The suggestion that English farmers did not also use outbuildings irritated Gloria. Minerva could just as well ask around in her own Lutheran congregation. Even a family who lived in town could put a storage shed out behind a house. Only desperation would bring Minerva first to the Grabills.
She wanted to keep it quiet. She needed cash. If Marlin’s account of the Swains’ distress was accurate, or even half accurate, Ernie would be furious at this expenditure.
Compassion flickered through Gloria’s chest.
No. This was between Minerva and Ernie, and Gloria would not be caught between husband and wife.
“I’m afraid I can’t think of anyone looking for a shed just now,” Gloria said. She leaned forward and began to stack dishes on the coffee table. Enough of her morning was lost. It was nearly time to start dinner.
Lillian cackled. The laugh was a particular indication that she found amusement where no one else did. Gloria transferred dishes to the tray.
“What is it, Lillian?” Rose asked. She moved to sit on the arm of the chair her mother occupied.
“The answer is right under our noses,” Lillian said. “I can’t believe Glory didn’t think of it herself.”
Whatever notion filled Lillian’s mind, Gloria wanted nothing to do with it.
“Glory can buy the shed,” Lillian said. “Her poultry sheds are overcrowded. She just said so the other day.”
Gloria released her grip on the tray. At the moment it was safer on the table than in her hands. “I haven’t made a decision about my chickens.”
“You said you will have to either build on more space or cut back on the flock,” Lillian said. “I heard you with my own ears.”
“I haven’t made a decision,” Gloria repeated.
“You have a thriving business,” Lillian said. “Many people want to buy your eggs and chickens. Why should you cut back?”
Now Gloria squirmed.
Minerva fastened her gaze on Lillian, stunned that she was making sense.
“It’s too much to take care of,” Gloria said. “I have the house, the other livestock, the garden, the fields when I can get out there, sewing, canning.”
Minerva flinched at the mention of canning.
Rose popped off the arm of her mother’s chair and knelt in front of Gloria.
“Lillian’s right,” Rose said. “It’s the perfect idea. The shed is not so large that you have to expand or make more work for yourself, but you can enjoy more space for the birds you already have. It will be easier to separate out the ones who aren’t laying until you’re ready to slaughter them.”
It seemed that raising chickens was another domestic topic Minerva was unaware her daughter had a passing acquaintance with. This time, though, she would hold her tongue and constrain her thoughts. Rose on the same side as Lillian, in a unified front, might be the persuasive balance that would bring Gloria around.
And this humiliation could end.
“Even if you did expand,” Lillian said, “your girls are glad to help. If Lena marries, I’m sure even Polly can learn to take care of chickens.”
“I am well aware of the unique abilities of all my children,” Gloria said.
She sounded snappy. Minerva wished she still had a coffee cup in her hands to wait out the inelegant moment. Anytime now, Gloria would stand up, pick up the tray of dishes, disappear into the kitchen, and not return.
And Minerva would be right back where she started—with an angry husband, a mountain of crates, and the dread of anyone else discovering the dire state of the Swain land.
“Please, Mrs. Grabill.” Rose put a hand on Gloria’s wrist. “You would be helping us, and it would help you, too. I could come over and help after the harvest finishes. Maybe I would learn enough about chickens to start keeping a few of my own.”
Now Rose was going too far.
“We mustn’t beg,” Minerva said. “Perhaps Mrs. Grabill would like some time to think.”
“We could have fresh eggs, Mother. Every morning, if we like.”
Rose’s dark eyes shimmered. She was earnest about the chickens. If she brought up keeping a milk cow again rather than continuing dairy deliveries, Minerva would draw the line.
“Glory, be sensible,” Lillian said. “In the same week that you mention expanding your poultry sheds, a kit turns up at the neighbor’s house. Could Gottes wille be any clearer?”
Minerva’s stomach cramped. It was time for her unexpected ally to stop talking before Gloria turned down the proposal because she was annoyed with her relative even more than she was annoyed with Minerva.
CHAPTER 41
Gottes wille. Why did Lillian have to bring God’s will into the conversation? Gloria was not always persuaded that simply because an event happened, it was God’s will, though she would never say such a thing aloud.
Was it God’s will for Minerva to make a foolish purchase? Minerva should learn a lesson from her mindless impulse, not profit from it. If God meant for Gloria to have a new shed to accommodate more chickens, could He not give it to her through the ordinary means of discussing it with Marlin? They could have made a reasoned, prayerful decision together the way they always did. Why should it be God’s will for Gloria to stare at three faces fixed in the conviction of what she ought to do? She could at least set the terms.
“All right,” she said. “I will admit that I could use more space.”
Rose threw her arms around Gloria in the chair. “Thank you!”
Lillian clapped her hands. “I knew I had found the perfect solution.”
Minerva’s face drooped in relief. “I will not forget your kindness.”
Gloria raised her palms in a sign that the rejoicing should pause. All three might reconsider their responses when they heard the rest of her decision.
“I will buy the shed—at an appropriate discount—with one condition.”
Three expressions stilled.
“I have chickens,” she said. “I don’t have cash.”
Minerva blanched.
“So I will pay you with chickens and eggs equal to the price we agree on,” Gloria said.
“What will I do with chickens and eggs?” Minerva jolted to the edge of her chair.
Rose sat back on her heels at Gloria’s feet. “Mother, I think we should listen.”
“I cannot give you what I do not have,” Gloria said. If she asked Marlin about a new shed, he would have scrounged up stray boards and siding, perhaps a piece of tin for the roof. Cash outlay would not have been significant. As fond as he was of Ernie, she could hardly expect Marlin to agree to divert rare cash to the farm next door. They might manage a few dollars here and there, but not the price of a manufactured kit.
Lillian scowled. Rose’s eyes narrowed in thought.
“If I pay you in chickens and eggs,” Gloria said, “I can both thin out my flock and create plenty of new space. The chickens will be healthy, and you will have something far more valuable in these parts than a mail-order outbuilding.”
“But I don’t know the least thing about keeping chickens,” Minerva said.
“Your daughter is eager to learn. It won’t be hard to keep them healthy long enough for you to sort out what to do.”
If Minerva had any sense, she would keep enough chickens to serve her household at least through the winter. Gloria would even make sure she had at least two roosters and would teach Rose everything she needed to know. The Swains had a good barn to keep them sheltered and warm, and Marlin would help Ernie seal off any gaps in the walls. But if all Minerva did was sell them off a few at a time, she could still recoup her investment, and she was more likely to get a small amount of money from a larger number of people than to find a single household with the cash she was after. She would have to accept the extra work and get herself out of her own predicament.
“So you’ve made up your mind, then,” Minerva said.
“You asked for my help,” Gloria said. “This is how I can help.”
“It’s a r
ather different proposal than I had imagined.”
“I’m sure it is.” Gloria had little interest in Minerva’s imagination. It was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.
“If I might mention a few things,” Lillian said.
Gloria stood and picked up the tray of dishes. “I have to get back to my sewing. Betsy is about to outgrow the only decent dress she has. Not much survives the use of five older sisters.”
“Do we not have details to discuss?” Minerva stood now.
“Just let Lillian know how much you paid for the shed,” Gloria said, “minus 10 percent. I will be more than fair in the value of my chickens. Come back tomorrow.”
If Henry could snatch what he’d said when he was alone in the barn with Polly out of her memory, he would have clawed through every obstacle with his fingernails. The discomfort of his words made her pile bricks between them as efficiently as she did everything else.
But he would not regret that he saw her with new eyes now.
They had moved to the back porch on Friday afternoon because the typewriter was there and it was time to again go through the laborious process of knocking ink against paper hard enough to force it through two carbons. Polly already had designated a drawer in an oak desk as a safe place to keep originals and a shelf in a cupboard in another room for one stack of carbon copies. Given what happened because he refused to let any copies out of his possession, Henry did not argue. Whenever they had a few pages ready, Polly walked them into the house and put them away.
“It was the Lichtys who had so many onions,” Polly said, shuffling papers. “You’ve got them confused with the Wyses, who had the celery.”
“Sorry,” Henry muttered. So far Polly had not been wrong about a single correction she made to his notes about what he remembered. “Why so much celery? It must have been half their garden.”
“A wedding,” Polly said.
Henry looked up and caught her eyes.
“Their daughter leaves the Singings with the same young man every time,” Polly said. “They are probably hoping for a wedding after the harvest.”
“Celery?” Henry pushed his brows together. “At a wedding?”
“It’s traditional.” Polly lowered her head and pecked at keys.
The Grabills had several marriageable daughters, but Henry recalled very little celery in their records. Thomas did not recognize the jewel Polly was. He didn’t deserve Polly’s patience.
Polly sat with her eyes closed now, fingers still and lips moving.
“Polly?” Henry said.
“I’m reading,” she said. “Or remembering what I once read over your shoulder, at least. Two hundred pounds of potatoes. Forty pounds of onions. Eight bushels of apples.”
“The Lichtys’ cellar,” Henry said.
She nodded.
“I remember writing all that down.”
“It’s one of the pages missing from their record,” Polly said. “The rest will come to me.”
She resumed typing, not pecking this time but making steady progress slamming keys against the roller. Even with only a few days of practice, she was more confident than he was about where the letters were.
“We’re going to finish, you know.” Polly turned the roller to release the finished page and separated the three copies.
“I hope so. That’s the point, isn’t it?” Henry flattened a page in his lap.
“We can hang a lantern and keep going after supper. Tomorrow, too. But I won’t work on the Sabbath.”
“I wouldn’t ask you to.” Even Henry wouldn’t work on the Sabbath. They would have to push through. They would have to finish by tomorrow noon so he would have time to visit the farms again and officially verify the information he was certain would be flawless. Then, because after these days of delay, he would have to put in for the promotion in person rather than by mail. He would take the reports to Philadelphia himself.
Polly stacked three sheets of paper with two sheets of carbon and rolled it into the typewriter. “This is quite a useful machine.”
“Maybe you should get one.”
“I’m not sure how the bishop would feel about that.”
The door to the house swung open and Eleanor stepped out. “What have I missed?”
“Where’s the baby?” Polly said.
Eleanor laughed. “Betsy snatched him up as soon as she came in from school.”
“Nineteen quarts of beans, thirteen quarts of beets, only four quarts of jam, all strawberry,” Polly murmured.
“What is she talking about?” Eleanor asked.
“Shh. I have to write this down.” Polly grabbed a pencil and blank paper. “That was what was left from last year. What they canned this year was in a separate column.”
“Who?” Eleanor said.
“The Lichtys,” Henry supplied. “She’s absolutely right. I did put that information in two columns.”
Polly continued to scribble.
“Move over.” Eleanor nudged Polly. “I may as well type what you’ve already written while you keep remembering.”
Polly scribbled a few more lines while she vacated the typing chair and moved to the swing.
The sound of splashing water came from the pump, and Henry looked across the porch railing to see Rose rubbing her hands together in the stream.
Polly’s head snapped up at the sound of Rose’s voice, and her pencil went idle.
“Where have you been?” Polly said.
“Helping in the fields, of course.” The water pressure petered out, and Rose shook loose the droplets from her hands.
“I thought maybe you’d gone home.”
Rose approached the steps. To Polly she looked adorable, but Henry might focus too much on her overalls and not enough on the rosy sheen of her cheeks or the long auburn braid hanging down the middle of her back.
“My mother went home,” Rose said. “I stayed.”
“Why was your mother here?” Polly scooted over and patted the empty space beside her on the swing. “Mamm wouldn’t say anything.”
“Your mamm is doing my mamm a big favor.” Rose set the swing into motion.
Polly smiled. Rose sprinkled Pennsylvania Dutch into her English more and more often.
“Henry, trade places with me,” Polly said.
“Why?” Henry said.
“I left some notes on the table. And I want to see how Eleanor is doing.”
“She’s doing fine,” Henry said.
If Polly had not seen Eleanor’s earlier batch of work, she would not have believed anyone’s fingers could master the keys as rapidly and flawlessly as Eleanor’s.
“Just trade places.” Polly popped out of the swing.
Henry shuffled across the porch and settled in next to Rose.
“Now,” Polly said, “tell us what you mean about the favor.”
Rose maintained a steady rhythm as she recounted the morning’s confrontation. When Henry angled himself toward Rose as he listened, Polly coughed into the back of her hand to hide her smile. If Henry was so eager to get over Coralie, he could do far worse than Rose.
“My mother is getting dozens of chickens and I don’t know how many eggs,” Rose said, “and your mother is getting more space for her poultry business.”
The door from the kitchen creaked open again, and Lillian stepped out onto the porch. “It looks like you have organized a young people’s assembly of some sort.”
“Henry and I are working,” Polly said. “Eleanor is a big help.”
“I could hear the ruckus all the way in the house.” Lillian leaned over Eleanor’s shoulder and reached for a stack of papers.
“Please don’t!” Polly raised her voice over the ceaseless clatter of keys. The last thing they needed was for Lillian to scramble up notes or mix up completed pages from reports of different farms.
“There’s no need to be rude.” Lillian planted a hand on one hip.
“I’m sorry, Cousin Lillian. It’s just that everything is we
ll organized. We have a system.”
“And you think I’m an old biddy who can’t be trusted with a simple task.”
“Of course I don’t think that.” Polly casually reached for the most vulnerable of the papers on the rickety table. This project was not a simple task.
“I’ll have you know I solved quite a challenge today,” Lillian said.
Eleanor flipped to a new page of handwritten notes to transcribe.
“I’ve never understood why Gloria and Minerva have such difficulty getting along,” Lillian said, “but today I found a solution that suits them both.”
“The poultry sheds?” Polly glanced at Rose. “That was Cousin Lillian’s idea?”
Rose shrugged one shoulder. “She was the first one to state the obvious.”
“And Rose was sensible enough to concur,” Lillian said. “It’s a privilege to be an instrument of the will of the Lord.”
Eleanor’s fingers had stopped flying. “Do you think Gloria would mind if I helped out in the poultry sheds while Toddy naps?”
“I don’t see why not,” Lillian said, her hands drifting toward the table again.
Polly lifted another pile of papers out of reach.
“Anyone can take care of chickens,” Lillian said.
Polly turned her head away, fearful that she would fail to keep her eyes from rolling. In all the years Lillian had lived with the Grabills, she had never gone into the poultry sheds.
“I’d really like to help,” Eleanor said.
“Then I shall inquire on your behalf.” Lillian withdrew into the house.
“Eleanor,” Polly said, “do you know anything about chickens?”
CHAPTER 42
Saturday was the longest day Minerva recalled since Raymond and Richard left the farm. Gloria had as much as ordered her back to the Grabill farm, and Rose had not left her any choice but to at least observe Gloria’s selection of a mixture of chickens and the process of tagging them as now belonging to Minerva. Rose offered to bring them home, but Minerva was in full agreement with Gloria’s judgment that they should stay where they would be well looked after until Minerva made a firm plan. Disturbing their roosts unnecessarily might interfere with laying. But Rose was welcome to look in on them every day and collect their eggs. There was no reason the Swains could not begin enjoying the eggs or trading them at the general store. Two days of incessant talk about chickens squeezed Minerva’s brain, and now Minerva wondered how many of Gloria’s eggs she had unknowingly served her family over the years. The thought was beyond bearing.
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