Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  It was Sunday now. Surely the notion of Sabbath included respite from chickens. If only she didn’t have to look out the window at the row of crates. Minerva angled her chair in the front room away from the glass and buried her attention in the pages of a year-old copy of The Ladies’ Home Journal. His tie loosened at this neck, Ernie sat in his easy chair, head back, dozing. It wouldn’t last long. Ernie was not very good at doing nothing. Soon enough he would snort awake and go out to putter in the barn, claiming it relaxed him. Rose sprawled on the floor between them reading a copy of National Velvet she had borrowed from Sally. Later, Minerva supposed, Rose would ask to use the truck or respond to the honk of a friend’s vehicle. At least she had changed after church into a cotton day dress and not overalls.

  The footsteps crossing the wooden porch roused Ernie and made mother and daughter lift their heads. Rose scrambled to her feet and looked out.

  “It’s Lillian.”

  Minerva closed her magazine. Chickens once again flapped into her mind’s eye. Rose opened the front door and invited Lillian in. Minerva stretched a welcoming expression across her cheekbones. On the one hand, she did not want to put up with Lillian’s unceasing, inane chatter today. On the other hand, Lillian had allied herself with Minerva and Rose in a triple appeal that Gloria had been unable to resist in the end. That gesture was worthy of a bit of Sabbath hospitality.

  “We saw Henry at church again,” Rose said. “Four weeks in a row.”

  Rose had invited Henry to sit with the Swains, something Minerva would have preferred not to oblige but which Ernie encouraged.

  “He seems to feel quite at home in your congregation.” Lillian untied the strings of that white head covering all the Amish women wore and let them hang loose on her shoulders.

  “It’s nice to see him coming back every week,” Rose said. “I hope he’s not worried about the bicycle. I still want him to feel free to use it once it’s fixed.”

  Lillian chuckled. “Do I see the light of affection in your eyes?”

  Minerva gasped. Lillian was being ridiculous.

  But Rose did not deny the suspicion, offering no words but only a mysterious smile.

  “Lillian,” Minerva said, “is there something we might help you with?”

  “We had such a nice visit yesterday,” Lillian said, her eyes passing briefly toward Ernie. “I thought we might continue our conversation.”

  Minerva never would have guessed Lillian’s ability to be subtle. Ernie did not know of the brokered arrangement. He wanted cash, not chickens. Minerva eventually would have to tell him if they were to use the truck to haul the crates out of the yard.

  But not today.

  Not on the Sabbath.

  Rose caught her eye and then put a hand on her father’s shoulder. “Pop, why don’t we go out to the barn and look through that box of parts you bartered for this week. Maybe something in there will help Henry.”

  Ernie rubbed one eye. “I was thinking the same thing, now that I’ve had my Sunday nap.”

  Minerva offered a tight smile of gratitude to her daughter. When they had the room to themselves, she turned to Lillian.

  “What are you here for, Lillian?”

  “I have a business proposition.” Lillian swept a congenial hand through the air between them.

  “We established our terms yesterday.”

  “That was between you and Gloria,” Lillian said. “Think of this as the next phase.”

  The back door slammed closed behind Ernie and Rose. If Lillian was here to be outrageous, Minerva would throw her out the front.

  “That looks like the Coblentz buggy.” Polly stepped across the front porch. Every day she moved more freely.

  “I hope so,” her mother said. “I invited them to pay a call this afternoon.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Coblentz, you mean,” Polly said.

  “As many of them as were free to come. I realize most of the boys are married and might have made their own plans, but they are always welcome. We’ll have pie and cold drinks and hear how everyone is.”

  No wonder her mother had spent Saturday afternoon baking an array of fresh fruit pies when Polly had supposed they would can.

  The buggy slowed at the base of the lane, where the slope of the land nestled the house. Surely Thomas would get out. He might even be driving. Perhaps one or two of his brothers would have brought their wives and boppli to enjoy a visit. Thomas was the youngest of his brothers. Some of them had children nearly as old as Betsy.

  Mr. Coblentz was the first to drop from the buggy bench and loop the reins of the team over a fence rail before offering assistance to his wife. Then Zephram and Ira and their wives emerged, with six children between them who raced across the empty yard toward the two tire swings that hung from the sprawling maple. The adults straggled toward the house, and Polly’s mother met them at the base of the steps. Thomas must have been riding in the back of the long buggy, probably with a child on each knee and wishing they had taken two buggies. He unfolded himself and braced both feet on the ground.

  Polly lifted a hand to wave. Thomas would be glad to see how well Eleanor was doing. But Thomas’s head had turned away from the porch, and when he began to walk it was toward the side of the house. Amid the swirling chitchat and squealing children’s voices, disquieting silence tangled itself around Polly’s heart. Thomas smiled, but not at her.

  Lena peeked around the corner of the house, finger crooked, and Thomas paced over to fall in step beside her as they walked toward the back pasture.

  Polly’s mother gestured that the guests should come up into the shade of the covered wraparound porch.

  “Polly.”

  She turned toward her mother’s voice.

  “Would you mind helping with cold drinks?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Find Sylvia. You can fix them, and she can help you carry them out.”

  Polly tugged open the screen door and walked through the house. Her slight limp was more habit than necessity now. She could manage a tray of glasses.

  She opened the kitchen door to a burst of giggles. Sylvia had three fingers over her mouth, and Alice and Nancy’s shoulders scrunched as if they could not contain their secret.

  “Do you really think there will be four weddings this season?” Alice said.

  “And even Mamm will be surprised to find out who is one of them,” Sylvia said.

  Polly knocked a hand against the counter on purpose. The tittering sisters sobered instantly.

  Polly began taking glasses from the cupboard. Tin mugs would do for the children.

  A wedding? In the family?

  Henry opted for an afternoon walk. Gloria would welcome him among the family’s guests, and he knew Mrs. Coblentz from their interviews. Yost and Paul would likely turn up with their families. Henry stopped adding up the number of people who would contribute to the commotion. Already the cries and laughter wafting through the open barn doors taxed him. With Polly and Eleanor, he had stayed up late the previous night racing through the jungle of papers. Tomorrow he would get to Philadelphia, even if he had to hitchhike, and deliver an excellent report. Then he would make known his intention to apply for the new open position. He could fill out the application and turn it in all on the same day, in plenty of time for Tuesday’s deadline. But the long days and late nights diminished his mood for socializing. When the volume of the Sunday afternoon visiting crept up with no hint of abatement, Henry slipped out the back of the barn for a long walk.

  He knew his way around well, no longer relying on Polly’s map. Even the back roads had become familiar as he pedaled through this part of the county. Henry had been out of Philadelphia before, but not often and not far. That rolling hills of crops under an expanse of sky uninterrupted by the height of office buildings, hotels, and apartments would nourish his soul was an unknown truth until he found himself trapped without a working vehicle among the farms.

  But now he knew. Now he could not resist the lure of the
vistas he knew would reward his explorations. The hues. The shapes. The fragrances. The sounds.

  The report was ready, three copies stored in three locations. Henry would not again make the mistake of clutching his work so closely that he might contribute to its destruction.

  Though he meandered through adjoining fields rather than confining himself to the roads, eventually Henry admitted that he was merely circling his ultimate destination. When the Swain house came into view and he paused to fill aching lungs with deep exchanges of air and inhale the mingled scents on the breeze, he was not surprised to find himself there.

  Two hours.

  Minerva had not imagined it possible for her to engage in a conversation of some length with Lillian. Most people would have accomplished the primary points of Lillian’s plan in a quarter of the time, and more than once Minerva nearly gave in to the urge to cut off the discussion rather than listen to another wandering story about people she did not know and would never know. She also declined Lillian’s offer to loan her back issues of the Budget, deterred Lillian’s recitation of recipes from her childhood, and delicately interrupted an explanation of the virtues of the traditional Amish hymns when Lillian offered to sing fourteen stanzas of her favorite.

  In between these distractions, Lillian did in fact have a plan. Ernie might consider it a scheme, rather than a plan, but Minerva recognized its merit. Lillian had promised they would begin first thing in the morning.

  Now they stood at the bottom of the front steps. Every minute or so Minerva took another step away from the house in the hope that she might launch Lillian into motion with a straight trajectory toward home.

  “I noticed Eleanor in the poultry sheds yesterday afternoon,” Lillian said.

  Minerva nodded, preferring not to encourage the line of conversation with a verbal response and grateful that Gloria had not sent this second stray on to the Swain farm but sheltered the young mother herself.

  “I do believe she knows more about chickens than she has let on,” Lillian said.

  Minerva took four rapid steps forward. If she did not need Lillian to execute the proposal Lillian had brought forward, Minerva would be less polite in the manner in which she concluded their consultation. But she did need Lillian. She could not afford to stir her into a huff.

  “Oh look,” Lillian said, “there’s Henry.”

  Minerva raised her eyes from where Lillian had planted herself and saw the government agent leaning on a fence rail, looking toward the house. But he was some distance away and showed no inclination to approach the house.

  “Yoo-hoo!” Lillian waved an arm in a wide arc. “Henry, come on down for a visit!”

  Minerva made no effort to disguise her groan.

  Lillian turned toward the barn. “Ernie! Rose! Look who’s here.”

  “I’m sure he’s just passing by while he enjoys the day,” Minerva said. “We should let him be.”

  “Nonsense,” Lillian said. “He could enjoy the day anywhere. There’s a reason he chose to enjoy it from the edge of your property. Gottes wille, you know.”

  Rose and Ernie emerged from the barn. What they had found to do in there all this time Minerva could not speculate.

  “Henry!” Rose waved. “Come on down.”

  And Henry pushed his weight off the fence.

  “I knew it,” Lillian said. “I’ll be on my way now.”

  CHAPTER 43

  Henry’s dreams that night jumbled faces and melodramatic expressions in a way that reminded him of the old silent movies. Coralie. His grandmother. Polly. Rose. Gloria. Mrs. Coblentz. Rose again. Mrs. Rupp. Even Eleanor scowling over a typewriter made him thrash. Most of these people he did not even know a month earlier, yet it was as if Warner Brothers had given them starring roles. Welcoming the reprieve of the new day, he woke even before the girls came into the barn to milk and went outside to fill a pail with well water. By breakfast time he was scrubbed clean and in a fresh shirt. He had plenty of time to walk to town, catch a train—this time he could afford the ticket—and make his way to the Philadelphia office with his reports. Even the United States Postal Service would not be a middleman in the safe delivery.

  Henry had topped the Grabill lane and turned a quarter of a mile down the road toward town when Ernie’s truck barreled toward him and halted.

  “Where’re you headed?” Ernie said.

  “Into town to catch the train,” Henry said.

  “Philadelphia?”

  Henry nodded.

  “How would you like to drive to Philadelphia and not have to worry about when you start back?”

  “I thought you said yesterday that you hadn’t found any parts.” Henry shifted his satchel to the other shoulder. Ernie should not have bartered his time and skills for a box of abandoned car parts. He should have gotten something he needed. Henry had just about decided to sell the car to whoever was willing to tow it away.

  “I looked again.” Ernie grinned and reached across the bench seat and lifted a sack. “We might have to do some jerry-rigging, but I think we can get your car running.”

  Henry glanced down the road.

  “You’re worried this won’t work and you’ll miss your train, aren’t you?” Ernie rested his face on the elbow leaning out the window.

  “Well, it is important that I get to Philadelphia.”

  “Understandable,” Ernie said. “But if I get the car running, you won’t have to worry about train schedules. That would be better, wouldn’t it?”

  Henry scratched his head. Ernie had a point.

  “How long do you figure it will take?” Henry asked.

  “Hard to say, but it will go twice as fast if I have a good assistant.”

  Henry hesitated.

  “You’ve got at least two hours until the train,” Ernie said. “If we don’t get it running in an hour and forty minutes, I’ll drive you to the train station myself. And if we do, you can take ‘er all the way to Philadelphia and drive right up to that government office building or wherever it is you need to go.”

  Henry’s mouth twitched, looking for the flaw in the offer.

  Ernie angled across the width of the truck and pulled up the door handle on the passenger side.

  By the time Henry changed his shirt and reported for duty, Ernie had the engine cover off and his toolbox open on the ground.

  Ernie handed Henry the sack of parts. “Go ahead and lay everything out.”

  Henry rolled back the opening of the burlap sack to see what Ernie had amassed. He had expected whole parts—perhaps a starter or a carburetor. The bag contained gaskets and screws and bearings and springs. He saw no way to know whether they would fit his car, or whether they had ever belonged to a Ford. They could be tractor parts or generator parts. Not sinking his forehead into one hand consumed Henry’s resolve. He should have taken the train and suggested Ernie come tomorrow.

  “I think your starter is fine,” Ernie said. “It’s what it connects to that has gone faulty somewhere down the line. See, this way you’re not paying for the whole assembly if we just need to swap out a few pieces.”

  Ten minutes ago, a flash of anticipation had derailed a worthy plan. What Ernie proposed—sifting through small changes without certainty of the result—sounded time-consuming to Henry. Trial and error would not hold up to the promise to get him on the road. Henry looked at his watch.

  “Relax,” Ernie said. “We have a deal. I know what time it is.”

  Henry blew out his breath and nodded.

  “Now hand me that screwdriver.”

  From that moment, Henry did just what he was told. Put your finger here. Hold this. Hand me that. Parts that Henry could not name came out, but still he complied with every request with at least a pretense of confidence. Verbalizing uncertainty would only distract Ernie’s concentration and slow them down. Later, Henry could ask about the sequence of Ernie’s thoughts—which perhaps were better described as intuition.

  When it finally seemed to Henry that parts we
re going back in, he checked his watch. If this did not work, they would have no time to try another theory, but he would have time to get to the train station.

  Ernie dropped a wrench on the ground, straightened up, and wiped his oily hands on a rag.

  “All right,” he said, “start ‘er up.”

  Henry hustled to the driver’s seat and put the levers in place.

  The engine sputtered and caught, startling Henry. He had not expected victory.

  “Well, there you go,” Ernie said. “On your way to Philadelphia.”

  “Do you really think it will get me there and back?” Henry wanted to put his clean shirt back on. If he turned off the engine now, it might not start again.

  Ernie tilted his head and nodded. “Believe so. If it doesn’t, you just ask the operator for the Swain number and I’ll fetch you myself.”

  When Henry pulled off the Grabill property, Ernie was still standing there grinning at his triumph.

  Henry accelerated, feeling in his foot the unfettered response of the engine. Once he got through town and to the main highway, he would be free to test what control the engine would relinquish to its master.

  Freedom!

  No train schedules or cab fares.

  No hand-me-down mangled bicycle.

  No tired feet.

  Just a straight path to Philadelphia with the original copies of his typed reports secure under his seat.

  Henry drove through town, past the newspaper office where the owner had let him use the telephone, past the post office where he had mailed that last foolish letter to Coralie, past the bank that had made sure he could cash a paycheck. And then he was on the highway tooling toward Philadelphia in the comfort of his own car.