Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  Henry did not dare let himself doze on the train, lest he wake to find the conductor punching his round-trip ticket in the opposite direction on the train making its loop back out across Lancaster County. The train was not an express. It stopped every few miles, taking on and letting off passengers.

  When the train slowed yet again, Henry pictured the map in his mind, trying to remember which station they were approaching.

  “Where are we?” a man across the aisle called out.

  Henry wanted to know as well. The train was nowhere near the outskirts of Philadelphia. Neither was it approaching a scheduled stop in the outlying countryside.

  “We’re in the middle of a cow field,” someone said.

  Henry did not dispute the observation. But why? He pinched the latches to open the window, leaned out, and looked forward, but he was sitting too far back in the train to discern anything helpful.

  The train jerked to a stop. Henry caught himself on the seat in front of him.

  “I have an appointment.” The man across the aisle made a display of looking at his pocket watch. “This railroad needs to learn to respect a schedule.”

  Henry eased out his breath, trying to slow his rising pulse. The longer the train sat still, the more passengers craned their heads out the windows. Henry’s left toes began to tap inside his shoe. Then his heel began to lift and drop, creating a rhythmic creak each time his shoe met the floor.

  “I’m going to find the conductor.” The man across the aisle stomped through the carriage and out the forward door into the vestibule.

  Henry’s foot jiggled faster.

  Finally the conductor entered the car and gripped the two front seats.

  “Folks, we have a situation,” the conductor said.

  A groan rose in unison.

  “We’ve got some broken fencing,” the conductor said. “Quite a few cows have wandered onto the tracks. One of them appears to have gotten a hoof stuck. We’re doing our best to clear the tracks and contact the dairy farmer we believe owns the cows.”

  “How long will it take?” someone called out.

  “These things take time,” the conductor said.

  “Doesn’t the railroad have some kind of agreement with the farmers?” the passenger countered. “Isn’t it their responsibility to keep the cows off the tracks?”

  “At the moment, that’s a moot point,” the conductor said. “The engineer received fair warning that the cows were there and came to a safe stop. We’re not going to run them over now.”

  Henry flopped his head against the window. He had five miles to walk when he got to Philadelphia. Every minute mattered.

  “If any of you think you have special influence over cows, just let me know.” The conductor raised his palms. “We can use all the help we can get.”

  Henry stood up. “I’ll help.” Sleeping in the barn did not make him an expert in bovine behavior, but he had seen the Grabill girls shoo cows in the pasture toward the barn. Anything was better than doing nothing.

  The train was more than an hour late arriving in Philadelphia. Lacking an objective opinion about how much the smell of the cow he had helped to free from the tracks had remained in his clothing, Henry went straight into the men’s room at the station to scrub his face and hands and use a damp towel to freshen his shirt as best he could.

  The miles to the Kimball house still stretched before him. The warm, dry September that produced the bumper crop of tomatoes on the Grabill farm also produced oppressive heat in the city, which slammed Henry as soon as he left the railroad terminal.

  “Wear your good suit,” Coralie had said.

  He only had one suit, and it wouldn’t look like a good suit by the time Henry arrived at the Kimball home. Even at a pace that would cover the distance in an hour—which was doubtful—Henry would be late.

  On the corner outside Coralie’s home, Henry did the best he could to mask the effects of a five-mile walk on a warm day in a suit made of woolen fibers. Coralie would have to understand. He would be frank with her about the train ride, and she would offer him the opportunity to suitably refresh himself. Perhaps she would even ask the maid to press the front of his shirt. Henry wouldn’t ask, but if Coralie offered, he would accept.

  He rang the bell. The maid answered and admitted him.

  Instead of the maid returning with Coralie, however, Mrs. Kimball’s heels clicked across the foyer.

  “Mr. Edison.”

  Henry did not offer his sweaty hand. “Good afternoon.”

  “Coralie is not here,” Mrs. Kimball said.

  Not here. Henry debated the etiquette of asking for a glass of water under the circumstances. He dabbed with his handkerchief at the perspiration dripping along his hairline.

  “I had the impression Coralie expected you earlier.” Mrs. Kimball stacked her hands at her waist.

  “Well, yes,” Henry said. “We had discussed an earlier arrival, but I faced an unfortunate delay.”

  Mrs. Kimball’s eyes scanned him head to foot. “It would seem so.”

  “Perhaps I can find my own way.” Even as Henry spoke, his feet ached in protest. “If you would be kind enough to give me the address, I won’t disturb you further.”

  She hesitated.

  Henry’s throat screamed for water. On the farm he would gladly have pumped well water over his head at this point.

  “I don’t believe I can help you,” Mrs. Kimball said softly.

  Henry met her eyes.

  “I know my daughter well. She chose not to wait for you. I must respect that.”

  Henry lacked the spit even to moisten his lips. “I will explain the circumstances when I see Coralie.”

  “Perhaps you don’t realize how … unpresentable … you are. It does not seem advisable that you should appear at this particular event in your condition.”

  You mean I shouldn’t appear at all. Just say it.

  “The address, Mrs. Kimball. That is all I ask.”

  “Good day, Mr. Edison. Ingrid will show you out.”

  CHAPTER 28

  The chickens are fussing.” Lillian passed by the vegetable garden early Friday morning without offering to help.

  Gloria heard for herself the state of her poultry. The noise level from the sheds had abruptly become four or five times higher, and it was more than fussing.

  Kuh-kh-kuh-kuh-kack! Above this cackle of alarmed hens came the siren call of a rooster and the squawk of a chicken in full protest state.

  Gloria dropped her rake and hustled across the yard to the sheds. The ruckus came from the laying shed, and she burst in.

  A man stood with a gray felt hat full of her eggs and a young hen under one arm.

  Gloria braced her feet. “What are you doing in my henhouse?”

  The man released the hen. “I wasn’t going to take her. Eggs are enough.”

  “Enough for what?” Gloria sized him up. Dusty trousers, soles gaping where stitching to his work boots had come loose, a shirt that needed mending, an unplanned beard, and shaggy hair. If he didn’t yet know about the soup kitchen at the German Lutheran Church, it should be his next stop.

  “I’m an honest man,” he said.

  Gloria pointed at his hat. “You’re stealing my eggs.”

  He made no move to put the eggs back.

  “I’m on hard times, that’s all,” he said. “I had a job for eleven years. Then they closed the plant. I couldn’t pay the rent.”

  His voice trailed off, and his eyes dropped. Gloria had heard iterations of this story from time to time in the last five or six years. The man before her was not the first unintentional vagrant to come through farm country. People who did not live off the land were at the mercy of those who had more money than they did. But one day even the man who owned the factory had no money to pay his workers. Hope sank into quicksand one stolen meal at a time.

  “Give me the eggs.” Gloria reached for the hat. “Come up to the porch. I’ll boil the eggs for you to take with you, and while
you wait I’ll fix you a plate of food.”

  “I’ll work,” he said. “I want to work. An honest day’s work. I saw all the people in your fields, and it looked to me like you might be hiring.”

  “It’s all family,” Gloria said. Marlin would say they had no cash to pay a worker. Henry already occupied the only bed she might have offered this man on another day. “I’ll tell you where you can try though.”

  “Where?” His eyes perked up, and they began to walk toward the house.

  “The Swain place is not far,” Gloria said. “They won’t be able to pay you, but they have a bunkhouse and they’ll feed you just like they do the other hands.”

  “Do you really think they’ll take me on?”

  “I can’t promise,” Gloria said, “and it would be for a few weeks at best, only until the end of the harvest.”

  “I’ll inquire. Thank you kindly.”

  “We had a pie go missing a few days ago,” Gloria said. “A cheese pie. Right from the windowsill.”

  The man shook his head. “No, ma’am. It wasn’t me. I don’t take anything from somebody’s house.”

  Just from henhouses, apparently.

  “Are you traveling alone?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I have no family.”

  At the back porch, Gloria pointed to a chair. “You can sit there. I’ll put the eggs on to boil and be back with a plate.”

  Henry scuffed along the road from town, spent of all consideration for his appearance. With his suit rumpled and his hat flattened, a stranger would not suspect Henry was an agent of the United States government.

  None of it mattered after last night’s disaster.

  Henry had tried to find Coralie. He wrangled the use of a telephone and called a couple of her friends. When he thought he had a hint of where she might be, he ran for two miles.

  It was the wrong house. No party. No Coralie. Famished, parched, and exhausted, Henry surrendered. A glimpse of his own reflection in a store window did him in. If he turned up at the party now, the host wouldn’t believe that he kept company with someone like Coralie Kimball. None of the guests would want to consider employing him.

  And now he was even farther from the train station.

  The last train left the station without Henry Edison. He’d dozed, fitful, on a wooden bench waiting for the announcement of the first morning train back to Lancaster County, from which he had just disembarked.

  Henry kicked up a spray of gravel along the side of the road. He missed meeting the people Coralie thought might help his career. He missed even seeing Coralie. He’d spent most of the last two nights awake. And he hadn’t eaten in twenty-four hours. This didn’t seem like the life of a government worker.

  The clip-clop of a horse behind him made Henry turn to look. A man driving a buggy stopped.

  Thomas Coblentz.

  “Mr. Edison,” Thomas said, “you look like you could use a ride.”

  Disputing the observation would be a waste of breath. Henry nodded.

  “Get in,” Thomas said.

  “I don’t want to take you out of your way.”

  “I have time to drop you at the Grabills’.”

  Henry hoisted himself up into the buggy, which sat higher off the ground than the cart he and Polly had been using the last couple of weeks. Thomas drove a team of two horses rather than one mild-mannered aged mare. Henry pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped it across his face. The cloth already bore evidence of multiple similar uses in the last day, but it was all he had to work with.

  “Difficult night?” Thomas said, an eyebrow raised.

  “It’s a long story,” Henry said. “And it doesn’t matter.”

  Thomas nodded and watched the road.

  “I’ve enjoyed meeting your mother,” Henry said. “She’s very agreeable about providing the information I need for my work.”

  “My mamm has a big heart,” Thomas said.

  “She seems proud of her sons.”

  Thomas chuckled. “Our people avoid expressions of pride.”

  “I’m not sure mothers can wipe pride from their faces.”

  “You may be right.”

  “She says you may be the best farmer of them all,” Henry said.

  Thomas went quiet.

  “Don’t you agree with your mother’s assessment?” Henry asked.

  Thomas shrugged. “My daed did his best to teach all his sons.”

  The response was not persuasive, but Henry had enough on his mind without trying to sort out what Thomas did not wish to speak of. He let the question go, and they rumbled forward without words for a few minutes.

  “I appreciate the ride more than you know,” Henry finally said as the Grabill farm came into view.

  “It is no trouble.” Thomas eased down the Grabill lane toward the house. Polly sat in the yard under the sprawling maple. She stood up, balancing with one hand on the back of the chair.

  “Polly is remarkable,” Henry said. “It must be delightful to know her as well as you do.”

  Thomas nodded but did not speak.

  Henry hopped down.

  “We were worried,” Polly said.

  “I missed the last train out yesterday,” Henry said, pacing toward her. Recounting the whole dismal sequence of events would not change anything that happened. “I was just telling Thomas how remarkable I think you are.”

  “Oh?” Polly’s glance moved to Thomas.

  “You have a real head for business,” Henry said. “A keen mind. Curiosity. A quick organizer.”

  “You’re being silly,” Polly said, her eyes still on Thomas.

  “I’m being serious. I’m tempted to see if my supervisor has any openings for agents. You’d do a great job.”

  “I’m a farmer’s daughter,” Polly said. “I don’t have an English education.”

  “You underestimate yourself.”

  The buggy rattled as Thomas lifted the reins. “I should be on my way.”

  Thomas took a wide turn and headed up the lane.

  Polly spun and glared. “How could you do that?”

  “Do what?”

  “You’ve ruined everything for sure now.” Polly grabbed her crutch and did not look back.

  Henry’s stomach growled.

  Minerva took the Bissell out of the closet. When the electric company finally brought their lines out into Lancaster County, she would trade in the carpet sweeper for an electric model. Maude had been pushing the sweeper over the Swain rugs for the last four years, and before that the task had been Lizette’s. Only rarely had Minerva removed the Bissell from its assigned storage to tidy an overlooked spot. The carpets were not wall-to-wall, but the twin midnight-blue bound rugs in the living room pleasantly demarcated the sitting areas. Today Minerva had moved the furniture out of the way herself and prepared to push and pull the sweeper.

  The Bissell snagged almost immediately. When Minerva pushed forward, a brush caught at the left edge of the sweeper. She turned it upside down to inspect, spinning first one brush and then another to scrutinize the rotation. Minerva spat out the dust that sprang up from the bristles. The forward roller only turned when she forced it.

  She pushed harder on the roller, and its complete release from the casing startled her.

  Maude should have said something. A dressing-down filled Minerva’s mind, and on its heels the disappointment that she would not get to deliver the taut speech.

  She tried jamming the roller back into place and feeling around for a screw that might need adjusting. How the sweeper was constructed had never held interest for Minerva. Only its rich mahogany casing and the ability to adjust automatically to the varying heights of her floor treatments concerned her. But the roller had released when it should not have, and the appearance of its bristles suggested it had suffered compromised efficiency for some time now.

  The Bissell was eight years old and had served well, but Ernie would have no sympathy for its apparent demise. If Maude had said something even two wee
ks earlier, Minerva would have ordered another and the decision would not have required discussion. Now Minerva did not dare.

  Ernie had found the money he needed for the tractor repair somewhere. That was another question Minerva didn’t dare ask. She suspected Ernie had gone to Marlin Grabill. Of course Marlin would have money. After all, he had all the free labor he needed—including Rose. The money might even have been Gloria’s egg money. Ernie wouldn’t have asked, and it wouldn’t have mattered.

  The thought that Ernie might be in debt to Marlin provoked Minerva to lose her grip. The Bissell crashed against the exposed wood flooring, and the casing cracked.

  Frustration burgeoned through Minerva’s core and formed a shriek. She kicked at the useless sweeper.

  If she wanted her rugs cleaned—and she did—she would have to do it the old-fashioned way.

  Ernie would say Gloria kept her rugs clean without modern sweepers. But how would Ernie know whether Gloria had a Bissell?

  The davenport and chairs were already displaced. Minerva leaned over and began rolling up a rug.

  By the time Minerva dragged the second rug to the porch, she perspired in a manner she would have found unbecoming even in a man. Tugging the rolled rug, she backed through the front door.

  “Let me help you.”

  The man’s voice startled Minerva, and she dropped the rug on her foot. Ouch. He was holding the screen door open.

  “Who are you?” Minerva scanned the yard, her big toe already beginning to throb.

  “Mrs. Grabill sent me.” He pointed at the rug. “I’ll be happy to help you carry that.”

  “Why would Mrs. Grabill send a strange man to my porch?” Minerva demanded. It was an extreme circumstance even for Gloria.

  “She thought you might have work.” The man removed his hat and held it in both hands at his waist. “She said your husband might be looking for an extra hand for the harvest.”

  So Ernie had talked to Marlin.

  “My husband is not here at the moment.” Minerva’s terse tone did not abate. Why would anyone expect to find a farmer at home in the middle of the day at this time of year? “Do you have a name?”

  “Homer Griffin, ma’am.”