Where Willows Grow

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  He pushed up his shirt-sleeves and washed his arms and then stuck his feet under the water. The cold water soothed the blisters that looked angry and raw this morning. Dirk came out as Harley plunked down on the ground to tug on his socks and boots.

  ‘‘Hoo-ey, Harley, those’re some bad-looking sores.’’ Sympathy underscored the overgrown boy’s deep tone. ‘‘Ma’s got some healing ointment you could put on them. She’d probably also give you some old sheeting to keep ’em covered so they don’t get any worse.’’ He crouched next to Harley and picked up one of his boots. ‘‘New boots?’’

  Harley nodded.

  Dirk whistled through his teeth as he examined the boot, turning it this way and that. ‘‘Haven’t seen new boots in . . . well, a coon’s age, I reckon. You’re a lucky man to own new boots.’’ He grinned, handing the boot back to Harley. ‘‘Although blisters’re hardly considered lucky, huh?’’

  Harley agreed with that. ‘‘I’d appreciate the ointment,’’ he admitted.

  ‘‘Well, head on to the back door and give a knock. Let Ma fix you up before you start that milkin’. The cows’ll keep for a while yet, but those feet of yours . . .’’ Dirk scratched his head. ‘‘Don’t know how you made it walking yesterday.’’

  ‘‘Made it ’cause I had to.’’ Harley pushed to his feet. ‘‘And I can milk a cow in my bare feet. I’d rather get the work done before I trouble your mother for anything.’’

  Dirk shrugged his massive shoulders and straightened to his feet. Harley followed him into the barn. Three cows with full udders waited. Dirk pointed to the middle stall, and Harley found clean pails and a bucket of soapy water with a rag slung over its side. After cleaning the cow’s udder, he grabbed a pail, straddled a small stool, and got busy. Dirk finished his cow first, then moved to the third stall. Harley finished midway through Dirk’s second milking. He picked up both his and Dirk’s full pails of milk. ‘‘I’ll take these in,’’ he said.

  Dirk gave a nod in return, and Harley headed toward the house on bare feet, taking care not to spill a drop of milk. His thoughts drifted back to his own little farm outside of Spencer. Was Annie milking right about now? Or had Jack taken over the task? He hoped Annie wasn’t so stubborn she refused Jack’s help. Then again, Jack was plenty stubborn, too. He released a light chuckle, imagining the battle of wills no doubt taking place between his wife and their closest neighbor.

  Harley set down one pail to knock on the back door. In a few seconds the door opened, and the smiling face Harley remembered from the night before greeted him.

  ‘‘Why, come right on in, young man, and set those pails on the table there.’’ She pointed to a scarred table that stood in the middle of the large kitchen. ‘‘Did you sleep well?’’

  Harley hefted the pails to the table before turning to nod at the woman. ‘‘Yes, ma’am. Real well. I was pretty tired. Probably could’ve slept on a bed of rocks.’’ Then, concerned he might sound ungrateful, he added, ‘‘But I appreciate the soft hay.’’

  ‘‘Oh, you’re welcome.’’ She bustled back to the stove and pushed a wooden spoon around in an iron skillet. An enticing aroma filled Harley’s nostrils, making his stomach lurch with desire. ‘‘Got some potatoes with ham and onions cooking here, and soon as Dirk’s done with the milking, he’ll bring in the eggs. They’ll be fried up in no time. How many eggs can you eat at a sitting?’’

  Harley stood uncertainly on his dusty bare feet in the middle of the floor. He wanted to answer honestly, yet didn’t want to take advantage of this woman’s kindness. Scratching his whisker-covered chin, he answered, ‘‘Just one’ll be fine, ma’am.’’

  She turned and looked at him with raised brows and pursed lips. ‘‘One? Just one? Now, young man, I can’t imagine you’ve limited yourself to one egg since you grew out of knee pants.’’

  Harley couldn’t help it. A grin tugged at his cheeks. He pulled one finger along his lips to control the smile, but it kept growing.

  The woman laughed. ‘‘Uh-huh, that’s what I thought.’’ She turned back to the stove. ‘‘Why don’t you head out and give Dirk a hand. Breakfast’ll be ready soon.’’

  Twenty minutes later Harley sat down at the table with Dirk and his parents. The older man offered a brief prayer of thanks for the food, reminding Harley again of Annie and home. Homesickness created a hole in his middle. But fried eggs and a pile of potatoes seasoned well with ham and onions did an adequate job of filling the emptiness.

  Halfway through the meal, the woman said, ‘‘So, Mr. Phipps, what kind of job do you have waiting in Lindsborg?’’

  Harley swallowed the last bite before answering. ‘‘Building, ma’am. WPA group’s putting up a castle. I figure on helping.’’

  ‘‘A castle?’’ Dirk put down his fork and stared at Harley. ‘‘You’re funnin’ me.’’

  Harley shook his head. ‘‘No. They’re hirin’ men with strong backs to build a castle and picnic grounds. Has something to do with an explorer named Coronado.’’

  ‘‘Coronado.’’ The woman looked pensively across the table. ‘‘Yes, I seem to recall seeing something about that in the newspaper a while back.’’

  ‘‘My farm’s not done too well the past couple years, what with the drought. Hardly any money comin’ in at all. That paycheck will be welcome to me and my family.’’

  ‘‘You have a family, Mr. Phipps?’’

  A band of longing wrapped itself around Harley’s chest as he thought of Dottie and Margie. ‘‘Oh yes, ma’am. Got me two pretty little girls.’’ His lips quavered as he thought of Annie. Did she regret not seeing him off with a proper good-bye yesterday?

  ‘‘Ma,’’ Dirk interjected, ‘‘Harley’s got some blisters on his heels. Can you fix him up before he heads out again?’’

  ‘‘Why, sure I can!’’ She gave Harley another crinkling smile. ‘‘You just sit tight, Mr. Phipps. We’ll doctor those blisters for you, and I’ll pack you a lunch to take along. Something to tide you over ’til you can get another good meal.’’

  ‘‘Oh, but—’’

  ‘‘Don’t you argue with me, Mr. Phipps. The Good Book instructs us to love our neighbors as ourselves. Wouldn’t want my own boy here to go hungry.’’ She turned her back on Harley and headed to the sink.

  Dirk grinned in Harley’s direction. ‘‘Don’t argue with Ma. You can’t win.’’

  Harley shrugged. He started to answer, but the older man, who’d been silent since his prayer, interrupted.

  ‘‘Boy, you figure that crew of workers would have room for one more?’’

  Harley turned in the older man’s direction. ‘‘I . . . I don’t know for sure, sir, but I don’t guess it would hurt to ask. Why?’’

  The man rested his elbows on the table. ‘‘We been praying for a way to keep our farm going. Haven’t had a decent crop in three years. Don’t know what’ll happen in the next years, either, what with the topsoil blown to kingdom come. But Dirk here—he’s got a strong back and willin’ spirit. If that crew would take him, sure would help us out.’’

  Dirk grinned widely. ‘‘Would you mind a travelin’ partner, Harley?’’

  Harley looked from one man to the other. This was a strange turn of events. He offered another shrug. ‘‘I don’t mind. Less lonely, I reckon.’’

  Dirk looked toward the sink, where the woman ladled steaming water from the stove’s reservoir into a dishpan. ‘‘Hey, Ma, when you pack Harley’s lunch here, pack one for me, too. I’m gonna go castle buildin’!’’

  8

  ANNA MAE FED THE GIRLS their breakfast, then tied a length of braided rags, strung with several small toys, to the high chair to entertain the baby. With Marjorie’s gurgling as an accompaniment, Anna Mae performed her morning household chores.

  By ten o’clock, she had separated the cream from the milk and churned the cream into butter. She left a pitcher of milk in the icebox for their own drinking and cooking and hauled the extra to the cellar to join the can full from y
esterday’s milking. She scowled for a moment at the row of milk cans, realizing the milk and cream would spoil if it wasn’t taken to town. ‘‘Jack’ll have to do it,’’ she muttered to herself, ‘‘but oh, how I hate letting him!’’

  Well, it would keep for a while yet. She didn’t need to deal with it right now. She stomped up the steps, went back into the kitchen to retrieve Marjorie, then turned her attention to the garden. Weeding needed to be done, as well as watering. She heaved a huge sigh. So much to do! Then she remembered Harley had said Dorothy was big enough to help. She cupped one hand beside her mouth and called, ‘‘Dorothy?’’

  The little girl came running from her playing spot.

  Anna Mae touched Dorothy’s hair. ‘‘Want to help Mama?’’

  Dorothy squinted upward. ‘‘Do I gotta watch Marjorie?’’

  ‘‘No, I want you to water the garden.’’

  ‘‘Okay!’’

  Anna Mae set Marjorie down in the shade of the bushes with a stern order. ‘‘You stay right here.’’ She ran a bucket of water from the pump by the barn, hefted it to the edge of the garden plot, and plunked it on the ground where Dorothy could reach. She then instructed Dorothy on how to water the garden. She finished with, ‘‘Every little plant needs a good drink, darlin’. Can you do that?’’

  ‘‘Sure!’’ The child’s enthusiasm lifted Anna Mae’s spirits.

  Anna Mae watched Dorothy walk with the dipper held in both hands to the rows of tiny shoots of green, splash the water onto one fledgling plant, then run to the bucket for another dipperful. The precious look of concentration on the little girl’s face tugged at Anna Mae’s heart. She called, ‘‘Do a good job, and Mama will fix you a treat this afternoon.’’

  ‘‘Okay!’’

  Anna Mae kept one eye on Marjorie as she pulled the weeds that intruded and tried to steal nourishment from their garden plants. The weeding finished, she took the baby inside and prepared a simple lunch of bologna sandwiches and canned peaches.

  Dorothy came in just as Anna Mae put the plates on the table. ‘‘Mama, I put the bucket back in the lean-to.’’

  ‘‘Good girl.’’ Anna Mae sent her daughter a smile. ‘‘Now climb up to the sink and get your hands washed. I think you’re wearing half the dirt from the garden.’’

  While the baby napped and Dorothy curled up in her bed with a picture book, Anna Mae followed through on her promise to treat Dorothy. She pulled out her mama’s sugar cookie recipe and got to baking. When the first batch came from the oven, mounded high with bits of sugar sparkling on the light brown tops, the aroma made her stomach growl. She smiled as she glanced out the open kitchen window. Harley could smell Mama’s sugar cookies baking from a mile away. Shouldn’t be long, and he’d be heading for the house, an eager grin on his face, ready to beg a fresh-baked treat.

  Her smile vanished as she remembered Harley wasn’t out in the barn or the fields. The smell of cookies wouldn’t reach him—not with him miles down the road. Slumping forward, she fought tears.

  How she disliked tears. A sign of weakness, that’s all they were. Strong people didn’t sit around boo-hooing over every little thing. And hadn’t she always been told she was a strong person? Lord, this crying doesn’t fix anything. I know it’s just because the baby’s got me all mixed up inside, but I’ve got to be strong for my girls. Please make these tears go away.

  The brief prayer helped. Mama always said ask and you’d receive. So she asked once more for strength, straightened her shoulders, and sniffed hard. The tears dried up. She reached for the spatula to remove the cookies from the tin sheet. While that batch cooled on a wooden rack set beneath the window, she rolled balls of dough and pushed them flat with a glass dipped in sugar. She hummed as she worked, imagining Dorothy’s pleased face when she came out from her rest.

  Just as she leaned down, apron protecting her hands, to remove the last batch from the oven, she heard a scuffling behind her. Shaking her head, she said, ‘‘Dorothy, I told you to wait until Mama called you. What are you doing out here?’’

  ‘‘Sorry. Wrong again.’’

  Anna Mae snapped upright, spinning from the oven to face the back door. A man stood in the open kitchen doorway, leaning against the doorjamb with arms crossed and one toe propped against the linoleum floor. A familiar, lazy grin lifted one side of his mouth.

  Anna Mae forgot all about the cookies still inside the oven. She also forgot that she needed him to take her milk to town. Giving the oven door a slam, she spouted, ‘‘Jack Berkley, I thought I told you to git!’’

  Harley wiped the sweat from his brow and maintained a brisk pace. He’d lost half the morning, thanks to Mrs. Farley’s insistence that he sit in on Bible reading with the family before his leave-taking. He couldn’t complain—she had generously filled his poke with slices of ham, radishes and carrots, half a loaf of bread, and half a dozen boiled eggs. But if he’d left first thing, he could be a good five miles farther down the road and that much closer to his new job.

  What was it with females and Bible reading? Annie would be tickled to know he’d sat through a whole chapter. She’d also have a few choice words concerning his reading with the Farley family instead of his own. How many times had she pestered him about reading the Bible with her and the girls?

  Dirk strode easily beside him, his wide face creased into a permanent grin. For a big man, he sure could move. His long legs had never faltered as the two crossed a pasture to follow the railroad tracks. Dirk had agreed with Harley about following tracks rather than the road. He’d also agreed about not hitching a free ride in a boxcar.

  ‘‘Be kind of like stealing, wouldn’t it?’’ Dirk winked. ‘‘Don’t know about your mama, but mine never was one for lettin’ me take somethin’ that didn’t belong to me.’’

  Harley released a brief laugh. ‘‘Your mama an’ my wife would get along real good, what with reading the Bible every day and speaking out against stealing. Annie’s got real strong ideas about right and wrong.’’

  ‘‘Annie? That your wife?’’

  Harley’s heart expanded as he thought about his Annie. Prettiest girl in Spencer—easily the prettiest in all of Reno County. And she’d married Harley Phipps, a drifter from Mississippi who’d hardly had two pennies to his name. ‘‘Yep. Anna Mae, but I call her Annie.’’ He chuckled. ‘‘She doesn’t much care for it, but somehow wrapping my tongue around Anna Mae just ain’t easy.’’

  Dirk nodded. ‘‘And she’s a God-fearing woman?’’

  ‘‘Bible reading every day, church every Sunday, prayers all the time. Yep, she’s God-fearing.’’ Harley scowled. ‘‘For what good it does her.’’

  ‘‘What you mean by that?’’

  Harley sneaked a glance in Dirk’s direction. For the first time, the big man’s face wore no easy smile. He seemed genuinely interested in Harley’s answer.

  ‘‘All that prayin’ . . . Asking God to bless the food, to bless the land, to bring us rain.’’ He snorted. ‘‘Rain. Ha! Look at that sky.’’ He flung his arm outward, gesturing toward the expanse of shimmering blue overhead. ‘‘Not so much as a cloud anywhere. See how much good her praying does?’’

  Dirk shrugged, shifting his pack higher on his shoulder. ‘‘Must do some good, or she wouldn’t keep prayin’.’’

  ‘‘But nobody answers!’’ Harley surprised himself with his vehemence.

  Dirk raised one eyebrow. ‘‘Listen, Harley, I don’t know how you was raised, but my ma and pa taught me that God loves me. Loves me so much He sent His Son to die on a cross just so I could have my sins forgiven. I figure a God who loves me that much has the right to decide what I need and when I need it. Sure, I’d like it to rain, too—hurts me to see plants all shriveled up and my pa watching the farm he’s worked so hard on just fallin’ apart.’’

  Harley saw tears glint in the big man’s eyes, and he turned away from the sight. Men and tears didn’t mix. Especially not with a man the size of Dirk. Those tears gave Harley a fun
ny feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  ‘‘But seein’ all that don’t keep me from praying. Praying’s not just to get something, Harley—praying’s for what it does for you. Connects you with your Maker. Keeps you in touch. You figure your relationship with your Annie would be worth anything if you never talked to her?’’ He poked Harley with his elbow.

  Harley grimaced but didn’t reply. His and Annie’s talking had slowed down too much, and Harley knew it.

  Dirk chuckled. ‘‘Yep, gotta talk to keep a relationship goin’. So I talk to God. Then I trust Him to take care of me in the way that’s best.’’

  Harley couldn’t stay silent. ‘‘An’ you figure this drought is what’s best?’’

  ‘‘My ways ain’t God’s ways.’’ Dirk poked out his lips in thought for a moment. ‘‘In the Bible, God lets hardship bring folks around to Him. Funny how some folks keep their distance ’til they really need Him.’’

  Harley kicked at a dirt clod.

  ‘‘In the meantime,’’ Dirk continued, seemingly oblivious to Harley’s churning temper, ‘‘I’m mighty thankful for this job opportunity. Thankful to you, too, for mentionin’ it. I figure you’re God’s messenger, Harley.’’

  Harley nearly laughed out loud. Him? God’s messenger? ‘‘You’re thankin’ the wrong person. I don’t have nothin’ to do with that job—thank President Roosevelt. He’s the one thought up all these programs to help us out.’’

  ‘‘But I wouldn’t’ve known about it except for you. I figure God sent you along just at the time we needed the idea. Pa’s been praying. God answered with you.’’

  Harley pushed his hat brim upward and swiped at the sweat that dribbled toward his eyes. ‘‘You go ahead and believe what you want to, Dirk, an’ let me believe what I want to. Long as we can agree to disagree, we’ll get along fine.’’

  Just like me and Annie.

  9

  ‘‘I’M TIRED OF STANDING HERE. When’re they coming, Mama?’’