Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  “I know you’re busy,” Henry said. “I’ll try to be more efficient with the questions.”

  Gloria waved a hand. “Your questions are fine. It’s my answers that are unsatisfactory. Polly is the one you need.”

  “The study is based on interviewing the female heads of household,” Henry said.

  Gloria laughed. “Well, Polly has already gotten around that once. I’m sure she can manage again.”

  “Mamm, I apologized for that.” Polly set her mending basket on the table.

  “I know. But it is still better if you answer the agent’s questions.” Polly’s memory for household facts was sharp and detailed. It had been since she was a toddler, and by the time she learned to speak, in both Pennsylvania Dutch and English, she reminded her mother on a daily basis. Some days it was all Gloria could do not to reinforce the pride someone with a mind like Polly’s might feel entitled to. It was a mother’s job to remind her child of demut. Humility in all things.

  Henry began tapping his pen on the table.

  “Mamm,” Polly said, “this is important. It’s for the government—the president.”

  Gloria turned away. Polly had never been interested in the government before. The Amish paid their taxes and minded their own business. Why should any of them think the government’s study was important? But Gloria did not want the agent to bear the consequences of Polly’s impulsiveness.

  “I’ll tell you what,” Gloria said. “Agent Edison, you ask your questions and let Polly answer them. Then you can tell me what she said, and I will officially tell you that her answers are correct.”

  “But what if they’re not?” Polly said.

  “They will be,” Gloria said. Surely Polly would not seriously doubt herself on that matter. “Agent Edison?”

  Henry moistened his lips and swallowed. “It’s not the way my training suggested, but I don’t think it will compromise the research.”

  “There you have it.” Gloria crossed the kitchen toward the back door. She would get the water herself.

  CHAPTER 13

  The buggy jostled, but Henry was wedged between Polly and Lena in the first of two Grabill buggies to leave the farm on Sunday morning and in no danger of sliding in either direction on the bench. In front of them Gloria and Marlin occupied the front bench, and behind them were Lillian, Nancy, and Betsy. Everyone else was in the second buggy. When the boys married and the babies came, Polly had explained a few minutes ago, the family had abandoned squeezing everyone into one buggy, even to drive to church.

  “Are you sure this isn’t out of your way?” Henry asked. “I could walk from here.”

  As it was, he would be more than an hour early for the service at the German Lutheran church in town. Accepting a ride meant leaving at a time that would allow the Grabills to reach their own service on time. At the time Marlin offered to take him, Henry thought an early arrival preferable to arriving for worship drenched in perspiration.

  “You’ve seen the map,” Polly said. “You know we’re going right through town.”

  “Of course.” He did know. The Coblentz farm, which Henry had not yet visited, was well on the other side of town in the area where houses and businesses dwindled into open space.

  “You could always change your mind and come with us,” Polly said. “It would be a good chance to meet more of the Amish families, and there are sure to be some lively games after the meal.”

  The smell of the Grabill contribution to the Amish potlatch meal, wrapped and stowed under the front bench, wafted in on every breath Henry took. But the week already had brought myriad new experiences and constancy of people. He savored the thought of a familiar style of worship and a Sabbath afternoon on his own.

  “Thank you,” he said. “Maybe next week.”

  “Next week is a visiting Sunday,” Polly said. “No worship.”

  “Then the week after.” A church that did not gather every Sunday was an odd thought, but so was the notion of worshipping on someone’s farm rather than in a church building.

  “I’ll ask again.”

  Henry could see the church steeple now and leaned forward. “I’m happy to get out here. Stretching my legs for a few blocks will feel good.”

  Marlin took the team of horses, one a shiny black and the other chestnut brown, to the side of the road. Lena climbed out to allow Henry to disembark.

  “How will you get home?” Lena asked.

  “I’ll walk.” He could remove his suit jacket for the walk, and if he got too warm, he could always pump cold water over his head once he got back to the Grabill farm.

  “I left some chicken in the icebox,” Gloria said. “Help yourself.”

  Lena settled into her seat again. Henry offered a vague smile in the direction of all the travelers and waved as Marlin put the horses into motion again.

  The Coblentz home was wide and deep, constructed two decades ago not only with the thought of accommodating a growing family but with consideration for a growing church district as well. No one complained about meeting in barns of hosting families when the rooms of the house were too small for the congregation, but Polly couldn’t be the only one to breathe a prayer of thanks when the rotation took worshippers to the Coblentz home, where both the service and the meal could be held inside.

  Polly let the rest of her family exit the buggy. Her daed had parked as close to the Coblentz house as he could, but at least a dozen families had already arrived, their buggies lining the fence. Lena was unhitching the horses, something she managed to do in half the time it would take Polly, and Sylvia stood by to lead them into the pasture where they would spend the next six or seven hours. Polly’s dilemma was how to get from the buggy to the house without appearing pathetic. As much as she lectured herself about containing her pride, she dreaded the attention the crutches would draw. At least the swelling was down enough that Lena’s shoes, larger than Polly’s, still allowed room for the bandages protecting the wound. It was a relief to be out of her father’s clunky boots.

  Everyone would be asking how she injured herself. Thomas was sure to see her.

  Polly would like to say simply that the injury resulted from an accident in the field. All the congregation worked in fields. They would understand that accidents happen. But all it would take was one member of her family telling one other person the details of her clumsy step. Everyone would know before the opening hymn, and Polly would sink under the knowing smiles. Her ineptitude was no secret.

  The Grabills had farmed for almost two hundred years in North America and at least another hundred in Europe before that. How could it be so difficult for the daughter of generations of farmers to make peace with the land?

  “Need some help?”

  In the flash of recognition, dismay mingled with pleasure. Polly turned her gaze to meet Thomas’s.

  “Yost told me,” Thomas said, leaning into the buggy.

  How much had Yost revealed?

  “It’s nothing,” Polly said. “A few more days and I’ll be like new.”

  “It will take as long as it takes,” Thomas said.

  “I’m not always so clumsy,” she blurted, as if saying it aloud would make it true. She might not be the cook her sisters were becoming, but no one would ever starve in her kitchen, and not all of the vegetables she planted withered on the vine. She was a fine driver, and she could coax a flame out of a reluctant wick better than any of her siblings. When she left school six years ago, the teacher said Polly was the best student she’d ever had. Surely that counted for something.

  “I’m sorry you’re hurt,” Thomas said.

  His placid tone, devoid of ruse, rippled over her doubts. “Thank you,” she said.

  “The new volleyball pit is finished,” Thomas said. “I’ll guess you’ll have to wait for another day to play.”

  “I can watch.” A row of spectators was the safest place for Polly even when she hadn’t stepped into the swing of a farm implement.

  “Come on.” Thomas extend
ed a hand. “Church will start soon.”

  Polly put her palm in his and pushed up on her good foot. Maybe the day would be all right after all.

  The postlude ebbed while Henry inched forward in the line to shake the minister’s hand at the back of the sanctuary. The service had varied only in small ways from what Henry was accustomed to in Philadelphia, whether he worshipped in the German Lutheran church where his grandmother had taken him throughout his boyhood or—more occasionally—in the larger church Coralie’s family attended. So far he had not been invited to sit with her family, but even sitting on the other side of the sanctuary and toward the back made him feel that he knew her better.

  He introduced himself to the minister and stepped out into the sunlight. As he contemplated whether it would compromise propriety to remove his suit jacket while still on the steps of the church, a hand clapped him on the back.

  “Good to see you here.” Ernie Swain grinned at Henry.

  “Good morning, Mr. Swain.” Henry offered his hand.

  “The name’s Ernie. I saw you across the aisle and wondered how you’re settling in.”

  “I have some appointments set up,” Henry said. “This week the work will begin in earnest.”

  “Minerva said you were by our place the other day,” Ernie said.

  “She’s on my schedule for tomorrow.”

  “She wasn’t clear on why Polly had to drive you over.”

  “My car hasn’t wanted to start.” Henry glanced up. Minerva and Rose approached.

  “Well, we’ll have to see what we can do about that,” Ernie said. “I’m pretty good with machinery. I keep all my farm equipment running, after all. Shall I have a look?”

  Hope surged through Henry’s chest. “I would value an experienced opinion.”

  “You must be on foot this morning,” Ernie said.

  “Yes, but it’s a nice day for a walk.”

  Minerva touched her husband’s elbow, and he turned. “Oh good. Are you ready to go?”

  “If you are,” Minerva said. She tilted the brim of her hat in Henry’s direction.

  “Let’s do a good deed and take Henry home,” Ernie said. “He’s having trouble with his car. Maybe I can help him.”

  Minerva’s eyes narrowed. Was she puzzled or annoyed? Henry couldn’t tell.

  “It doesn’t have to be today,” Henry said.

  “We’ll just have a look,” Ernie said. “Then I’ll have an idea what it needs.”

  “Ernie, it’s Sunday,” Minerva said.

  Henry caught Rose’s eye. She stood a couple of steps behind her mother and smiled.

  “Come on, Min,” Ernie said. “It’s barely even out of our way.”

  “Where will he sit?” Minerva said.

  Ernie turned to Henry. “You don’t mind the truck bed, do you?”

  “No, sir.”

  Sitting with his back against the side of the bed and his arms resting atop the bony points of his knees drawn up, Henry admired the satiny purr of Ernie’s engine. Anyone who achieved that result in his own vehicle could do no harm to Henry’s.

  Through the back window of the truck cab, Henry saw Rose between her parents, her hair twisted at the nape of her neck just the way Coralie wore hers on ordinary days. They both must have seen it in a magazine. Coralie’s hair was fiery red, as if it defined the personality she had grown into. A muted echo of Coralie’s color, Rose’s hair was a hue Henry supposed the girls he knew would call auburn. Her hat was simpler than anything Coralie would wear though. She didn’t seem to have her mother’s tastes either.

  Ernie pulled his truck alongside Henry’s car outside the Grabill house. Rose slid out after her father and wandered toward the pasture where the workhorses—Belgians, Polly had called them—grazed. One of them came to her like an old friend, and she put her hands against his curious lips. The circumstances that persuaded Henry to put his hand so near an animal’s mouth would have to be extreme.

  Minerva remained in the truck. Just glancing at her expression made Henry nervous. How did anyone ever relax with Minerva within sight?

  When Ernie released the hood, the engine looked just as it had the last time Henry tried to spy what was wrong. Ernie removed his suit jacket and handed it to Henry before rolling up his sleeves. Henry glanced at the truck, where Minerva now rolled down the window and leaned her head out.

  “Your wife seems to be in a hurry.” Henry tried to watch Minerva without meeting her eye. He had to interview Minerva tomorrow. It would not bode well if she started out irritated with him for detaining her husband.

  “I have about two and a half minutes.” Ernie poked around the engine, jiggling things and testing connections and nodding.

  “Do you know what’s wrong?” Henry asked.

  “I have some theories,” Ernie said. “You say it doesn’t start at all?”

  Henry shook his head. “Nothing.” The passenger door of the truck creaked open.

  “Let me do some reading,” Ernie said. “It’s the Sabbath, so it’s not the day to get involved, but I won’t forget you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Henry watched the passenger door swing fully open.

  “Five, four, three, two, one,” Ernie muttered.

  Henry peered at the engine. What was Ernie counting?

  Minerva stepped out of the truck. “Ernie?”

  Ernie grinned at Henry and slammed the hood closed. “Do I know my wife?”

  CHAPTER 14

  Polly leaned back on her elbows, her legs stretched out in front of her on the quilt. After sitting in church for three hours and then at the meal served on benches converted to tables, unfolding her legs in a position that put no weight at all on her sore foot felt good. The new Coblentz volleyball pit proved popular among the young people, while most of their parents visited closer to the house. Everyone stumbled and fell during a volleyball match. It was part of the bravery of the game to dive for the ball, and a player who tumbled while saving the point was cheered. This was one of the reasons Polly enjoyed playing—the main reason—even if she wasn’t skilled.

  Lena rotated out of play and plopped down on the quilt beside Polly. “This is so much better than the weedy patch where we usually have to play. They were smart to clear enough space to put up two nets.”

  Polly turned her gaze to the second net, hung a little lower with younger players in mind.

  “It’s too bad Henry didn’t want to come,” Lena said. “Relaxing would be good for him.”

  Polly didn’t blame Henry for declining the invitation. A three-hour service in high German and a long meal with a hundred strangers chattering in Pennsylvania Dutch would be too much for most English. By now he would be home enjoying some peace and quiet over cold fried chicken, perhaps in the swing on the back porch.

  “I’ve been thinking about Henry,” Polly said.

  Lena giggled. “Oh?”

  Polly slapped Lena’s knee. “Not that way.” At least not for herself.

  Thomas jumped and whacked the ball away from the net.

  “Henry seems nice,” Lena said.

  “He is. I think he should get to know Rose better.”

  “Rose Swain?”

  Did they know another Rose?

  “She’d be perfect for him,” Polly said.

  “You barely know him.”

  “I’m the reason he’s here,” Polly said, “and I’ve spent more time with him than anyone else.”

  “How do you know he doesn’t have a betrothed waiting for him in Philadelphia?”

  She didn’t. But she doubted it.

  “He’s nervous and intense,” Polly said. “Rose is just the opposite. She would balance him perfectly.”

  “Lena!” someone called. “You’re back in.”

  Lena bounced to her feet and took her place in the game.

  Henry and Rose. The biggest obstacle would be Minerva. Polly’s lips worked in and out as she calculated the probabilities of various solutions.

  Thomas was just ta
ll enough to be a team’s best asset when he was next to the net and humble enough to wave off the accolades when he blocked a ball from even making it over. He had a way of dropping the ball into an empty space between players on the other team. Polly smiled every time.

  After two matches of three games each, the older players agreed to break long enough for everyone to have a cold drink. Polly weighed her own thirst against the effort of getting up on her crutches and hobbling toward the water barrel. By now everyone knew what had happened. At least she wouldn’t have to answer that question again.

  “Don’t get up.” It was Thomas who cast a shadow across Polly’s lap. “I’ll bring you a cup of water.”

  She nodded, and he strode across the yard. Laughter rose and fell as most of the group transferred their attention to the water and lemonade on a table alongside the last pieces of pie. Thomas did not get caught up in conversation. He returned in a direct manner with two tin cups of water.

  “Are you doing all right?” He handed her a cup and sat on the corner of the quilt.

  Polly waved her free hand toward her bandaged foot. “I wish I could play.”

  “Me, too,” Thomas said. “But I like looking over and seeing you there, watching.”

  Sometimes Polly thought she had embarrassed herself on a regular enough basis that she should never have grounds to blush again. But Thomas made the heat rise in her neck.

  “Will you be at the Singing tonight?” Thomas asked.

  If she said yes, his next question would be whether he could take her home. His question would be a balm to her heart.

  But not to her foot. Despite the smile on her face and her pleasure in the day, her foot throbbed. Already her attention had intermittently drifted to her parents’ movements among the cluster of their own friends, and she wondered when they might come down the hill to ask if she wanted to go home with them.

  “You don’t feel up to it, do you?” Thomas said. “I can see it in your eyes.”