by Belva Plain
It was a good thing, he thought, that he had decided to wear a jacket and tie, for it was Sunday, and all three Bensons were dressed for the day. He had surprised himself by having so few qualms about stepping onto their front porch, ringing the bell, and entering into conversation. But suddenly now he had become ill at ease, and he said so.
“To tell you the truth, I feel queer about barging in on you like this. But I'm not exactly myself . . . trying to forget, to start a new life . . . take care of her . . .” And he nodded toward Laura, who fortunately was behaving well; clutching her stuffed bear, she sat quietly staring at the strangers.
Mrs. Benson said gently, “Well, it only just happened, after all. In February, did you say?”
Always when called upon for a fact, Jim felt that acceleration of the heart. He must, he absolutely must, plant these facts so firmly in his mind that there could be no chance of a mistake or a hesitant stumble.
“Yes, February tenth, when Rebecca died. It was cancer—leukemia. That kind can strike very fast sometimes.”
The bravado that had been building during this last week was faltering again. And as his tale of tragedy brought forth the usual nods of understanding, he hated himself. What he ought to do was to stand up and get out of there and forget the whole thing. But then they would wonder why he had come at all. They would think he was out of his mind, even possibly a dangerous person, to walk away after having made all his explanations. Still, what difference what they thought? On the other hand, having come this far, should he not try to pursue the subject?
“So as I said,” he resumed, “I'd like to look for some kind of work in town. We arrived yesterday, and got to the hotel. But it was too late for me to look around, find out what kind of businesses there are, either here or in some other town nearby. I like the area, though. Nice climate, the national park not too far away . . .”
His voice dwindled, and he was relieved when Mr. Benson spoke. “Jeff Wheeler's a friend of mine. Runs a haberdashery in town across the street from your hotel. He might need help. I don't know. You can tell him I sent you. I buy a few things there now and then. Don't need much fancy clothing on a farm, you know.”
“I know. I worked on a farm every summer while I was growing up.”
“That so? Where you from?”
“Maine, up near Bangor. Mostly potatoes up there. You may have heard about Maine potatoes.”
“But after that,” said Mrs. Benson, “you became a city person.”
“Yes, Philadelphia. I sold insurance.” And wanting to avoid any further specific questions, he asked one. “Did your wife tell you exactly how we got to talking on the train, Mr. Benson?”
“Something about a book, she said. Doesn't surprise me. Look there at that wall. They all belong to Kate. And upstairs we're loaded with more, all hers. You don't usually see this in a farmhouse, do you?”
He's very proud of her. She's the stronger of the two, Jim thought. There's something about her that I didn't see on the train. Of course I didn't. I hardly looked at her. They're entirely different from each other except that they're both very straightforward, very decent people. You can tell.
“My folks used to say when I married Kate that she wouldn't last. She'd get lonesome out here and tired of it. But they were wrong.”
Kate smiled. “Why should I be lonesome? The countryside gets in your blood. At least it's gotten into mine.”
Jim agreed. “Yes, it's beautiful. Those hills, the hemlocks— Oops, Laura, what are you doing?”
For Laura, in reaching toward a plate filled with nuts and raisins, had spilled them over the little table beside her chair.
“Waisins!” she cried.
“No, no, Laura. I'm sorry,” he apologized as he scooped them up. “She loves raisins, and—”
“Wollipops!” Gleefully, Laura was enjoying both the raisins and the attention.
“She's the cutest thing,” Kate said. “Why don't we all go outside and let her run around? She must have done a lot of sitting between here and Philadelphia.”
“Thank you, but I've taken enough of your time. And this is your day of rest—” he began, when Benson interrupted.
“There's no day of rest on a farm. You know better than that, Mr. Fuller. Right now I'm going up to change these clothes and make my rounds. The baby can play in the sandbox. It's from Rick's baby days, but we still haven't got rid of it. Rick, go see whether you can find one of the old pails and shovels.”
The child without a mother and the man without a wife had moved them all to a certain amount of pity, as they had done throughout this past week. Now again he was being asked whether he wanted a hot or a cold drink and whether Laura wanted milk or needed the bathroom. And as always, when he accepted these kindnesses, he wished they did not force him to see himself as the imposter he was.
“Would you like to have a look at the place?” asked Benson when he returned in shirt and jeans. “Since you come from a farm? Maybe it'll remind you of your potatoes in Maine. You never think of going back up there with the baby?”
“It's too cold. I'm not used to it anymore,” Jim replied as they walked toward the barns, and then changed the subject by remarking that those Holsteins in the pasture beyond were a pretty sight.
“Twenty-two head, that's all. I'd like to get more milkers, but I haven't been having much luck with help. Want to see something funny? Look over there, that little tan cow. Looks like a runt among those Holsteins, doesn't she?”
“What's a Jersey doing with them?”
“Kate. A fellow we know wanted to sell it for veal. Needed money in a hurry, I guess. So Kate looked into its eyes and bought it. Named it Lucy. She gives rich milk, that I'll say.”
“But much less of it.”
“True, true. Wait. I just want to check on the gate here. Fellow kept it open last week and I would have lost a pregnant cow in the road if the driver hadn't stopped in time. Next I need to check on the chicken house. If you don't mind all the walking, you might like to come along and let somebody else watch the kid for a few minutes. Don't worry, Kate's a great one for little kids. Ricky's all we have.”
“Those are new henhouses, aren't they? Spick-and-span.”
“Built them last year. The old one was falling apart. Must have been seventy years old. Yes, it was. My grandfather had it. So I replaced it with two. Thought I could double my egg business, but seems to have taken more time to build it up than I expected it would. Besides, I had a run of bad luck. Last summer I ordered a thousand three-day-old chicks; it turned freezing cold one night and the fellow supposed to take charge left them outside, so I lost most of them. Yes, I've had problems. But what can you do?”
“Like everything else,” Jim said for the sake of saying something.
“Problems, I should say so. I'm trying to build this place up, you see, and it's not easy. My dad—he died, he and my mother, in the same year, six years ago when Ricky was born. It was a family farm for I don't know how many generations. They raised fruit, vegetables, sold hay, everything you have on a family farm, enough for the family and a little left over to sell for cash. But I went to agricultural college, and I learned stuff my dad never heard of. I want to build up big. Well, I will. I'll get there. Never say die.”
He's in over his head and worried to death, Jim thought, noting the depth of the frown lines in the man's forehead.
“Well, you've got a fine place here,” he said, again for the sake of saying something. “What's that cottage up there by itself?”
“My parents built it when Kate and I married and we moved into the big house. It's nicely furnished, four rooms, nice kitchen, and empty ever since they died. Oh, you haven't seen the half of this place, Mr. Fuller, not a quarter or an eighth. I've got over six hundred acres here. I've got corn, a hay meadow, a peach orchard, I've got everything. If you feel like walking, I'll show you—but you're dressed up. You don't want to spoil those shoes.”
“I'd like to see it all, thank you, but I should g
et Laura and take her back to town. It's quite a drive.”
“Just thirteen miles. We do our errands in the village, though. That's the other direction. I almost never go to town anymore. Don't have the time, for one thing.”
“Well, you've been really nice to spend so much of it with me. We've been here almost three hours, and I thank you.”
“Oh, I enjoyed it. I know Kate did, too. Outside of a couple of friends from the village, we don't see many people. You can sit on our porch all day and not see more than ten cars some days. Well, good luck. I'd be interested to hear whether you get the job.”
Yes, he's in over his head, Jim thought on the way back to the hotel. Cattle, chickens, orchards, flowers—for the wife had spoken about the flowers she sold to florists—it was a jack-of-all-trades situation, or so it seemed to him. Benson was very likable, almost touchingly so; you could feel something vulnerable about him, something a trifle innocent.
Smiling to himself, he reflected: He saw my handmade shoes and my London suit. That's why he recommended a job with the haberdasher. Well, we'll see in the morning. Haberdasher or no, this town would be a safe place. It's a million miles from nowhere.
“I'll tell you,” Jeff Wheeler said, “I'll be glad to have a helping hand here, but not for more than two or three evenings a week. Just so I could go home a little earlier to the wife and kids. This being a farming community, we get our evening trade from the farm people, after their day's work. Not that I have a big lot of their trade in my kind of store, but it pays to stay open just in case. Every dollar counts, doesn't it?”
They were standing on the walk outside the store. Jim, keeping the stroller in motion, back and forth as Maria had instructed because “it soothes her,” glanced down Main Street. It was pleasant enough this morning, lined as it was on each side by a row of poplars, and behind these, a row of low buildings, almost all of them red brick. It was pleasant and yet, Jim saw, not brimming with opportunity.
His doubt must have been visible, because Wheeler continued with his advice. “I don't know where anybody's hiring much, except part time, like me. You can stand here and see most of the places where they do hire when they have to. There's the car dealer, the market, the funeral parlor, the shoe store, the bank, and the beauty parlor, and—well, you can see for yourself it's a little town and very quiet. Then off Main Street you'll see some of the nicest homes you ever laid eyes on. The best part is out toward the hospital. It's small, but it's one of the best in the state, I hear tell. Then the schools are all on Liberty Street, that runs off Main, down that way—but let me tell you what, Mr. Fuller, you'd be better off looking in a place like Chattanooga, for instance. You'd stand a good chance of finding a job in a city with people coming and going from all over the country. And you'd find plenty of nice apartments, which we don't have. Because you wouldn't want a house, would you? I mean, to get to the point, there's just you and the kid, no wife. Yes, you'd do better in a much bigger place than this.”
“Well, thanks. I appreciate the advice and I'll think about it. Right now I guess I'll take a walk around and show Laura the sights.”
“People coming and going” was exactly what Jim did not want. But he had only to stroll down this Main Street past its simple shops and sparse traffic, then out toward the schools and the hospital, past family-sized houses—no tiny tract houses here—to know that this kind of town, where the streets petered out and the countryside began, was not right for him, either. He had no skills to offer it, nothing it needed.
A cold, bleak sensation washed through him. It was as if he had reached a dead end—and he had only begun to look.
Well, then, he must just look further! He must study the want ads. Surely there must be something he could do. . . .
It took him a couple of seconds to become aware that Laura was crying and vomiting over the side of the stroller.
“What is it? What is it? Oh my God, you're hot, you're burning up. I didn't know—”
He had brought tissues and cloths for bibs and spills, having learned this much from Maria; with these he wiped as best he could, murmuring and comforting as he held his baby, all the while staring around the street for help and finding no one in sight.
Then, “Head over heart,” he said aloud. “Think!”
Hadn't Jeff Wheeler said the hospital was out this way, near Liberty Street? I'll ask. Hold her tight. And pushing the stroller with his other hand, he began to race, out of breath, cursing his ignorance of child care, cursing the hospital for not being where it ought to be, terrified—until the sight of a doctor's sign on a house jerked him to a halt.
“What's this?” cried the doctor when he answered Jim's ring. “An accident?”
“No, no. She's sick. She's awfully sick.”
“Give her to me. No, I don't care, I don't mind, that's why I wear a white coat. Annie, come help me with this young lady.”
So pitiful she was, lying there on the examining table with her frail baby arms outstretched toward her father, as if asking him to protect her from these hovering strangers. He was terrified. What kind of a father was he to have done to her, or not to have done, what he should have done? And now, he could do nothing but stand and watch as this strange man poked at her poor little stomach, peered into her eyes and ears, stared down her throat, and frightened the life out of her.
Afterward, about ten minutes later by the clock although it had seemed as if an hour had gone by, Jim found himself sitting with Dr. Scofield in a small room near the examining room, from which Laura had been carried to fall asleep on a couch between them.
“A bad stomach upset, Mr. Fuller, that's all it is. It's either something she ate, or a virus. There's no fever to speak of. She was simply overheated in the sun, frightened by the vomiting, and maybe overexcited, mostly because of your excitement.” The doctor smiled. “Take her home to her mother. She's probably more used to this kind of thing than you are.”
“Well, she—she has no mother. Her mother died last February.”
There was that expression again, the sober sympathy for the two-year-old whose mother was dead.
Faces changed when you told people something sad. Was it because they really felt for you, or because they knew they were expected to feel for you?
“You don't live in town, do you, Mr. Fuller? It seems to me I know practically everybody here, by sight if not always by name.”
“No, I'm from a long way off. Philadelphia. We've been more than a week on the road.”
“Just passing through, then.”
“No, hoping to settle somewhere around here. Hunting for a job.”
“In any special field?”
“No.”
“Just looking? Just like that, without any plan?”
“That's about it, I'm afraid.”
He wondered why so many doctors seemed to feel free to ask such personal questions. Did they believe that their degree entitled them to such liberty? But this man, although garrulous, was modest and had been especially gentle with Laura, so he replied with candor, “I have simply a need to forget the past and start fresh.”
“I see.” The doctor looked thoughtful. “Kind of hard to do with a baby, and driving all this way. Strange food, the motion, the constraint; she's an unusually strong child. Most of them would have gotten sick before this. Frankly, Mr. Fuller, I think she's had enough for a while.”
“I know that only too well. We're in the hotel here in town, but it's no place for her. I was wondering, is there any nice inn nearby, a country sort of place where we can rest and play outdoors or something?”
“I'm afraid not. Tourists don't come through here very often. The hotel's never more than a quarter full, if that. When you're this close to the mountains, you keep going till you get there, I suppose.”
It occurred to Jim as he sat looking out at the quiet street, where two young women were walking together and a dog was trotting alongside an old man, that this was the first time in his life when he was without an anchor. J
ob, school, university, law, New York, had flowed in orderly succession, one firm step after the other. Now he was afloat. Why had he not known it would be like this? But he had only and frantically needed to get away before it should be too late to save Laura.
“Might there perhaps be some family with extra space for us for a few days or so? Until I get my bearings? I'm not hard up, Doctor. I'll pay whatever they ask.”
The two men regarded each other. He is wondering about me, whether I am some sort of unreliable drifter fighting a nervous breakdown, Jim thought. He was about to say something that would show how steady a man he really was, when Dr. Scofield struck the arm of his chair with the flat of his hand.
“I just had a brainstorm. There's a family way out toward the mountains, Clarence and Kate Benson, they've got a cottage on their place. His folks lived there, but I don't think anyone's in it now. It'd be a great place for you to rest up and get your thoughts together. You look as if you need a rest, and they're the best people you could ever know.”
So I look the way I feel, thought Jim, as he explained that he was already acquainted with the Bensons. He remembered the cottage that Benson had pointed out. He thought he had had an impression of hemlocks dipping under strong wind.
“They're first-rate people, and you'll be perfectly safe out there with this baby of yours. Want me to phone them and ask?”
“Yes, please do,” Jim said.
The cottage was immaculate when, on the following day, Jim, with Laura and the heaped-up contents of the car, arrived at the farm. It was even welcoming. At every window hung white curtains, newly washed and starched; the bed and the yellow-painted crib left over from their boy's baby days were made up with sheets that looked new. Also left over from that time were a high chair and a playpen which Jim, with a laugh, doubted that Laura would consent to use.
“She tends to be what you might tactfully call ‘independent.' No, no, Laura! Don't touch.” For she had spotted a splendid gardenia in a plant stand.
