Pastor Van Dyver gave a short, simple sermon about hope and eternal life. There was nothing fancy to it, but I liked it because it affirmed my belief that Papa was in heaven and past his pain. At the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder and worry about our pain and how we were going to manage without him—and what Mr. Ashton wanted to see me about.
After the hymn was sung, Morgan stepped up to the front of the room. He stood tall and gangly in last year’s suit, his wrists showing a good two inches of white shirt cuff. I had not noticed how tall he had become, almost overnight. His voice was firm and steady, stronger and more grown up than that of the little boy he’d been just three days before.
Morgan had chosen to read from Psalm 112, “A good man sheweth favor and lendeth; he will guide his affairs with discretion. Surely he shall not be moved for ever: the righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.” He stood a long moment before he spoke again, looking into the eyes of everyone present, his face at once innocent and wise.
“Just about every Saturday, my grandpa gave me a nickel for the picture show. I like the serials best. When I’d get home, I’d always tell Grandpa about what happened, how the hero had saved the day, and the girl, and how I couldn’t wait to see what happened next week. Grandpa always sat and listened to whatever I had to say, like it was something important. Then when I’d finished he’d whistle and wink his eye and say something like, ‘That Tarzan, he’s a brave fellow, all right.’ Then we’d go back to feeding the chickens or cleaning the barn just like we did every day.
“Sometimes I’d wonder to myself if I’d ever have the chance to do something brave, but somehow, when you’re doing chores it’s hard to imagine you’ll ever be a hero or even meet one face to face. Mucking out the stable on a Saturday afternoon, all I wished was that time would go more quickly so I could get back to the pictures and see what happened to my heros. A week felt like a million years, and our farm felt like the end of the earth.
“But now my grandpa is gone, and the time I had with him seems like a minute. I’d give up every Saturday picture show for the rest of my life to have one more talk with him. See, I know something about heroes that I didn’t know before, something I wish I’d realized when he was still alive so I could have told him about it to his face.
“Grandpa was the real hero in my life. He didn’t rescue the girl or sink the pirate fleet, but he was a hero just the same. These last years on the farm haven’t been easy, as all of you know. Year after year the crops dry up and blow away, and some days it seems like things will never get better. Sometimes it’s enough to make a fellow want to give up. A lot of people have. But not Grandpa. He kept working, even when there was no work to be had. He kept hoping, even when things seemed hopeless. He kept trying, even when there was no reason to think he’d win.
“If you think about it, that’s what heros are: people who try to save the day, though the odds are against them. At the picture show, the hero always wins. In real life, it doesn’t always work that way, but it doesn’t mean my grandpa was any less courageous than Tom Mix. I think Grandpa was more courageous. Serial heros only have to be brave for twenty minutes every Saturday. Grandpa did it every day of his life.
“I’ll always remember him. I hope you will too.”
Despite mama’s warning, a tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly before anyone could see.
The strangest part of Papa’s funeral was the day after. My eyes opened just before dawn. I pulled myself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, my leg feeling even stiffer and heavier than usual, and combed through my hair with my fingers. Already the hens were scratching around in the yard and a young cockerel was cock-a-doodling a pitiful imitation of a full-fledged rooster. The floorboards were cold on my feet as always, and the sounds of morning on the farm ticked off dully and reliably like minutes on a clock—and, yet, I thought, Papa isn’t here. Suddenly, I was too sad to get dressed. I sat for a long time thinking nothing until Ruby cracked open the door and said it was time for breakfast.
Sitting at the sewing machine later that morning, I found myself adding up bills for coffin and headstone and labor to dig the grave, trying to figure how many more quilts I would have to make and sell that month to see us through, and wondering what Mr. Ashton wanted to see me about.
While I was picking out a bad seam, the needle pierced my finger deeply. Three perfect drops of blood fell onto the quilt like tears that wouldn’t wash out. I finished the sewing and found myself wondering who would buy that quilt and lie under it nights. Would they notice the bloodstains and be curious as to how they got there, or would their eyes be drawn to the overblown roses and silly daisies instead, completely overlooking the signature I’d left for someone to find?
Mr. Ashton stood up as I entered his office and motioned me the chair nearest his desk. After reiterating his sorrow at our untimely loss, completing the proper inquiries after myself and my mother, and offering me a glass of water, he cleared his throat. Briefly, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes made me think that despite his appearance of infallibility, Mr. Ashton might be human after all. I liked him better for it.
He cleared his throat a second time before squaring his shoulders and plunging ahead with the assurance that I was more accustomed to hearing in his voice, as though all of his nouns started with capital letters.
“Miss Glennon, as you will remember, some years ago I informed you of the existence of an Account which was opened in your name and to which you were entitled to request Annual Deposits, though you have never availed yourself of the Opportunity. Over the years I have received instructions, through the law firm of the Anonymous Party, to keep an eye on your Financial Situation so they might inform their client of any needs you might have, but might be, shall we say ... hesitant to inform me of directly.”
His face was so implacable that I didn’t know if he had wanted to use “proud” or “ashamed” in place of “hesitant,” but as he took off his perfectly clean glasses and rubbed them with his spotless handkerchief, I saw a whisper of a smile crinkle his eyes and felt he’d meant the former.
“I have been pleased to report to the Anonymous Party”—he said it with such emphasis that I was sure the party wasn’t anonymous to him, but felt just as certain my secret was safe with Mr. Ashton—“of your industriousness and ingenuity and that you have not only refrained from spending the funds in your account, you have added to it from time to time. Of course, in these last few years, you have drawn down the account to meet your expenses, but still, in spite of your difficulties, you have never withdrawn the principle.”
“It’s not mine to spend,” I explained. “I promised myself I never would. That money is for Morgan. For his future.”
“I ascertained as much,” said the banker, balancing his glasses on the end of his nose and peering at me over the shining clean lenses. “You should be congratulated, Miss Glennon. Very few young women would have been able to live up to such a principle in such challenging times.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ashton, but any mother would have tried to do the same in my situation,” I demurred.
“I very much doubt that, Miss Glennon.” He shook his head gravely and raised his eyebrows so his forehead wrinkled, revealing just how many layers there were to his doubts. I couldn’t help but wonder that a man as skinny as Mr. Ashton had enough spare skin on his frame to leave room for wrinkles. “Most women in your situation would have been in my office every year, asking for more and larger deposits.” (Mr. Ashton never seemed to use the word “money,” as though it would have been coarse and not quite polite to do so.) “Some would have had good intentions of saving the funds, but there are none that I can think of by name who would have been able to follow through with their resolution in the face of this terrible economic crisis. Your endurance has won my sincere admiration. I say again, Miss Glennon, you are to be congratulated.” Then, to my surprise, he actually stood up, leaned across the desk, and shook my hand with all the vigor of an
aspiring politician.
Smiling politely to mask my confusion, I thanked him again before retrieving my hand. “But, surely, Mr. Ashton, that’s not why you asked me to come see you?”
The expression of cheer fled from his face. “No, Miss Glennon, I’m afraid not.” He cleared his throat again, as though to give himself time to formulate his next sentence. “You have done well, with your finances, very well indeed. Your father, however, was not as fortunate. Two years ago, he took out a second mortgage on your farm to pay back taxes as well as meet living expenses and purchase seed to plant crops, which, as you know, failed.”
My stomach dropped. How much did we owe? Would the bank foreclose and leave us without a home if I couldn’t find the money? A thousand questions assailed my mind, and then I thought of Papa. Poor Papa had carried this load all alone. It broke my heart to think how desperate and alone he must have felt.
“In these economic conditions, Miss Glennon, it’s doubtful I would have made that loan to another man, but I felt your father would do whatever it took to meet his obligations. When he fell behind on the payments I gave him more time, still believing him to be a good risk. Indeed, since beginning his new job he’d made good progress toward bringing his loan up to date. Had he lived, I believe he would have done just that, but given the circumstances ...”
“How much do we owe?” I asked weakly.
“In addition to the loan itself there are back taxes and penalties for the last two years, amounting to well over three thousand dollars,” he said softly, almost apologetically.
Three thousand dollars! The figure rang in my mind like a bell. Even if I emptied out Morgan’s account it wouldn’t be enough. I couldn’t even begin to think how many quilts that added up to, but somehow I had to try. I had to buy some time first, and then I had to find a way to hold on to the farm. After that, I’d figure out how to earn Morgan’s money back.
My hands were shaking, but I willed my voice to sound strong, “Mr. Ashton, if I could give you the money in Morgan’s account now, surely a system of monthly payments could be worked out. I don’t earn much with my quilts, but I’m sure there is a way to make good on the loan over time. You can’t take the farm.” I tried to keep my voice firm and emphatic, but it was impossible to keep out the note of pleading. “At least not without giving me a chance to pay the money back.”
For a moment the banker looked a bit startled, “Miss Glennon, I didn’t bring you here to threaten foreclosure! I merely wanted you to know—that is, I felt you had the right to know ... Miss Glennon, I took the liberty of cabling the Attorneys of the Anonymous Party on the day of your father’s death and informing them of the situation.” He cleared his throat again.
“It has all been paid, Miss Glennon. All of it, and next year’s taxes in addition.”
Suddenly the reason for Mr. Ashton’s discomfort was clear. He had called Slim’s lawyers without my permission because he knew if he had asked I would have said no. I would have told him we would manage without the help of the Anonymous Party. My feelings of warmth toward the banker gave way to irritation mixed with an underlying sense of relief.
Mr. Ashton removed his glasses again and leaned toward me urgently. “There simply was no other way, my dear, or I would never have done it,” he said gently. “You want to fulfill your obligations to your son, I know, and you have done so, very ably. But you must consider, you are not the only one with a duty to the boy, are you?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and the layers of wrinkles creased his forehead again. “Sometimes our responsibilities to our children extend even to admitting the need for help. For you I suspect that may be the most difficult debt to pay. It certainly was for your father.”
The thought of Papa all alone with that terrible burden threatened to bring me to tears. If he had told me, wouldn’t I have done anything I could to help? Wouldn’t we have found a way, together? And, if there was no other way, wouldn’t I have gone out and plowed those barren, blowing fields by his side, swallowed half the dust that was meant for him? Yes. I’d have done anything if it had meant we might be together. If only he had let me help him.
“All right, Mr. Ashton,” I conceded. “I understand. It’s hard for me to admit, but you did the right thing. Thank you for your help. I truly appreciate all you have done for my family.” I swallowed hard, and Mr. Ashton reached into his pocket to offer me his handkerchief.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I said. As I got up to leave, Mr. Ashton rose from his chair.
“Oh, Miss Glennon, there is one more thing.” He picked up a plain white envelope from his desk. “Your father asked me to give this to you in case anything ever happened to him.” He put the envelope in my outstretched hand, then patted me gently on my shoulder. “It is a delivery I am genuinely sorry to make.”
I held the envelope for a moment before opening it. The letter inside was written in Papa’s bold sloped handwriting, each word leaning forward as though anxious for the one that came after. It was hard to believe that the hand that wrote them—the hand that had always been so warm and vibrant and alive—was now cold and still forever. Blinking back the threat of tears, I began to read.
My darling Evangeline,
If you are reading this it is because I have gone and, I am afraid, left you with a terrible burden to carry. It is my hope you never will see this letter, that the rains will come again and the wheat will sprout and thrive and I will be able to pay off the loans I have been forced to take out. When that happens, I’ll ask Ashton to give me back this letter, I’ll burn it, and we’ll all live to a ripe old age with you none the wiser about this whole thing. That is my hope, but I’ve lived too long on this earth to think that things always turn out as we hope.
So, if I’ve left you and you do read this, I’m sorry. I have tried my best to protect you and Morgan and your mother. I hope you’ll not be too hard on me, or on yourself, if my best turns out not to be enough.
I know I don’t have to tell you to work hard and be a good girl. I know I don’t have to tell you to take care of your mother for me and do your best for Morgan. But there is one thing I must tell you. Be happy, my girl. Enjoy life and I don’t just mean in your life with Morgan. He is a wonderful son, but he can’t be your whole life. That’s too big a pair of shoes for one boy to fill. If you are willing to risk being hurt, you’ll find love in all kinds of places. Look at me, broken-down old Irish lobsterman that I am, if I hadn’t taken the risk of getting hurt and asked your mother to marry me and moved halfway across the country to get her to do it, I would have missed nearly thirty years of wonderful times with her and the best daughter and grandson a man could hope for. It was all worth it.
I know I don’t have to tell you that I want the world for you, and I know I don’t have to tell you how much I love you, but I will.
I love you with all my heart.
Papa
Chapter 14
The following week I had an unexpected visitor.
“Miss Glennon?” Pastor Van Dyver tipped his hat respectfully before he set a foot on the porch step, as though he needed my permission to come up to the door.
“Hello, Pastor. It’s nice to see you again,” I opened the screen door and reached out to take his hat. “Please, come inside. Can I make you a glass of tea?”
“No, thank you. Water would be nice, though.” He sat down at the kitchen table, took a clean white handkerchief from his coat pocket, and carefully mopped his brow. It was terribly hot that day, and when I brought his glass of water he drained it in one gulp. Thank you,” he said. “I just wanted to come by and see your mother. I was concerned about her after the service. Is she at home?”
“She’s asleep. I was hoping that in a few days she would perk up a bit, but she seems to be about the same. It’s like she’s in a world of her own, somewhere off with Papa.”
“Ah,” he sympathized, “I have seen this before in couples whose love for each other runs very deeply. After so many years together the
y seem to truly become one, and when one of them passes on, the one remaining is unable to go on alone. They become less than half of themselves somehow. It is very tragic and at the same time, very touching.”
Again, I was struck by how plainly he spoke. For all his careful phrasing and clear enunciation, he was so very so frank—indelicate even—in speaking about what he knew and saw, that it was shocking in a way. I might have found it upsetting, if I hadn’t already been thinking the same thing myself.
In Dillon, people didn’t speak of death or illness or sorrow bluntly. People in Dillon weren’t sick, they were “under the weather.” They didn’t die, they “passed on” or, if they were Baptists, they “went home.” It was all very careful and polite and unnatural. I found Paul’s direct approach something of a relief. It gave me permission to voice my own worries.
“I was thinking about that just now, Pastor, wondering if she is going to get better in time or if she will always be this way. What do you think?”
He tipped his head to one side and thought for a moment. “If she were alone, with no children,” he reasoned, “I would say she might never recover from losing your father, but she loves you and Morgan. It has been less than two weeks since your father’s death. She has so many reasons to become involved in life again. She needs time.”
We left it at that. I took comfort in his words because I knew he meant what he said. I could tell it was not in him to tell me something just because I wanted to hear it, and, besides, he made sense. Mama did have so much to live for. We still needed her.
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