Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  “It can’t be too interesting,” Henry said. He pressed his lips together as he pulled on the reins to slow the horse and navigate a turn.

  “Well done.” Polly flipped another page and came to a typed summary report about the Rupp farm. “How long did it take you to type this?”

  “Too long,” Henry said. “I don’t use the right fingers.”

  “Do you know the right fingers?”

  He shrugged. “Mostly. But I have to look at the letters anyway, so why does it matter which fingers I use?”

  “Maybe I could learn to type.”

  “I’m sure you’d be very good at it. You manage what you put your mind to.”

  Polly scoffed. “The broom fiasco offers evidence otherwise.”

  “Practice. If you really want to make brooms, you will.”

  Polly was fairly certain she had made her first and last foray into broom construction. “Here we are,” she said.

  Henry guided the horse to a smooth stop along the fence.

  “You manage what you put your mind to as well,” Polly said. Getting out of the cart on her own had become easier with each attempt. Polly landed on her good foot and steadied herself on one crutch. A splotch of flour made her wince. Changing her apron would have been the sensible thing to do, but she hadn’t been feeling sensible when she watched Lena rescue the pie Polly had promised to Thomas. Polly rubbed a thumb through the flour, dispersing it.

  Mrs. Coblentz stood outside the front door, waiting for them. “Welcome.”

  Any young woman would be fortunate to have Mrs. Coblentz for a mother-in-law. Four could already attest to the blessing of marrying one of the five Coblentz sons.

  “Thomas promised me a fish today.” Mrs. Coblentz’s blue eyes twinkled.

  “I heard,” Polly said.

  “Polly made him a cheese pie to bring home, too,” Henry said. “She started one, at least. Lena took over.”

  If Polly had been a few inches closer to Henry, she might have put an elbow in his ribs.

  “Come in out of the sun,” Mrs. Coblentz said. “I made lemonade.”

  Inside, Henry asked his questions and recorded the answers. At the conclusion of this accounting, Henry asked what food stores the family had on hand.

  “Do you mean in the cellar?” Mrs. Coblentz asked.

  “A pantry, a cellar, anyplace you might have dry goods or canned goods that we could place a monetary value on,” Henry said.

  “I wouldn’t begin to know what they would cost to buy,” Mrs. Coblentz said.

  “I have some charts that will help us with that,” Henry said. “And Polly has a good head for figures.”

  “Yes, Thomas remarks about the same thing.”

  Polly’s stomach constricted. A good head for figures. Perhaps that was the best Thomas could express in front of his mother, or perhaps that was all he really thought.

  Polly limped with the others down the stairs to the cellar, where she estimated the pounds of potatoes and calculated the quarts of green beans and corn and beets and tomatoes and applesauce and sliced peaches and berries. Henry browsed as if they had walked into a food market. Polly would have thought he’d seen enough of Amish farms to know how they fed themselves in the winter, but his eyes widened each time he saw a farm cellar. He scribbled harder.

  Henry left forms for a weeklong food diary with Mrs. Coblentz, with the caution that the household should consume only the usual foods and not make any special effort on behalf of the research project other than to record thoroughly. He would return in one week to collect the forms and other information.

  Mrs. Coblentz massaged Polly’s shoulder as they said their good-byes. The gesture held affection, but was the affection wrapped in encouragement or pity? Polly couldn’t be sure.

  “You’re remarkable,” Henry said as he raised the reins to drive the rig back to the Grabill farm.

  “What are you talking about?” Polly glanced over. “Hold the reins more firmly, please. You’ll confuse the horse.”

  Henry adjusted his grip. “Your powers of observation and mental calculations are astonishing. I only showed you my pricing sheet once—last week. But you remember every entry and can immediately calculate that Mrs. Wyse’s pantry is worth thirty-seven dollars more than Mrs. Coblentz’s.”

  “You’ve got that backward,” Polly said.

  “I remember that Mrs. Wyse had all those beets.”

  “That was Mrs. Oberholzer.”

  “I’m sure it was Mrs. Wyse. She had all that fabric she had dyed with beet juice the way her grandmother used to do.”

  Polly sighed. “That was Mrs. Lichty.”

  “Mrs. Lichty has all the new rakes and hoes. I remember that it made the value of her equipment noticeably higher.”

  “Only the blades and tines were new,” Polly said. “Her husband sanded down the old handles to use again.”

  “Are you certain?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “It’s all in my notes,” Henry muttered.

  “That’s a good thing,” Polly said, “because it doesn’t seem to be in your head.”

  Henry caught the smirk forming at the corner of her mouth. Of course she was right. Polly may have bumbled herself into injury, and from what Henry had seen in the kitchen a few hours ago, she wasn’t much of a baker, but the amount of information she could organize and recall without ever putting pen to paper must have made her an exceptional student when she was younger. Her family and friends took for granted what Polly would know, and he had not seen her disappoint them. Even among the men he knew, Henry could think of no one with comparable ability.

  “You’ve been incredibly helpful to me,” Henry said. “Introducing me to the Amish households, helping the wives feel comfortable with my questions, reminding them of what they might be leaving out—how can I express my gratitude?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said.

  It wasn’t nothing. Henry had made a few visits on his own with Rose’s bicycle. Now he wondered if it would be wise to ask Polly to read over his notes. If he had overlooked information or misinterpreted a response, she would know.

  “Here’s the turn,” Polly said. “Slow down a little more.”

  He followed instructions and took the horse and cart down the Grabill lane toward the stable. Lena stood outside, brushing one of the workhorses. To Henry, the Belgians all looked alike, so he avoided having to refer to them by name.

  “How did the pie come out?” Polly asked. “Has Thomas come back for it yet?”

  “They aren’t back from fishing,” Lena said, “but the pie disappeared.”

  “Disappeared?” Polly steadied herself on the side of the wagon while she got her crutch in position. “Did you let somebody eat it?”

  “Of course not,” Lena said. “I set it out to cool on the window ledge like we always do. When I looked ten minutes later, it was gone.”

  “Someone stole it?” Henry said.

  “Probably a vagrant.” Lena pulled the brush down the horse’s neck. “We’re close enough to town that people pass through.”

  “But to steal a pie?” Philadelphia had its share of petty thieves who would steal anything not bolted in place. Henry had imagined rural Lancaster County would be different.

  “So I’m sorry, Polly,” Lena said. “I’ll explain to Thomas, if you like.”

  “No,” Polly said quickly. “I’ll do it.”

  “I’ll be right back for your mare.”

  Lena picked up the Belgian’s lead and led the animal inside the stable. Henry watched Polly. Instead of heading for the house, she rotated slowly and scanned in every direction.

  “What are you looking for?” Henry asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Polly said.

  Henry waited. Polly’s mind was never idle. She was looking around for a reason, and not just to find her missing pie.

  Polly saw nothing unusual, but the sensation of something amiss clung to her. Betsy and Nancy must have gone straight out to the
fields when they came home from school. Mamm must be picking as well. Polly watched for Yost and Thomas. They couldn’t be much longer. Even for fishing, neither of them would be inconsiderate about arriving home in time for the evening meal. While she waited, Polly peeled potatoes for supper on the back porch then stripped the husks off corn on the front porch. Filling pots with water and putting them to boil was still ambitious given the tenuous condition of her foot, but Lena could help with that. Between them they could have supper under way. Using both crutches, Polly cycled twice around the collection of outbuildings looking for her sister and expecting Yost and Thomas to turn up at any moment.

  The second time Polly passed the equipment shed, Lena’s green dress swished around a corner. Polly followed at a slower speed.

  Her heart thudded. Thomas was there, his back to Polly, in earnest conversation with Lena.

  Swinging around to retreat, Polly misjudged the space around an oil barrel. Her crutch clanged into it.

  “Polly!” Lena and Thomas jumped apart.

  “I only wanted help getting the water on to boil,” Polly said. If she had come a moment sooner or waited a moment longer, her mind would not have stored this picture of Thomas and Lena huddling out of sight. “I can see you’re busy.”

  “I’ll go do it right now.” Lena walked toward Polly and touched her elbow. “Come on.”

  The backs of Polly’s eyes stung. She refused to cry. Not in front of Thomas. Not because of Lena.

  “I suppose Lena told you the pie went missing,” Polly said to Thomas.

  He looked confused.

  “You said you wanted to tell him,” Lena said.

  “There’s not much to tell,” Polly said. “Someone else is enjoying your pie.” Someone else baked it, and now someone else was eating it.

  “I’ll see you back at the house,” Lena said.

  She left in a hurry for someone who had nothing to hide.

  “Why didn’t you just tell me?” Polly wheeled on Thomas.

  “Tell you what?”

  “About Lena.”

  “About Lena?” Thomas echoed.

  “About how you feel about her. We’re not children.” Neither were they betrothed. Thomas was free to change his mind. It wasn’t hard to see why he would. It was just as well the pie was gone. Thomas would know she couldn’t possibly have baked it on her own.

  Thomas looked away.

  Foolishness rolled over Polly. When she banged her crutch against the oil barrel again, it was on purpose.

  “Polly, wait.”

  She heard Thomas. But she did not wait.

  Polly went up to bed as soon as supper was over. Sylvia came to their shared room next, and Polly rolled toward the wall. When Lena crept in, the dark room lit only by the stub of a candle, Polly closed her eyes.

  How many hours could there be in one night? Listening to her sisters breathe, Polly estimated the hours as easily as she counted mason jars in a cellar. She was the last Grabill down to breakfast on Wednesday morning.

  Henry lingered during the family’s devotional time. Sometimes Daed reached for his Bible even before the dishes were cleared, leaving Henry no sliver of time to excuse himself. This amused Polly, who was convinced Daed liked to tease Henry about practicing the German his grandmother must have taught him, before switching to English soon enough.

  The family scattered, leaving Polly with the breakfast dishes she had promised to wash.

  “Would you have time to look at some of my papers?” Henry asked.

  She shrugged one shoulder. Time was all she had to offer these days, and no one else seemed to want it. Only yesterday she had been determined to refuse Henry’s dependence on her. Now she welcomed something to distract her mind.

  “I suppose,” she said. “Bring them in.”

  “I could bring the typewriter in, too,” he said. “If you’re still interested in learning.”

  Polly shook her head. She could read on the porch or in the yard. Explaining the presence of a typewriter was more than she was in the mood to take on.

  “Where are you headed today?” she asked.

  “The Lichtys’. You were right about Mrs. Lichty. After hearing from the others, she’s ready to help.”

  “And tomorrow?”

  “Tomorrow I’m going to Philadelphia.”

  Polly twisted her head to look at him over her shoulder. He still had Coralie Kimball on his mind. He was hopeless.

  Maybe he wasn’t the only one.

  CHAPTER 27

  The morning milking still woke Henry. Sixteen days of sleeping in the barn had not inured him to the grunt of the door sliding open when a pair of Grabill sisters leaned into it, but Henry at least had learned to roll over and ignore the commotion. The girls were efficient, and for his sake their chatter had shifted to whispers and sometimes dissipated for stretches of time, leaving only the sound of the milk hitting the buckets. Eventually, though, their voices would rise again. Their presence alerted him to the spreading orb of brightness outside, and when the girls left, Henry would get out of bed and ready himself to greet his hosts over breakfast.

  Betsy and Nancy were milking today, fulfilling a chore they could safely complete in time to have breakfast and morning devotions with the family, pack their lunch pails, and leave in time for a prompt arrival at school.

  The easiness of their morning conversations soothed Henry, but he understood little of what they said. Here and there a word harkened back to his grandmother’s German accent or a voice from his childhood church, but by the time his mind found the English equivalent, all context had evaporated. Coralie was the one who had an ear for languages. Her French was exceptional and her Italian impressive—or so it seemed to Henry. With so little facility of his own, he could only rely on the opinions of others and his observation of how easily she slipped between languages depending on who was in the room.

  Coralie.

  Henry wrestled most of the night with the prospect of seeing her that day. Certainly he wanted to, and he persuaded himself that he could afford the excursion even after setting aside money he owed. His check had arrived and the bank had willingly cashed it. If he took a train early in the day, he would have time to walk the miles to the Kimball home, rather than take a taxi or even a bus. He would still arrive midafternoon, in plenty of time to visit with Coralie, exchange cordialities with her parents, and freshen up to escort her to the event. Breakfast with the Grabills would sustain him all day. The party would have food of some sort. Then he could get the last train back—provided Coralie was willing to drive him to the station.

  The girls’ murmurings rose and fell. Henry counted four cows milked, leaving two more. Waiting for them to leave each morning afforded Henry more privacy. With a few more minutes to doze, he took a deep breath and closed his eyes.

  Checking on the chickens was respite. A few minutes of human silence gave Gloria’s spirit space to expand, to fill itself with the prayer of work, to offer gratitude for the gift of caring for the land so that it might in turn care for her family. During the harvest season, when Gloria looked for empty corners of her day that she might fill with her presence alongside Marlin and their children, the moments of pause were especially restorative.

  She exited the network of poultry sheds at the rear—they seemed more cramped every day—and stood in the empty farmyard. Half expecting to find Henry on the back porch foraging for a late breakfast, she debated the efficiencies of packing odds and ends of nourishment to take to the fields to feed her family to spare them all the interruption to their productivity that preparing and consuming a midday dinner in the house would require. Cold meat, cheese, bread, fruit, and lemonade would keep everyone picking. Even Polly was out in the field today to watch the boppli on an old quilt so their mothers could pick. Marlin was beginning to feel an urgency to getting the tomatoes in.

  Only on two other days had Henry not appeared at the early morning breakfast table because he had worked late until the lantern burned low, an
d on those occasions he had been satisfied with bread, hard-boiled eggs, and milk.

  But he was not on the back porch, where Lillian sat with her copy of the Budget.

  “Has Mr. Edison come for his breakfast?” Gloria asked.

  Lillian did not lift her head. “I’ve not seen Mr. Edison today.”

  In the kitchen, Gloria saw no evidence that anyone had sliced off the loaf of bread or removed one of the boiled eggs in the icebox. She returned to the back porch and stared toward the barn.

  Lillian turned a page. “Wasn’t Mr. Edison to go to Philadelphia today? I heard him tell Polly just yesterday.”

  For once Lillian’s nosiness served a purpose. Gloria thumped down the steps, crossed the yard, and hurried along the length of the barn to the smaller rear door. There she hesitated. Henry might simply be working, though Gloria’s intuition told her otherwise.

  She propped open the door and stepped quietly toward the room where Henry stayed.

  He was sound asleep, his uncombed curly brown hair suggesting the little boy he had once been.

  “Henry,” Gloria said. “Are you all right?”

  Her voice did not wake him. Had he caught Sylvia’s illness? Gloria opened the half door and crept in to lay her hand against his cheek.

  His eyes flickered.

  “Are you all right, Henry?”

  His intake of air was sharp. “What time is it?”

  “Late. I was beginning to worry. Do you feel unwell?”

  He sat up and looked out the window to see the hour for himself.

  “Lillian says this is the day you were going to Philadelphia.”

  He dropped his forehead into one palm. “It is.”

  “What time is your train?”

  Henry reached for his watch on the edge of the desk. “In forty minutes.”

  “Get dressed,” Gloria said. “I’ll drive you into town.”