Ours for a Season

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Not for the first time, he sent up a prayer of gratitude that the fellowship elders had given business owners permission to use computers and telephones for work-related purposes. He could compete with secular companies because he had access to the same resources they did. He pulled out the small pad of paper and pencil he always carried in his pocket and jotted down topics for research. Looking at the list, he grimaced. Before he got too far ahead of himself, he should ask Brooke what she preferred. She was the boss of this project, not him. That’d be hard to remember. He’d been in charge for lots of years, and he hadn’t been as excited about putting his hands to a project since the very early days of his construction company.

  He jammed the pad into his pocket, then glanced at his watch and gave a start. Almost five thirty already? Where had the last hour gone? He better get the trailer unloaded. Full dark didn’t come until after nine, but the tall trees surrounding the little town would block the setting sun, making it get dark a lot earlier than on the open prairie. He broke into a jog and closed the distance between the main-street buildings and the temporary housing area inside the fence.

  Someone had closed the gate, and Brooke’s fancy car was gone. The back of Myron’s truck was almost empty, and the doors to Anthony’s trailer gaped open, proving the others had been industrious. The sound of voices, scuffs, and bumps drifted from inside the trio of matching trailers—getting-settled noises. He glanced into the back of his truck. It didn’t look like Marty’d taken anything in. Since Brooke had left, he wouldn’t feel guilty about asking Marty to help him.

  He climbed the steps of the black metal landing that served as a porch to their temporary home and pushed the door open. He stuck his head in. “Marty?” He searched left, right, and left again, then released a short, self-conscious laugh. She sat slouched low in an oversized chair near the front door, staring out the window. He’d looked at her and missed seeing her.

  “Marty, wanna come give me a hand?”

  She jerked and peered at him around the chair’s winged back. “What?”

  He grinned. She must’ve dozed off. “Come help me carry in the groceries and kitchen things we brought. You probably ought to set out some supper. It’s closing in on six.”

  She stared at him but didn’t get up. Didn’t change expression. Didn’t even act like she understood what he’d said.

  With a frown, he went in and stood in front of her. “Are you all right?” She pointed to the matching chair on the other side of a round table. Even though he didn’t have time to sit, he settled on the edge of the cushioned seat, keeping his gaze fixed on her somber face. “Okay. What’s going on?”

  “I know we’d talked about using the second bedroom for your office and my sewing space, but I want to let it be a bedroom.”

  He shook his head and pretended to ream his ear with one finger. They had to discuss this now? “Why?”

  “For Brooke.”

  He knew Marty was excited to see her childhood friend again. She’d written letters to her every week for their entire marriage. Sure, she’d want time with Brooke now that they were only an hour apart, but how would he and Marty have any privacy at all if Brooke moved in with them? He sighed and propped his elbows on his knees. “If Brooke wants to be out here while we work, why not ask her to get her own trailer? Seems like that’d be better for…everyone.”

  “She didn’t ask. I’m asking.”

  He held his hands wide. “But why?”

  She made a terrible face, the kind of face he’d make if he drank spoiled milk. “The doctor appointment she had this morning…is because she has cancer.”

  Anthony couldn’t have been more surprised if she’d shot him in the face with a rubber band. He flopped back into the chair, and his ears began to ring. He’d known only two other people who’d been diagnosed with cancer—a great-uncle and the cousin of one of their fellowship members. One had it in his bones, the other in his brain. In both cases, they’d faced lengthy battles and eventually lost. “Is…is it bad?”

  “She said if it hasn’t spread beyond her abdomen, then there’s a seventy percent chance she’ll beat it. For at least five years.”

  Anthony sat up again and reached for Marty’s hand. “I’m sorry.” She kept her hands tightly clamped together and didn’t reach back.

  “She doesn’t know yet if it’s spread. She should know by the end of next week. No matter if it’s spread or not, she knows for sure they’ll do surgery to take out all the parts of her that would let her be a mother.”

  He looked aside, heat filling his face. He shouldn’t know something so intimate about a woman who wasn’t family. He also didn’t want to see the pain in Marty’s eyes. She had the parts she needed to have a baby. He’d never get over the guilt of not being able to plant the seed in her womb. He swallowed and repeated, “I’m sorry.” Ridiculous words. They didn’t help anyone. Not Brooke, and not Marty.

  “She’ll need care, Anthony, and she doesn’t have anybody to help her. I could stay at her town house. She has extra bedrooms. But then I wouldn’t be here to cook for everybody and…and…”

  …fix their marriage. He finished the sentence in his head, but he didn’t say it out loud, either. He rubbed his jaw with his knuckles and looked at her again. “If you want to stay with Brooke, Charlotte could probably cook for all of us.”

  Marty shook her head so hard the ribbons on her cap flopped across her shoulders. “Even more than she’s scared of the cancer, she’s scared I’ll spend more time with her than with you. She’d never agree to me moving in with her. She’ll let me take her to her appointments—she said she would because there isn’t anyone else she can depend on—but she’ll stay alone before she’ll let me stay with her. But she shouldn’t be left alone. Not after the surgery, and not while she’s getting chemotherapy. She’ll be weak and sick.”

  Anthony grimaced. “I don’t know, Marty…”

  “It wouldn’t be right away. They haven’t scheduled her surgery yet. And she isn’t sure what will happen after the surgery, if she’ll have radiation or chemotherapy or both, or how long she’ll have to go in for treatments. She said she’ll know more after the oncologist calls.” Her light blue eyes flooded with tears. “I know it’d be inconvenient to have her with us.”

  Inconvenient didn’t come close to the way he saw it.

  “But please say yes. She needs me. She needs us.”

  Anthony tried to ignore the begging in her eyes. He’d seen the expression before. In their bedroom, when the midwife said their baby was gone. In the doctor’s office, when they’d been told there was no hope of them conceiving another child. From across the table, when he knew she was thinking about what they’d been denied and was wishing things were different. He couldn’t bring back their lost baby. He couldn’t change the damage the mumps had caused. He couldn’t take away Brooke’s cancer. But if agreeing to have Brooke stay with them would satisfy at least one of Marty’s wishes, he could set aside his discomfort.

  He nodded. “All right. We’ll find someplace else for my desk and your sewing machine.”

  With a little sob, she lunged out of her chair and fell against him. She buried her face in the curve of his neck. He wrapped his arms around her and drew her onto his lap.

  “Thank you.”

  He barely heard her with her voice muffled against his collar. He pressed his lips against her hair, didn’t answer, and just held her. He wished it hadn’t taken Brooke’s cancer and need for help to bring Marty so close again.

  Brooke

  Midmorning on the Fourth of July, Brooke drove out to Spalding. She hadn’t intended to visit until she’d heard from the oncologist about surgery. The Mennonites needed to settle in, and she’d only distract Marty. But restlessness and, admittedly, selfishness pushed her out the door. She needed a distraction.

  She pulled up to the keypad outside the gat
e and lowered her window. Dust filtered in, and she tried to hold her breath while she poked the code into the pad. The winged halves folded inward on well-oiled hinges, and she closed her window, releasing her held breath. She scowled at the fine coating of dust now on the dash and her clothes. She needed to hurry the surfacing contractor out here to pave these roads or at least put gravel down until he had time in his schedule to pour and stamp the tinted concrete streets that would mimic brick streets from long ago. There were so many things vying for her attention. How would she keep up when chemotherapy made her sick and tired and weak?

  Gritting her teeth, she bit back a huff. Hadn’t she decided to take one day and not think about cancer? She slammed the door on worry and drove through the opening. As she rolled to a stop on the grassy area opposite the trailers, a man wearing blue jeans, a blue shirt, and a dark blue ball cap climbed down a ladder that was leaning against the porch roof of the row of buildings on the east side of the street and ran behind one of the limestone structures on the west side, stirring dust with his boots.

  She shut off the ignition and got out, her gaze fixed on the spot where the man had slipped from sight. Who was prowling around the buildings? And what was that sound? She’d expect the pops and booms of fireworks. After all, it was Independence Day. Which was why she’d brought hot dogs, burgers, and all the accompaniments to share with Marty, Anthony, and the team of workers. But if she wasn’t mistaken, the ringing taps came from hammers on nails and not firecrackers. Were the men working on a national holiday?

  “Hello, Miss Spalding!”

  The cheerful female voice came from Brooke’s left. She turned and spotted Charlotte, the young wife of one of Anthony’s team members, in the patch of grass between the first two trailers. Someone had strung lines from trailer to trailer, and shirts similar to the one she’d seen on the man running across the street flapped in the morning wind. As Brooke crossed the road, the woman removed another shirt from a basket near her feet and gave it several flicks that made the fabric snap. The fresh scent of soap met Brooke’s nose. A pleasant aroma that never emanated from her dry-cleaned suits.

  Brooke stopped next to the line and watched Charlotte pin the shirt next to the others. “Is your dryer not working?” Granted, she hadn’t paid for top-of-the-line machines. She’d assumed even low-budget ones would last the length of time they’d be needed. If the dryer was already out of commission, she’d have plenty to say to the salesman.

  Charlotte smiled. “Oh, I’m sure it’s fine. I didn’t try to use it. The sun and wind dry things quickly, and clothes smell so good when they come in.” The breeze tossed the black ribbons from her cap across her cheek, and she tucked them into the neckline of her mint-green-and-white-checkered dress. “I hope it’s okay that we hung up the lines. Anthony and Nate had to screw eyebolts through the siding into the studs so the lines would hold. Nate put some caulking around the bolts, and he’ll be sure and fill the holes and paint over them when we’re done so no moisture gets in and ruins the siding.”

  These people were nothing if not conscientious. “It’s fine. If I’d known you preferred the, er, wind-and-sun method for drying clothes, I would’ve had a clothesline set up out here.” Did somebody still manufacture clotheslines? “But I told you to make yourselves at home. I trust you not to tear things up.”

  Charlotte beamed. “Thank you.”

  More banging drifted from the main-street buildings. Brooke frowned. “Are the men working?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Anthony said they needed to repair the roofs first so the buildings would be protected from the weather.”

  Sound thinking, but Brooke still didn’t understand something. “Why are they working on the Fourth? It’s a federal holiday.”

  Charlotte scooped up the empty basket and balanced it against her stomach. “Our fellowship doesn’t celebrate holidays that relate to war.”

  Ah. She should’ve known. “Hmm. Would you folks consider a cookout a holiday celebration or just a picnic?”

  Charlotte shrugged. “I don’t know, but you could ask Marty. She’s inside the trailer.”

  Brooke thanked Charlotte, then ducked under the damp clothes and crossed across the grass to the trailer’s back door. A set of wooden risers marched upward, and her back twinged as she climbed them. Pressing one hand to her lower back, she knocked on the siding with the other. Within seconds the door popped open and Marty greeted her with a worried frown.

  “Brooke…Have you heard from the oncologist?”

  Brooke stepped onto the linoleum kitchen floor and closed the door behind her. “No, not yet. I came out to—” She gave a start. The windows were open, and a fan whirred from the middle of the living room floor. The AC must be on the fritz, because no one in their right mind would choose a fan over AC in July in Kansas. “Do I need to get an air-conditioning repairman out here?”

  Marty guided her to the chair at the head of the long dining table. “No, it works fine, but I really don’t need it until noon or so. The shade trees keep things cool enough until the sun’s directly overhead.” She wrinkled her nose. “Anthony and I talked it over, and since you’re paying the utility bill, we want to keep the cost as reasonable as possible. So even though we love the convenience of air conditioning, we promise not to overuse it.”

  Brooke shook her head, smiling. “Marty, I appreciate your attempt to be frugal, but it’s actually harder on the unit to repeatedly cool a hot house than to maintain an even temperature. It’d cost less to keep it running twenty-four hours a day.”

  Her eyes widened. “It would?”

  Brooke nodded.

  Marty stared at Brooke, unmoving, as if trying to decide if she was being honest.

  Brooke put up her hand, Scout style. “I kid you not.” She shrugged. “But if you’re really concerned about it and want to save a few pennies, you can close the vents in the second bedroom and bathroom and only cool the parts of the house you’re using.”

  Marty scrunched her lips, as if holding back a mighty sneeze.

  “Of course, that’s assuming you aren’t making use of the second bedroom.” Brooke searched her friend’s expression for a hint of what she was thinking. She hoped Marty and Anthony hadn’t laid claim to separate bedrooms. How could they work out their differences if they kept themselves on opposite sides of the house?

  Marty sighed. “I’ll tell Anthony what you said.” She rose. “Can I get you some tea? Lemonade? Ice water? Then you can tell me what brought you out.”

  “Lemonade, please. And I came out to treat you all to a cookout. The trunk of my car is packed with a cooler full of picnic foods, two charcoal grills that need to be put together—I presume you have the necessary tools—and bags of charcoal briquettes. Does a cookout sound good?”

  Marty carried two sweaty glasses to the table and sat again. “It does. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Brooke took a sip. “I figure before long I won’t much feel like picnics, so I better grab the chance while I can, right?”

  Marty had lifted the glass to her lips, but she lowered it to the table without taking a drink. “Speaking of you not feeling well, there’s something I want to talk to you about. And I might as well tell you straight out, I won’t take no for an answer.”

  18

  Marty

  “No. And that’s final.”

  Marty hadn’t expected Brooke to agree. In fact, she’d anticipated more of a fight from Brooke than she had from Anthony. She folded her arms over her chest and gathered every bit of stubbornness she possessed. “Then I’ll pack a bag and move into your town house with you.”

  Brooke’s mouth dropped open.

  Marty maintained a stern expression while her insides churned in uncertainty. Should she state a condition she knew she wouldn’t carry through? Did God view it the same as lying? But how else would she convince Brooke to stay with them? She
gave a firm nod. “Yes, you heard me. You move here, or I move there. But you won’t be left unattended. And that, my friend, is final.”

  Brooke sat for a few more seconds with a look of surprise rounding her eyes, and then her chin began to quiver. She stretched her hands toward Marty, and Marty took hold and squeezed, the gesture meant to plead and insist at the same time.

  “Marty, what you said means a lot.” The tears moistening Brooke’s green eyes proved how much she’d been touched. Marty blinked back tears, too. “Please don’t think I’m not appreciative, but it wouldn’t be fair to you or Anthony for me to move in here.”

  Marty started to speak, but Brooke broke loose and put her hand in the air.

  “And before you give your ultimatum again, I will not allow you to leave him to take care of me. So that’s out.” She picked up her glass and took a long, slow draw of the lemonade with her eyes closed. When she set the glass down, a mix of resolve and resignation played on her expression.

  “I actually considered hiring a private nurse to stay with me during the months of treatment because everything I’ve read indicates I’m going to need someone close at hand.” Brooke used her fingernail and made a pattern of overlapping circles in the condensation on her glass. “But honestly, the thought of getting so close and personal with a stranger doesn’t appeal to me. I’d rather have someone I know and trust.” Her gaze met Marty’s for a brief second and then returned to the circles. “I guess that’s you.”

  Marty’s heart gave a leap. “Then you’ll accept? You’ll move into the spare bedroom?”

  Brooke set the glass aside. “No. You and Anthony need your privacy. Frankly, I need mine, too. There’s no sense in us intruding on each other’s space 24/7. But”—her fine eyebrows came down—“what if I had another trailer brought in and set up next to yours? Then you’d be close by if I needed something, but I wouldn’t be underfoot.”