“My mistake.”
“Many people mix them up.” Anyone who lived on a farm knew the difference between the wheat straw that went on the stall floors and the alfalfa hay that would keep the animals fed in the winter, but Polly supposed people like Mr. Edison would have little need for the distinction. She swept briskly, amassing a pile of dust and straw in one corner.
“What can I do to help?” he asked, setting both bag and typewriter on the desk.
Polly nodded toward a collapsed cot propped up against the wall. Beside it a thin mattress was rolled and tied.
“That’s your bed.” The last time Polly tried to unfold the wooden cot she pinched her finger in a hinge. She was not eager to try again.
Agent Edison eyed the cot for a moment and then chose the best place to take hold and shake the frame open. In a few seconds, he had made sure the crosspieces underneath were latched into place and turned his attention to the mattress.
“Mr. Coblentz seems to know your family well,” he said.
The remark took Polly by surprise. “We’ve known him all our lives.”
“I think I recall the name from my assigned list.”
“Their farm is just a few miles from here.” Polly scooped the results of her sweeping effort into a dustpan. “I’ll take this out of your way. I’ll be back with some bedding and a washbasin.”
CHAPTER 7
The anomalous sounds made the best sense if Henry kept them tucked away in one of the most peculiar dreams he could recall.
Even a bizarre dream meant that at last he had fallen asleep. Behind his closed eyes, in that disconcerting state between sleep and awareness where the residue of dreams swirled, he thought that the murmuring tones, rising and falling as if recalling a melody, were words. But they were indistinct, guttural, soft, reminding him of his grandmother’s German neighborhood in Philadelphia. Rhythmically, liquid hit tin in harsh squirts and provoked just enough annoyance to cause Henry to open his eyes.
The barn. The Grabill farm. Yesterday’s uncertain drive from Philadelphia. Consciousness unfurled. He coughed against the smell of the cows and steer.
Because of his years of taking college classes and juggling three jobs, Henry was accustomed to sleep cycles that many would consider insufficient. It also meant that going to sleep with the sun, as the Grabill household had done, was an unfamiliar pattern. Although the cot and mattress made far from the worst bed he had ever slept on, Henry thrashed for hours before sleep arrived.
Squirt. Splash. Squirt. Splash.
Henry sucked in air. Although the voices still spoke a language he did not understand, certainly they belonged to two of the Grabill girls who had come to tend the family’s six milk cows. When he retired to the barn last night, Polly warned him the cows got milked before breakfast. He ran a hand through his hair as he considered whether to rise now or outlast the milking sisters and perhaps return to the battle for another hour of sleep.
The milking stopped. Henry held still. The shuffling he heard seemed to grow closer. He saw the top of one prayer kapp—he had learned the word yesterday—and then the other. They peeked around the side wall and above the half door. Neither girl was Polly, and neither was Betsy. Henry had oldest and youngest straight in his mind. It was the four in between who stymied him. He met one set of blue eyes and then the other.
“We don’t mean to intrude.”
Now that she spoke, Henry remembered. The family’s demographic sheet said Alice was fourteen. Yes, Alice.
The second sister, older, said, “We just wanted to make sure you knew how late it is.”
The name dangled for a moment longer before falling into its memory slot. Sylvia.
Henry raised a wrist to look at his watch.
“It will be six soon,” Alice said.
“Breakfast,” Sylvia said.
“Mamm doesn’t like it when people are late to breakfast.”
“And breakfast is at six?” Henry’s voice cracked.
Two heads nodded.
“I’ll be right there,” Henry said
The girls withdrew. Henry waited until the sounds suggested they had left the barn before pulling on his clothes and running to the outhouse and back. Polly had filled a pitcher with well water last night, and Henry poured some into the bowl to splash his face and moisten his hair enough to bring it under control.
The desk was arranged as though he knew what he was doing. A typewriter that made him feel clumsy. A stack of forms. Blank paper. Pens. His agent handbook. A folder containing a list of names and carbon copies of the information the previous agent had assembled. The Bible and hymnal his grandmother had given him were laid side by side on the bookshelf. Two hooks contained his two spare changes of clothing, but he had only the one suit, a lightweight woolen blend of brown with a hint of gray stripe.
This was his first full day in Lancaster County. It was time to get to work.
“Agent Edison?”
This was Polly’s voice. Henry was sure of it. Responding to “Agent Edison” was not natural for him. He wished they would all call him Henry.
“I’m here,” he called back.
“Breakfast.”
“Coming.”
Polly held her arms out and her mother filled them with clean towels.
“Nancy and Lena will finish the dishes,” Mamm said. “Go on out to the barn and see if Agent Edison is lacking anything. Another quilt, perhaps?”
“Call me Henry, please,” the agent said. “Agent sounds like I work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
“You are an agent of the government, aren’t you?” Polly said.
“Technically. But I was Henry for a long time before that.”
“We’ll try,” Mamm said.
“I can take the towels,” Henry said. “I don’t want to trouble you more than I have.”
Polly held the towels against her chest. “I’ll just make sure.”
She didn’t know why she said that. Henry was capable of carrying a few towels. Curiosity, perhaps? The Grabills had their share of guests from time to time, but Henry Edison was the first English man to stay on the farm overnight. Her mother’s provision of ample towels suggested she had no objection to the agent’s staying many nights.
Both the front and rear doors of the barn were wide open. They could see straight through the structure as they approached. Yost and Paul were leading both the milk cows and the feed steer out to pasture. In a strip of land between the barn and the house, a clatter of clucking rose from the adjacent poultry barns, and Polly looked to see her sister Nancy tossing corn feed on the ground. Chickens thronged for their meal. Polly preferred the view on the other side of the house, away from the barn. Bushes lined the lane coming down from the road, and a path led between the fenced pastures, splitting off in one direction toward the crop fields and in another toward the woods that extended to the property line.
Henry’s eyes were wide.
“I could give you a tour of the farm,” Polly said. Why had the government sent someone with little—or no—experience on a farm to interview farm women?
“I might like that,” Henry said, “though I’d like to start the day by studying my files again and getting myself organized.”
“Who is on your list? I know almost everyone around here.”
“I’ll show you.”
They walked past the empty cow stalls, where Betsy and Alice were mucking.
“Unpleasant,” Polly said, “but it has to be done.”
“I’m sure I’ll be grateful,” Henry said, chuckling.
“No doubt.” Polly set the towels on the end of Henry’s narrow bed. “Was there anything you wished you had last night? No one out here has electricity, so on that matter you would not have been any better off on an English farm.”
“I meant to turn the lantern down,” Henry said, “and I managed instead to snuff it out.”
“The wicks can be tricky. I’ll bring you one that is more cooperative.” She coul
d trade the barn lantern for the one beside her bed. While there were many tasks around the farm she felt inadequate for, operating a stubborn lantern was not one of them. It was a matter of basic science. Her eyes drifted toward the desk. “I’ve never seen a typewriter up close.”
“I’m not very good at using it. I don’t know where any of the letters are without looking.”
Polly took the few steps to the desk and put her fingers on the agent handbook. “I suppose this tells you everything you are supposed to do.”
“In detail.”
“Mind if I look?”
“Help yourself.”
Polly picked up the book, opened it to the first page, and began scanning. She flipped pages rapidly, absorbing points of procedure, accuracy of data, structure of interviews.
“Careful,” Henry said. “You might soon know more than I do.”
“Sorry.” She closed the book. He would be shocked if he knew the truth. No one really knew. “Where’s your list? Maybe I can help you with that.”
Henry stood beside her and opened the folder. “These papers are all out of order after …”
He didn’t have to finish. Polly had seen the wreckage that dropping his satchel had caused the day before. Henry found the list of names and handed it to her.
Sure enough, Coblentz was there, the first in alphabetical order. Then came Grabill, Lichty, Oberholzer, and Rupp. Just above Wyse, the final Amish name, was one English family.
Mrs. Ernie Swain.
Laughter burst through Polly’s lips.
“What?” Henry said.
Polly covered her mouth and regained her composure. “Sorry. Yes, I know everyone on your list.”
“Then what are you laughing at?”
“Minerva Swain.”
Henry grabbed the sheet. “The woman from lunch yesterday?”
“The same.”
“I still don’t understand. Why is that amusing? I found her rather humorless, in fact.”
Polly bent at the waist, trying to contain her response. “I’m so sorry,” she said, standing up straight again. “I’m not being very helpful. I’ll just say that you will want to ask your questions carefully. Minerva will be eager to impress, so her answers may be less than reliable.”
Henry glanced at the handbook. “I read something about precautions in such situations.”
Polly nearly blurted out the page number that contained the information Henry would need before he met with Minerva. Instead, she changed the subject.
“I hope you get to meet the Swains’ daughter, Rose. She’s a lovely person. We went to school together, just as our mothers did. Of course, Rose stayed in school through the twelfth grade.”
“I’ll look forward to it.” Henry returned the list to the folder. “I noticed Mrs. Swain is rather sensitive on the question of her sons.”
“Yes, well, you’ll find out soon enough.” Polly turned to go. “I’ll draw you a map. I know all the shortcuts to the farms.”
Minerva resolved to serve Ernie a more robust midday meal. She never invited the farmhands into the kitchen to eat, so they would never have to know they received simplified versions of the menu. But if she could reduce the attraction of going to the Grabills’ for a meal, the extra work would be worth it.
Besides, she had Maude for a few hours most days of the week. She could ask the young housemaid to help in the kitchen more often. Minerva saw no reason she would have to spend any more time chopping and peeling. She did not mind the actual cooking as long as someone else carried the load of preparation. The meal simmering on the stove now filled the house with an aroma that would please anyone’s appetite.
Fortunately, the Amish kept to themselves with rare exceptions. Less fortunately, the friendship between Marlin and Ernie seemed to be one of those exceptions. When Minerva married Ernie, how could she have known that he would buy a farm right next to the man Gloria married? If Ernie had given her any say in the decision, rather than springing it on her after he signed the papers, Minerva would have argued sweetly but determinedly against it.
At least for now she’d done her duty. Surely Ernie wouldn’t inflict on her another visit to the Grabill farm anytime soon.
Minerva turned the page in a catalog more out of habit than interest at the moment. Across the living room, standing at the table next to the front door, Maude picked up her moth-eaten bag and cleared her throat.
Minerva looked up.
“I’ll be going, then,” Maude said.
“Yes, thank you,” Minerva said.
“Ma’am?” Maude said.
“Yes?”
“I’ll be going, then.”
“Yes, you just said so.”
Maude cleared her throat again. “Three weeks now, ma’am.”
Minerva closed her catalog. The girl wanted to be paid.
“If it’s a difficulty, ma’am, then perhaps I should look for other work.”
“Nonsense.” Minerva stood up. “How thoughtless of me to forget. Just give me a moment.”
Minerva went into the bedroom that had sheltered her two sons for more than twenty years. Across from two narrow beds, the closet still held their belongings—everything but what they had stuffed into duffel bags when they left. On the closet floor, against the wall on the left side, was Richard’s tackle box.
Minerva knelt, opened the box, and removed several bills. Cash was dear on a farm. The money was supposed to go to Richard, but she couldn’t risk losing Maude. The thought of how long it would take to replenish the bills constricted Minerva’s stomach.
She paid the maid. It wasn’t quite everything she owed, but it was enough to be sure Maude would return. After the girl left, Minerva returned to the tackle box and pulled out Richard’s last letter.
The one Ernie had not yet seen.
CHAPTER 8
Where is everyone?”
Polly looked up from the kitchen table to see Henry standing in the back door. “They all went back out to the fields.”
“Everyone?” Henry said. “I was hoping to talk to your mother.”
“She didn’t mention it.”
“I haven’t asked her yet. I thought she would still be here.”
Polly had little knowledge of how English wives in Philadelphia passed their time, but Amish farmwives in Lancaster County had too much to do to be in the house all day.
“She might still be in the garden,” she said, “but most likely she’s already in the field with everyone else.”
“I would still like her to be my first official interview.”
Polly inhaled slowly. Her mother’s invitation for Henry to stay in the barn was no guarantee she would cooperate with the study.
“I don’t mean today,” Henry said. “I do realize that she wasn’t the one who was expecting me after all.”
Polly blushed and raised one hand to wipe down the heat.
“That’s why I want to set an appointment, just as I will for the others,” Henry said. “At her convenience.”
He could have spoken up at dinner, or just after.
“Ask her at supper,” Polly said.
“Are all your sisters in the field, too?”
“Digging potatoes is tedious work,” Polly said. “Everybody helps.”
“You’re still here.”
“I offered to do the dinner dishes on my own. Also, I’ve just finished your map.” Polly pushed a large sheet of paper toward him. He couldn’t ask for better detail. All the farm lanes were marked, with notations for how to know he was getting close and precise distances. Polly watched Henry’s face.
“This is remarkable,” he said. “If I’d had something half this good yesterday, I would have been more certain of myself.”
“Have you got your files straightened out?”
He shrugged.
“You still need a tour,” Polly said. “All the Amish farms have most of the same features. I’m sure it will help you to see ours first.”
“I guess I could
work on my preparation later.”
“Let’s go, then.” Polly stood. “You’ve seen the house and barn. We’ll start with the other outbuildings.”
The rear of the house opened onto the barnyard, and the poultry business was adjacent on one side. Polly hesitated, wondering if Henry would be interested in the hens. In the other direction was the stable, and beyond it the horse pasture. The two wagons were missing from their assigned spaces, but the three buggies and the open cart were parked neatly under a wide canopy. Four of the Belgians were laboring in the field, while two more grazed among the standardbreds that pulled the family’s buggies. The cows were in their own pasture. The equipment shed housed assorted hand implements and the plow.
“Where do you keep the tractor?” Henry asked.
Polly shook her head. He had so much to learn.
“No engines,” she said. “Our horses are our power. If they can’t pull it, we don’t use it.”
By now they had circled to the other side of the house, where the family’s vegetable gardens sprawled.
“This is what we grow for ourselves,” Polly said.
“It’s like a small farm unto itself,” Henry said.
“It has to see us through the winter. We’ve already canned some of the early vegetables, but there is a lot more to do.”
“I saw the bushels on the back porch,” Henry said. “Did all that come from here?”
Polly nodded. Later he would want to know the quantities. She could tell him exactly—more precisely than anyone on any of the other farms. She was certain of that.
“How far is it to the fields?” Henry asked.
“Not far to the potatoes.” If they were headed to the wheat or tomato fields, she might have offered to take him in an open cart, but the potatoes were not more than ten minutes away, just beyond the grazing pastures. She doubted the alfalfa would be of interest. Hay was hay. As long as she could tell him how many bales the farm produced and what they were worth, Henry wouldn’t ask for more information.
They walked in the direction of the potato fields.
“I hope you’ve forgiven me for filling out those forms on my mother’s behalf,” Polly said. “I would hate to think it has compromised the study.”
Hope in the Land Page 5