my son was reborn, thanks to a silly, rumpled-looking, one-eyed dog. Suddenly Winky was beautiful to me, as sleek and as graceful as a real hunting dog.
I remember thinking, If only this could last—the ice cream, the snow, the little dog and ridiculous cats, the laughter. If only our lives could stay this way, for my children’s sakes. But even on this day of rest I felt trouble sitting patiently at my feet, waiting for me to move so it could shadow me again. God just didn’t seem to want me to be happy. I wasn’t allowed to be.
I found out the next day just how right I had been.
First thing Monday morning I fired up the stove in the washhouse so Aunt Batty and I could do laundry. The water was getting hot in the copper boiler, and we had just set up the bench wringer and galvanized washtubs when a shiny black car pulled into my driveway. I recognized the driver, Mr. Preston, from Frank Wyatt’s church. He was an elder, like Frank had been, and a real bigwig with the Savings and Loan in Deer Springs. Was he going to scold me for not coming to church anymore? I dried my hands on my apron and went out to greet him, feeling cornered.
‘‘May I take your coat and hat, Mr. Preston?’’ I fussed as I led him into my parlor. ‘‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’’
‘‘No, thank you, Mrs. Wyatt. This isn’t a social call, I’m afraid.’’ He took a seat on the horsehair sofa, still wearing his overcoat, and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. His eyes were on his shoes, not my face. ‘‘I’m here to talk about your mortgage,’’ he said, handing the envelope to me. ‘‘I’m very sorry, but we’re going to have to foreclose.’’
I heard my heart pounding in my ears. ‘‘What does that mean?’’
‘‘The bank is giving you ninety days to pay this loan in full. The letter explains everything—the terms and the amount owed and so forth.’’
His words made no sense to me. ‘‘I don’t understand. This farm has been in my husband’s family for years. How could they owe your bank money for it?’’
‘‘Your father-in-law borrowed money a while back to make some improvements—plant new trees, purchase a truck, things like that. Farmers do it all the time, borrowing in the spring and paying it off when the fall crops come in. He used this house and land as collateral—that’s a typical practice, too. Unfortunately, because of the stock market collapse, Frank didn’t get as much for his crops as he’d planned. Nobody did. Then he passed away so suddenly....’’
‘‘So you’re saying I owe you this money now?’’
‘‘You’re Frank Wyatt’s next of kin.’’
‘‘How much money?’’
‘‘It’s all there in the letter. He still owed a little over five hundred dollars when he died.’’
My mind went flying in a hundred directions like a flock of geese at a shotgun blast. It might as well have been five million dollars. I tried to stay calm and recall what little I knew about business matters. ‘‘Will I be able to pay the money back in installments, like a regular loan?’’
Mr. Preston coughed, then cleared his throat. ‘‘The...uh...The bank has been forced to dissolve. I’m afraid our creditors will need everything in ninety days.’’
‘‘Where am I supposed to find that kind of money by then?’’
He sighed. ‘‘Some folks are holding auctions, trying to sell off some of their equipment. Problem is, everyone around here is in pretty much the same predicament. Most folks owe even more money than Frank Wyatt did. There aren’t too many folks in a position to buy right now.’’
‘‘What happens if I can’t raise the money?’’
‘‘Then the bank will take legal possession of Wyatt Orchards. They can auction it off to reclaim the debt.’’
‘‘But that isn’t fair,’’ I cried. ‘‘This house belongs to my children. They never borrowed a single dime from your bank, and now you’re saying the bank has a right to turn them out of their own home? Just like that?’’
Mr. Preston stood, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets, as if they were stained with blood and he wanted to hide them. ‘‘I’m very sorry, Mrs. Wyatt. There’s really nothing I can do. I just have the unfortunate task of serving you notice.’’
I returned to the washhouse in a daze, as if it had all been a terrible dream. I couldn’t think what to do, so I concentrated on scrubbing laundry as if my life depended on it.
‘‘What did he want?’’ Aunt Batty asked. ‘‘He’s that hot-shot fellow from the bank, isn’t he?’’
‘‘He had some business of Frank Wyatt’s to discuss,’’ I said numbly.
‘‘I never liked that man,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘He reminds me of a mule named Barney that my father once owned. Barney was almost as homely as that fellow and just about as cantankerous. That’s why I would never put my money in his bank. I’d sooner keep it in Barney’s stall out in the barn than leave it with him. Come to think of it, maybe I did leave some of my money out in the barn....’’
Aunt Batty went on and on about Barney the mule and his stubborn ways until Becky got the giggles and couldn’t stop. But I barely heard a word Aunt Batty said, troubled as I was about owing the bank all that money.
We’d finished hanging all the wash on the line and had gone inside for lunch when another car pulled into our driveway, this one much older than the banker’s car and not nearly as shiny. Alvin Greer and his wife, Bertha, stepped out of it. I recognized the older couple from church, though I’d never been part of their social circle. They owned a few dozen acres of land just north of Wyatt Orchards. I was willing to bet they were bringing me more trouble.
‘‘I know you!’’ Aunt Batty exclaimed after I’d invited the Greers into the house. ‘‘You’re that little Greer boy, aren’t you? Alfred...Albert...?’’
‘‘Alvin.’’
‘‘That’s it! I went to grammar school with you and your sister Adelaide.’’ She grabbed the sleeve of Mr. Greer’s coat and examined it closely, then smiled up at him. ‘‘I see you finally learned to use a handkerchief. Good for you! When he was a youngster,’’ she explained to Mrs. Greer and me, ‘‘Alvin always had a runny nose and he used to wipe it on his coat sleeve until he had a shiny patch right there.’’
Mr. Greer’s face turned brighter than a ripe apple and I was afraid he was about to have a fit. But just then Becky skipped into the kitchen with a ball of gray yarn and a crochet hook. She and Aunt Batty were getting carried away with making kittens for Arabella, and Becky had gone into the parlor to rummage through my knitting basket for more yarn.
‘‘I found this color,’’ she said gaily, then stopped when she saw we had company.
‘‘Becky Jean, say ‘how do you do’ to Mr. and Mrs. Greer,’’ I prompted.
‘‘How do you do,’’ she repeated, then started chattering like a Victrola that had been wound up too tight. ‘‘Won’t this make a pretty color for Arabella’s new kitten? Aunt Batty is knitting our cat some babies because she wants to be a mama real bad—the cat, I mean, not Aunt Batty—and I’m going to make their tails.’’ She waved the crochet hook. ‘‘Aunt Batty is teaching me how.’’
‘‘That’s...nice...’’ Mrs. Greer looked as if she didn’t know quite what to make of it all. Arabella rubbed against her leg, purring loudly. Bertha Greer was known to be the biggest gossip in the entire church so it wouldn’t be long before everyon
e in Deer Springs heard that the Wyatts had all lost their minds.
‘‘If we could have a few minutes of your time,’’ Alvin Greer said, ‘‘we’ve come to discuss some very important business, Mrs. Wyatt.’’
‘‘Of course. Won’t you step into the parlor? Would you care for some coffee?’’
‘‘No, thanks.’’ They sat side by side on the good horsehair sofa where Mr. Preston had sat just a few hours earlier, looking like they both had broomsticks up their backs. I pushed Queen Esther off my rocking chair and sat down facing them.
‘‘We’ve come to make you an offer, Elise—’’
‘‘It’s Eliza. My name is Eliza.’’
‘‘Yes...of course. We’d like to make you an offer on Wyatt Orchards, and I think you’ll agree that it’s a very fair one.’’
‘‘An offer? But the orchard isn’t for sale.’’
I saw the two exchange glances before Mr. Greer continued. ‘‘We understand you’ve encountered some...uh...financial problems with the Savings and Loan and—’’ ‘‘
I don’t see how my finances are any of your affair, Mr. Greer. And if you heard it from Mr. Preston, then he had no business telling you.’’
‘‘Now, Eliza, don’t get yourself riled up.’’
‘‘Everybody in Deer Springs knows the bank is folding,’’ Bertha Greer said. ‘‘Each one of us is affected by it one way or another— some lost their savings, some are having their mortgages foreclosed. If you had been in church yesterday, you would know that everyone is talking about it.’’
I let her comment go by, too stunned to speak.
‘‘Everyone knows you can’t run this place all by yourself,’’ Mr. Greer continued, ‘‘and I certainly don’t want to see you and your little ones tossed out in the street if the bank forecloses. So I talked it over with Reverend Dill and some of the elders at church yesterday, and they all agree that I’m offering you a fair deal. A very fair deal. You can ask them yourself.’’
I didn’t trust myself to speak, afraid that my voice would come out all shaky or that I’d burst into tears. When I didn’t say anything, Mr. Greer kept on talking.
‘‘I’ll scrape up enough cash to settle your loan as a down payment to purchase this property—all the orchards, the apple barn, the equipment, and so forth. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for everything, paid to you in yearly installments. You can rent the house and the cow barn and enough land for a vegetable patch from me on a yearly basis—subtracted from the purchase price, of course. That way you’ll have a place to live until your children are grown. Now, doesn’t that sound like a fair deal?’’ He grinned and it was so unnatural-looking on his usually sour face that he reminded me of a jack-o’-lantern.
‘‘This orchard is worth a lot more than five thousand dollars,’’ I said.
‘‘Well, no, actually it isn’t. At the moment, no one has any money to buy it and the banks have no money to lend.’’
‘‘Besides,’’ Bertha said with a frown, ‘‘Alvin and I ought to get a discount because we’ll be keeping the orchard in the family. My maiden name was Wyatt, you know.’’
‘‘Bertha’s father and Frank Wyatt’s father were brothers,’’ Alvin explained. ‘‘The two brothers grew up in this house and the property should have rightfully been divided up between them when old Isaac Wyatt died. I never did understand how Frank and his father ended up owning all of it.’’
‘‘Everyone agrees that the orchard should stay in the family instead of going to an outsider,’’ Bertha added.
‘‘I may be an outsider,’’ I said, fighting tears, ‘‘but my children aren’t. Their father was Samuel Wyatt and this land rightfully belongs to them. I’m not about to just hand it over—’’
‘‘How old is your oldest boy? Nine, ten years old?’’ Alvin Greer was beginning to lose his temper, something he’d probably promised his wife he wouldn’t do. ‘‘There’s a lot of responsibility in running a big place like this, and by the time your boy is old enough to run it the way his grandfather did, this orchard will be in ruins.’’
‘‘Mrs. Wyatt—Eliza—can’t you see that my husband and I are just trying to do our Christian duty and help you out?’’
‘‘I’m making you a very fair offer,’’ Mr. Greer added.
I stood up, so angry my knees shook. ‘‘I need some time to think this over. I’ll let you know when I’ve decided.’’
I took their coats off the coat rack and handed them back. They were being dismissed without my signature on the deal, and they weren’t very happy about it.
‘‘It’s a very fair offer,’’ Greer repeated on his way out the door.
‘‘Good day, Mr. and Mrs. Greer.’’
After they’d gone, Aunt Batty came to me with a worried look on her face. ‘‘Are we hosting an open house today, Toots? Because if we are, I really should give Winky a bath and change my dress.’’
‘‘No, Aunt Batty. Believe me, none of these guestswere invited.’’
‘‘Well, they have a lot of nerve coming over here uninvited, don’t they? I never could stomach that snotty-nosed Greer boy. I’m telling you, that sleeve of his would just make you sick to look at it.’’
‘‘I need to drive into Deer Springs,’’ I said, suddenly deciding what I would do. ‘‘Will you watch Becky Jean and Mr. Harper for me while I’m gone? I’ll be back before the boys get home from school.’’
‘‘Sure, Toots. Is the open house tomorrow, then?’’
‘‘No. There’s no open house.’’ I had to walk away before she had me thoroughly exasperated.
I rummaged through my father-in-law’s office and gathered up his lockbox and all his important papers, then drove into town to talk to John Wakefield, the family lawyer. Mr. Wakefield was just about as old as Methuselah and had probably been practicing law when Moses led the Israelites out of Egypt. But Frank Wyatt had trusted him and that said a lot.
Mr. Wakefield’s secretary, who was nearly as ancient as he was, led me into his dusty office to see him right away when I told her it was an emergency. We caught the poor old man napping at his desk, so I had to let his secretary bring us a pot of tea—even though I was too upset to drink any—in order to give him time to come fully awake.
‘‘Yes...yes...’’ he kept saying, and his head wobbled all around on his scrawny neck like it might come loose. ‘‘Yes...what can I do for you, Mrs. Wyatt?’’
I told him all about the bank foreclosing on me and showed him the letter. Then I explained Alvin Greer’s offer. It was hard to keep from bursting into tears because I was still so outraged that he would dare to offer me only five thousand dollars for Wyatt Orchards and then expect me to rent my own house from him.
‘‘I don’t know anything at all about my father-in-law’s finances, Mr. Wakefield,’’ I finished. ‘‘He never confided in me like he did in you. Can you help me figure out how to pay back that bank loan?’’
‘‘Give me a few days to look through all these papers,’’ he said. ‘‘I’ll give you a call when I’ve got them straightened out.’’
‘‘I don’t have a telephone.’’
‘‘Yes, yes, that’s right. Frank wouldn’t own a telephone. Come back in a week, then.’’
I left Mr. Wakefield’s office feeling no comfort at all.
CHAPTER FIVE
I’ll bet you’re getting tired of laying there flat on your back all day,’’ Aunt Batty told Gabe when she brought in his breakfast the next morning. I had bought some iodine and other medicines at the drugstore in Deer Springs and I was doctoring his leg. He still ran a low-grade fever.
‘‘Don’t get any ideas about moving him all around,’’ I said, ‘‘or his leg is going to rip wide open again.’’
‘‘Do you want me to help you sit up,’’ she asked him, ‘‘so you can read a book, maybe?’’
‘‘I can do it,’’ Gabe said, pulling himself upright. ‘‘You don’t need to fuss over me, Aunt Batty—though I appreciate yo
ur kindness.’’
‘‘It’s no trouble at all. The Bible says that when Elijah was all worn out the angels took care of him, so I figure we can all use an angel now and then, right? Now, what kind of books do you like to read, Gabe?’’ She started digging through the nearest box. ‘‘It looks like these are all adventure stories. Would either one of these interest you?’’ She pulled out two books and handed them to him. From the look on his face, she might have handed him a king’s ransom.
‘‘Wow! Danger in the Jungleand African Treasure, by Herman Walters!’’
‘‘You’ve heard of him?’’ she asked.
‘‘Who hasn’t heard of him! He’s one of the most popular adventure writers of his time. I loved these books when I was a boy! I must have read them a hundred times.’’
‘‘Oh, then maybe you’ll want to read something else.’’ She bent to pull out more books and piled them on the bed beside him.
‘‘These are all by Herman Walters!’’ Gabe said in surprise. He leaned over to peer into the box. ‘‘I can’t believe it! How many of these do you have?’’
‘‘I own every single book he ever wrote.’’
‘‘And they’re all first editions, too,’’ he said, leafing through several of them. He acted as excited as a kid on Christmas morning. ‘‘Look at these—they’re in mint condition! Do you have any idea what these would be worth?’’
‘‘Let’s see. Forty-three—no, forty-four books—at a cover price of seventy-five cents comes to...’’ She started drawing numbers in the air on an invisible chalkboard, trying to do the arithmetic.
‘‘They’re worth much more than seventy-five cents apiece to a collector!’’ Gabe said. ‘‘Especially if this is Herman Walters’ complete works. Don’t ever sell them that cheaply, Aunt Batty. You would be giving them away.’’
She looked confused and worried. ‘‘Oh dear. I’m afraid I’ve already given them away.’’