Then perhaps you need a better imagination.
“Ernie is a knowledgeable farmer,” Minerva said. “We have nothing to worry about.”
“But so many English farms have failed. I’ve seen the foreclosure and auction signs when we drive around the district for our church services.”
Minerva stood up. “I think I’ll go find Ernie.”
“Don’t be silly.” Lillian laughed and leaned forward on the davenport, tugging on Minerva’s wrist enough to pull her off balance. “They’ll all be here in a minute. I wonder if you’ve thought of how you might economize in your household.”
Minerva fell back into the chair. Her eyes went to the kitchen door, willing it to open so someone could announce all was ready. She just wanted this meal over with.
Having dispatched her father down the front stairs to greet his guests, Polly ducked into the room she shared with Lena and Sylvia to change her dress and tidy her hair. It was not vanity, she told herself. She was being polite, making the family’s guests feel welcome by not appearing unprepared for their presence. But she knew it was vain. She did not want to sit across the table from Thomas looking the way she must have when she came out of the poultry shed and dumped water on herself. She was more capable than that, and she was not going to let him leave the farm today thinking she couldn’t even handle a simple water pump.
While she pinned her dress in place and found a clean kapp to wear to the table, Polly rehearsed what she had seen in the kitchen.
The size of the pot her mother had selected.
The peelings and other remains, still on the counter, of the vegetables that had gone into it.
She could glance at the bushel baskets on the back porch and know how many tomatoes or potatoes or pieces of fruit her mother had removed for a meal.
The arithmetic was not complicated.
Her mother prepared food by instinct, but Polly could eye the ingredients and calculate how many servings a meal would provide, even allowing for many of the men to have seconds. Today’s stew would have sufficient yield but not more than they needed.
The stairwell coming up from the kitchen echoed the growing cacophony below. Polly set a limit on her vanity by not seeking her reflection in the small mirror above the dresser as she left the room.
CHAPTER 4
Henry gripped the steering wheel, vigilant for the potholes that had a way of catching him by surprise. Because his eyes had lifted to the road ahead in search of landmarks, already three times the car had sustained jolts as tires slipped into a depression in the road and hesitated to come out. So far the engine had not threatened to quit again.
But Henry was fairly certain he was lost. Quite certain, actually.
When the country road widened a few feet, he took advantage of the opportunity to pull to the side and consult his meager guides to his whereabouts. He put the transmission in neutral and set the brake, but he did not cut the engine. That seemed like a foolish alternative. Henry rustled through the papers on the passenger side of the seat. The cryptic instructions his supervisor provided had ceased to make sense miles ago. Supposedly the woman who held this position until a few weeks ago provided directions based on her own explorations of the Amish farms of Lancaster County, but Henry wondered if it was possible she had even less sense of direction than he did. Henry read the instructions one more time while rehearsing the turns he had already taken since leaving the main road out of Philadelphia and then raised his eyes to examine his immediate surroundings. The railroad tracks wove in and out of a line of trees, which Henry interpreted to mean he could not be too far from a town where a train might stop. Opening a folded map of the county, he pinpointed where he was. Or where he might be. He wasn’t sure which. The county was a web of crisscrossing roads whose identifiers were obscure.
The engine knocked in an intimidating manner, and Henry reflexively examined the instrument panel. His heart lurched to his throat. If the fuel gauge was telling the truth, his being lost much longer would be compounded by lack of gasoline. The threat of that possibility rousted him to a decision. He would go two more miles and turn left, and then right and left again. Even if one or more of those choices proved wrong, he would be closer to a dot on the map representing at least a small concentration of population.
The road had been carved through rolling fields of green and yellow, crops Henry was ill-equipped to identify. Corn? Wheat? He had never been on a farm before. In patches, groves of trees adorned his route. The word deciduous came to mind. He wasn’t sure what species the trees were, but he was certain they were the sort to turn colors and drop their leaves. The streets of Philadelphia were lined with elm and oak and maple. Henry just never paid attention to which was which. Whatever these trees were, in the open countryside, the autumnal hues must be spectacular.
If Henry weren’t worrying about his engine stalling, running out of gas, or getting more lost than he already was, he would have admired the view.
Instead, he was increasingly prejudiced to think country living was not likely to suit him.
Lillian had Minerva in a conversational vice from which she had been unable to extricate herself even after Ernie and Marlin converged on the room. The woman’s ability to ignore her surroundings and remain focused on her own voice flummoxed Minerva.
Two young men trailed in a couple of minutes later. One of them certainly was the older Grabill boy, the spitting image of his father. The other seemed unlikely to be related, and Minerva ceased even a pretense of listening to Lillian’s advice for domestic efficiency and pondered who the man might be.
“Ah, Thomas,” Marlin said. “I understand you’re staying for dinner.”
“Yes, sir.”
At least the young man was polite.
“Where’s Paul?” Marlin asked.
Paul. That was it. The second Grabill boy’s name. Yost and Paul.
“He went to get Bea and Rebecca and the boppli.” Yost looked out the window. “Here they come now.”
At the same moment the front door opened, the door between the kitchen and front room swung wide. The heads in the front room rotated toward Gloria’s presence.
Marlin put his hands on his knees and pushed himself up. “Are we ready, Glory?”
“Yes, we are.” Gloria propped the door open. “Please come in.”
Minerva was as ready as she would ever be. Catching Ernie’s eye, Minerva stood. If she found herself seated next to Lillian, she would not be responsible for her lack of manners. Any of the Grabill girls would be preferable to another moment with this busybody.
Polly, Lena, Sylvia … Minerva’s memory lapsed. She would not want even Ernie to know she was uncertain of the younger girls’ names. Avoiding Lillian’s glance, Minerva managed to track the older woman’s movements peripherally. Lillian gravitated toward a particular chair, which Minerva discerned to be her usual seat. The kitchen immediately felt crowded, but Minerva brushed off the sensation and stepped farther down the table.
“Will I be taking anyone’s seat if I sit here?” she said, producing a good-humored smile.
“We set special places for you,” the littlest Grabill girl said, gesturing to seats at the middle of the table.
“Yes, please,” Gloria said. “You and Ernie can sit across from each other.”
Ernie pulled out Minerva’s chair before circling the table to find his own place. One by one the family filled in. One of the babies squawked and his mother quickly and expertly soothed the cry. The young wives and their infants surrounded Lillian. Minerva barely suppressed a smile that she was not beside any of them. Why didn’t the married sons and their families eat in their own houses? And if Gloria had so many daughters, why was she cooking at all?
“Welcome.” Marlin’s voice boomed. “More people at the table only makes our feast richer.”
It seemed to Minerva a waste to have so much square footage invested in the kitchen where they had to eat beside the still-hot stove. They easily could have created a prop
er dining room instead. Perhaps Gloria did not realize the impression she made when she crammed so many people into the kitchen. And did she have any idea how much gray streaked her dark hair?
Gloria felt under examination. In a room so full of people, including two fetching infants who logically should be attracting attention, couldn’t Minerva find something else to look at? It had been that way since they were little girls in school, when Minnie used to stare at the Amish girls, flip her braids over her shoulders, and lift that pert nose half an inch. Gloria hadn’t liked it then, and she didn’t like it now. She was tempted to stare back, but she did not want to set a bad example for her daughters. Betsy was still young enough to be impressionable. Gloria settled her eyes on the boppli, wishing she were not at the opposite end of the table. Eventually Bea or Rebecca would want to hand off a baby in order to eat, and Gloria would be glad to dote for a few minutes.
Chairs scraped into adjustment. Pitchers of milk and water were distributed evenly down the long table. Gloria had poured the stew into three large bowls that could circulate easily, and a basket of biscuits was within reach from every segment of the long table.
Marlin cleared his throat and bowed his head. Movements around the room stilled for silent prayer. Even Minerva broke her scrutiny of Gloria and bent her head. Gloria welcomed the silence. Marlin was unpredictable when it came to how long he would remain in prayer, and the Grabill household knew to wait for him to say, “Aemen,” before murmuring their responses and lifting their heads. Marlin usually waited for everyone to become sufficiently motionless and quiet before he considered that proper silence had begun. Even without dinner guests, achieving this state was not immediate. If this were one of Marlin’s long prayers, Gloria would not be disappointed. A few moments of escape from Minerva’s gaze might soothe her mood as much as the prayer. Nevertheless, she tried to focus her mind in gratitude for the abundance of food and family. And for Marlin’s friendship with Ernie even if she could not feel the same way about Minerva.
Gloria’s breath had just slowed to a state of release when the sharp knock on the front door startled several heads to rise.
Who in the world would visit at the time for the midday meal? All the Amish families would be at their own tables by now.
Gloria raised both eyes to look at Marlin, all the way at the other end of the long table.
The knock came again.
Marlin nodded. Gloria pushed back her chair.
CHAPTER 5
The eyes of Gloria’s six daughters seemed to spring open simultaneously. Several more chairs scraped back. Marlin muttered, “Aemen,” liberating conversation.
“I’ll go,” Sylvia said.
“I’m closer,” Alice said, standing.
“No need for such excitement.” Gloria gestured that the others should remain in their seats. It was just a knock on the door. Whoever it was, she would dispatch the matter quickly. She picked up a bread basket and handed it to the daughter on her right. “Please, feel free to begin the meal. I will be right back.”
Gloria swept her eyes around the table, taking in the expressions of her children and Thomas but bouncing past Minerva without meeting her flustered gaze. She squeezed in her stomach and eased past the row of occupied wooden chairs between her and the threshold into the front room. She might have hurried under other circumstances, but in that moment she was satisfied to hear the clinks and clatters of the meal getting under way while she padded in her bare feet toward the front door at her own pace.
Before reaching the front door, Gloria paused at a window angled to allow her to preview the caller. The man was bareheaded, unusual even for the English when they called on their neighbors. His curly brown hair bordered on unruly. Fleetingly she wondered when he’d last had a haircut. She could have made him a suit that fit better than the one he wore, though he might have once filled it out better than he did now. His face and fingers had the gaunt sort of skinniness that suggested hunger, or at least malnutrition. The worn leather satchel under his arm bulged in a manner he did not seem entirely comfortable with while he stared at the door. He raised his hand to knock again on the doorframe, hesitated, and lowered his knuckles with the task undone. Instead, he shifted his weight back and forth between his feet.
The man did not match the description of anyone Gloria had heard about, but when he pivoted to scan the farmyard, pity overtook her and she resumed her progress toward the front door at increased speed. At the next window, she saw him rotate toward the house again. At the third, she witnessed his tattered satchel sliding from his grip perhaps even before he realized it. Only once it had slithered past his bent elbow did he detect the movement and respond by catching the bag by its fragile handle. But his response had come too late, and the contents spilled out. Sheets of paper fluttered toward the wide gray planks of the porch while the young man—no older than Thomas or Yost—scrambled to capture them before they lost all semblance of order.
Gloria reached the entryway, where the main door stood open to the breeze, and surveyed the visitor through the screen.
Henry fell to one knee to wrangle his papers, uncertain what some of them were but recalling his supervisor’s admonishment as to their importance. He should have left them in the car, at least until he’d had a chance to introduce himself to the lady of the house and establish some rapport. He had thought he would appear more businesslike if he carried a briefcase. It was unfortunate that the only one in his possession could have been dismantled by a toddler. He knew better than to try to catch it by the handle, which now dangled in a manner assuring Henry it would never again function as it had been designed to do.
“Hello.” The screen door opened with a rasp.
Henry squeezed his eyes shut for two seconds before opening them to a pair of bare feet below the hem of a long, dark green dress. As his gaze carried upward, the garment’s color shifted to black, and gradually the outline of an apron came into definition. A green dress. A black apron.
Holding his disheveled papers against his chest, Henry scrambled to his feet before meeting the gaze of the woman, her hair pinned under a gossamer head covering. She might have been in her forties or she might have been older. Or younger. He had never been any good at judging a woman’s age.
She tilted her head, questioning. Chagrin flushed through him, and Henry felt the stickiness of the shirt in which he had been perspiring all morning. Surely he would not have to record this inauspicious beginning in an official report.
“I wonder if you have the right house,” the woman said.
Henry dearly hoped so. By the time he’d turned into the lane, he had very nearly convinced himself that the cryptic driving instructions had proven accurate after all.
“Grabill?” Henry said. “Mrs. Grabill?”
Now she lifted her chin. “Yes, that’s right.”
“I’m Henry Edison.”
Her expression remained blank as she stood framed in the doorway, her fingers still on the black handle screwed into the white-painted wood encasing the screen.
“I don’t believe I recognize your name, Mr. Edison.”
“I wrote to you just last week.”
She looked dubious.
“About the interview,” Henry said.
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You filled out the questionnaires,” Henry said. “My predecessor had initially contacted you about following up on your responses, but her personal circumstances changed.”
Mrs. Grabill raised an eyebrow.
“I explained in my letter,” Henry said. “I’ve been sent to complete the process of gathering your responses for the study.”
She looked genuinely confused. Could there be more than one Mrs. Grabill?
“Mrs. Marlin Grabill?” Henry said.
“That’s right. But there must be some mistake.”
“I have your forms here.” Henry glanced down at the muddle of papers in his arms, certain the pages with the Gr
abill data were among them. “There are five parts to the research. You already completed the Family Schedule and the Expenditure Schedule. I’m here to continue the work.”
She nodded now. “This sounds like Polly’s handiwork.”
Her mother should have been back by now.
Seated toward one end of the expansive table, Polly eased out of her chair, meandered toward the stove as if to check a pot, and gradually maneuvered out of the room. With plenty of people left in the kitchen to carry the conversation, who would notice?
The sensation in Polly’s stomach quivered between expectancy and apprehension as she sidled toward the nearest window that would let her observe the front porch.
If it had been someone naively trying to sell her mother hairbrushes out of his car, he would have been turned away by now. Besides, this unkempt man carried no case of wares. Instead, he clutched a slack briefcase and bedraggled papers. Surely this could not be the person the government would send out.
His letter had not been specific about his arrival date. She would have remembered if it were.
“What an odd young man.”
Polly startled. Lillian’s feet, bare as Polly’s, allowed her to move too quietly for Polly’s liking, and she had a way of holding her dress taut to one side. She claimed it was so she would not trip over her own two feet, but Polly observed that limiting the swish of her skirt allowed Lillian to exercise particular stealth around the house.
“Who do you suppose he is?” Lillian asked, elbowing Polly.
Polly opened her mouth but sucked her lips in without speaking. She could not honestly say she had no idea, and anything else would be incriminating.
Lillian leaned in closer to the window, her brow knit.
“I’m sure Mamm is dealing with him,” Polly said.
“So sure that you left your dinner to get cold?”
You left yours, too.
“We should go back to the kitchen,” Polly said. “Mamm would not want us to be rude to our guests.”
Hope in the Land Page 3