‘‘I . . . I thank you, God, for Jack’s friendship, for his willingness to help out here even though I haven’t always acted grateful. Bless his kindness to us. But, God?’’ She licked her lips, suddenly hesitant to express her next thoughts, even to the One who already knew them. ‘‘Don’t let me lean on him too much. When he prayed this afternoon before taking off for Hutchinson, it—it hurt me. It reminded me of what Harley and I lack. It made me long for a husband who knows you and loves you. But I married Harley, and I love Harley—I really do, God!’’ Her heart raced with the sincerity of her proclamation. ‘‘Don’t let me look at Jack as . . . as more than the friend he was in my girlhood. Guard my heart, please. With Harley away and Jack nearby, I’m . . . I’m afraid.’’
Eyes closed tight, she remained silent before her God for several more minutes, absorbing the sweetness of communion. Then, with a ragged breath, she ended the prayer. ‘‘Thank you, God, for listening and answering. In your Son’s name I pray. Amen.’’
She rose and put away the now-dry dishes that waited on a clean dish towel stretched across the counter. The task complete, she returned Harley’s letter to the envelope and carried it to her room. After propping the envelope against her hairbrush on the bureau, she dressed for bed, then slipped between the sheets.
Wide-eyed and alert, she lay listening to the gentle night sounds. The wind moved the branches of the weeping willow outside her window, sending dancing shadows across the wall of the room. Crickets sang, and far away a coyote released one mournful howl. The sounds had been the same since her childhood. She took comfort in the thought that some things never changed. She wondered if the night sounds were different where Harley was. She’d have to ask when she wrote to him. Because she would write him. Tomorrow. A long, newsy letter, filled with her sorrow for how she’d treated him his last day and how she wished he were here.
Her thoughts drifted back over the day, images playing through her head as she stared at the flower-sprigged wallpaper covering the ceiling. Despite her disappointment with Harley’s distant letter, it had been a good day. She smiled, remembering Marjorie’s and Dorothy’s delight at their first picture show. A feeling of warmth accompanied the memory of Jack’s and Mr. Berkley’s kindness, and the gratitude that, even if it was an unsatisfying letter, she’d heard from Harley. The best moment of all, though, was ending the day in prayer.
‘‘Phipps!’’
Mr. Peterson’s booming voice carried over all other voices. Harley dropped his shovel and trotted across the hard ground, coming to a halt in front of the boss. Mr. Peterson thumped a box into his hand. ‘‘This came in my mail. Addressed to you.’’
‘‘Thanks, sir!’’
‘‘Take a break. Open it up.’’
Harley smiled his thanks and gave a nod. He carried the parcel two-handed to a quiet spot away from the others. Turning his back on the throng, he plunked down on the hard ground. He crisscrossed his legs and placed the box on his ankles. It was hard to believe he’d gotten a package already. Hadn’t been that long ago that he’d written to Annie so she’d know where he was and that he was doing okay.
Writing his thoughts on paper had never been something that came easy—harder, even, than saying them out loud, and that was plenty tough. He hoped she had been able to read between the feeble lines of print and see what he carried on his heart. And now he got to open a box from her. She’d be better at saying what she felt. His Annie was never short of words. His heart set up a mighty thrumming as he sat, the box weighty against his legs, enjoying the anticipation of the moment. What would Annie have sent? The box was too small to hold clothes but too large for just a letter.
Wind teased the tails of the string that held the brown paper in place. The dancing strings invited him to dive in. Rolling onto one hip, he removed his penknife from his pocket. One snip and the string fell away. He picked it up, wrapped it around his closed knife, and slipped it back in his pocket. Taking care not to rip the paper, he removed and folded it. Once it was in a neat square, he tucked it beneath his hip and finally opened the box. Slowly. His lower lip held between his teeth.
Pleasure coiled through his middle when he spotted the contents: sugar cookies. Ah, that Annie. He couldn’t stop the smile that grew on his face. They were pretty much in pieces from their jostled journey across the state, but he picked up one sizable chunk and stuck it in his mouth. He sighed in satisfaction. It tasted like home—every bit as good as he’d remembered.
He ate two more pieces before he noticed a folded piece of waxed paper in the bottom of the box. Poking his fingers through the broken cookies, he removed the waxed paper and shook it to get the crumbs off. Tablet paper, folded into a square, was held between the layers of waxed paper. He set the box on the ground and unfolded the letter.
Dear Mr. Phipps, he read.
Huh?
He jerked his gaze to the signature. Mrs. Eldo Farley. His heart plummeted. The cookie turned to sawdust in his mouth. The anticipation, the joy of receiving the package, diminished until his belly felt hollow. He hadn’t realized until that moment how much he wanted—needed—to hear from Annie. He pushed aside his disappointment to read what Mrs. Farley had written.
Dirk said you were getting filled by the cooking at the café, but I thought you might enjoy a little homemade treat. The cookies will probably be crumbs by the time they reach you, but they should taste the same. A crooked smile tugged at his lips. She was right—the first taste had been good. He took another piece of cookie and munched while he finished the brief letter.
Thank you again for telling us about this job. Dirk’s check was welcome, and it has given us new hope that we can keep this farm long enough for Dirk to raise his own family here someday. Bless you, Mr. Phipps. We are keeping you in our prayers. In God’s love, Mrs. Eldo Farley.
In his mind, he pictured Dirk’s mother—small, smiling, her eyes warm. It was kind of her to write to him and send the treat. But, he admitted as he reached for another chunk of cookie, he really just wanted to hear from Annie.
Harley rested the letter on his knee, the breeze ruffling the edges of the paper as he stared into the distance and tried to picture his farm, his family. Oh, how he missed them.
Every night, alone on his cot, he thought of Annie and wondered how she was doing—if the new baby was making her belly poke out yet, if she lay staring into the dark, thinking of him . . . He reached for another piece of cookie, but as he lifted it to his lips, an image intruded: Jack sitting at his kitchen table, holding one of Annie’s sugar cookies, a smirk on his face.
Now, where did that come from? Once the picture set in his head, he couldn’t get rid of it. He threw the cookie back into the box. Two pieces bounced out and landed in the dirt. He released a soft oath as he picked them up between his finger and thumb and tried to brush off the coating of dust. Impossible. With another curse, he threw them as far as he could and lowered his head.
‘‘Hey, Phipps!’’
Harley pivoted to peer over his shoulder. One of the other workers waved at him.
‘‘What you doin’ over there? Let’s get back to work.’’
Even though the boss had given him permission to take the unscheduled break, he didn’t want to take advantage. He raised his hand in acknowledgment, and the other man turned back to his shoveling. Rising, he placed the letter and folded brown paper on top of the cookies, replaced the lid on the box, and then settled the box against his hip.
He thumped his feet hard against the earth as he headed back to the work site. With every step, one word repeated itself again and again: Jack . . . Jack . . . Jack . . .
‘‘Work it off,’’ he muttered to himself, then released a rueful chuckle. Some things were just like being at home.
Jack tapped on the porch door, opened it, and stepped through, feeling as though he were stepping back in time ten years to the days when he’d been welcomed at the Elliott farm just like a member of the family. He paused at the kitchen door until
he heard Anna Mae’s call: ‘‘Come on in, Jack.’’
He smiled. No more ‘‘Git, Jack.’’ Now it was ‘‘Come on in, Jack.’’ Things were improving.
Anna Mae sat at the kitchen table. He watched as she touched glue to the flap of an envelope and pressed it down. When she finished her task, she looked up, a bright smile in her eyes.
He had to remind himself to breathe.
‘‘Good morning. The milk’s ready to go, and could I ask another favor?’’
Anything, his heart said. ‘‘Sure,’’ he said aloud, keeping his tone light.
She held the envelope toward him. ‘‘Would you mail this for me? I’ve got stamp money but no stamps.’’
He took it and looked at the name. Harley Phipps, c/o Mr. Peterson. He scowled, a wave of jealousy rising up inside him. ‘‘Who’s Peterson?’’
Anna Mae moved to the sink and stuck her hands beneath the flow of water. She spoke over her shoulder. ‘‘Harley’s boss. Harley is staying in a shed behind the man’s house.’’
‘‘So you heard from him, huh?’’ Jack hoped he didn’t sound as irritated as he felt.
‘‘Yes.’’ She dried her hands on a length of toweling, her smile soft. Digging around in a can on the windowsill, she extracted three copper coins, which she dropped in his open palm. ‘‘He’s doing well, and he sent me a check. So when I go to town next, I’ll be able to pay you back for those shoes you picked up for Dorothy.’’
‘‘There’s no hurry.’’ He pocketed the pennies, then fingered the plump envelope, curiosity burning in his gut.
‘‘No, it needs to be done. Even Harley said so in his letter.’’
Jack pinched his brows together. ‘‘How’d Harley know?’’
‘‘Oh, he didn’t.’’ Anna Mae rubbed the inside of a black cast-iron skillet with bacon fat and placed it on the stove. ‘‘He just said to buy her some shoes with his paycheck. Since they’re already bought—’’ striking a match, she opened the side door to the fuel chamber and dropped it on the waiting kindling—‘‘I just need to pay you back.’’ Facing him, she pressed a finger to her lips and looked at him thoughtfully. ‘‘When are you heading to town?’’
Jack slid her letter into his shirt pocket. The bulk felt odd against his chest. ‘‘Why?’’
‘‘I’d like to get things taken care of as soon as possible.’’
It rankled that she was so eager to rid herself of her perceived debt—like she couldn’t be beholden to him for something as small as the cost of a pair of shoes. ‘‘I’m heading there now.’’
Her face fell. ‘‘Oh. I couldn’t go now. The girls are still sleeping.’’ She peeked into the fuel chamber and added two scoops of coal from a half-full bucket sitting next to the stove. ‘‘I guess I won’t be able to go today, then. Will you go some other time this week?’’
Jack nodded slowly. ‘‘I’ll go in on Wednesday.’’
‘‘May we go with you?’’
He shrugged. ‘‘Sure. We’ll have to take the wagon, though, since I’ll be transporting milk to meet the truck.’’
‘‘That’s fine.’’ The grease in the skillet began to sizzle. Reaching for a basket of eggs on the edge of the counter, she asked brightly, ‘‘Have you had breakfast?’’
He hadn’t, but he had other pressing business. As much as he wanted to sit and have fried eggs with Anna Mae, there was something else he needed to do more. ‘‘Yes,’’ he lied, ‘‘but thanks anyway. I’ll grab the milk and head out.’’
‘‘All right. Bye, Jack.’’ She flashed another smile. ‘‘Thanks for taking that letter.’’
Her attention turned to the breaking of eggs, and he slipped out the door. He loaded the milk as quickly as possible, climbed in the wagon, and slapped the reins down hard. The horses jolted forward, clanking the two milk cans together. He relaxed his hands on the reins and intoned, ‘‘Eeeeasy, there, boys. Let’s go easy.’’ No need to spill Anna Mae’s milk.
Halfway between his house and the Phipps’ place, he gave a tug on the reins that brought the horses to a halt. Then he reached into his pocket, removed the letter Anna Mae had asked him to mail, and tore it open.
16
JACK RESISTED THE URGE to peek over his shoulder as he removed the letter intended for Harley from its envelope. There wasn’t anybody looking, and even if there were, they’d just assume he was reading his own mail. But he still fought the need to check. There was no pang of guilt—just a worry of being caught.
The glue was still damp, and he got goo on his finger. He grunted and wiped it on his pant leg, then unfolded the pages, bringing Anna Mae’s neat lines of script into view. He angled the pages away from the sun and began to read, a scowl pinching his face.
Dear Harley, I was pleased to receive your letter and to know how to reach you. I can’t believe it’s been a whole month since you left. Our last day, and our fight, has weighed so heavily on my heart. If I could do things over, Harley, I wouldn’t have sent you off in anger. I hope you will forgive me. It’s been so lonely here without you.
Lonely, huh? Jack’s lips twitched. Well, maybe he’d better come around more often and take care of that little problem.
The girls and I miss you terribly, but I’m glad to know you are safe and working and have found a place to stay. Jack—his heart gave a lurch seeing his own name scripted by Anna Mae’s hand—has been by every day to see to the milk and cream and extra eggs. The penny bank on the windowsill jingles when I shake it. It’s a good feeling, knowing the amount is growing. I’m thinking I’ll use it to pay Mrs. Connelly when the time comes. The baby is already making the waist on my clothes pinch. I’ll need to get out my maternity skirts soon.
Jack frowned. All he’d done, and she couldn’t let Harley know how much she appreciated his assistance? Then his gaze swept over the words maternity skirts. The reminder of the new baby set him back for a moment. How he wished it wasn’t Harley’s baby making her waistband tight. Jealousy smacked him hard, tightening his fingers on the pages firmly enough to leave creases behind. He pushed the emotion aside and read on.
Marjorie had a good birthday even though I didn’t bake her a cake. We’ll save that for when you come home. With a snort, Jack slapped the letter against his knee. She could’ve baked that cake and asked him to join her! Jerking the pages back into position, he continued to read. Jack and his father took the girls and me into Hutchinson and we saw a picture show. The description of the theater and the moving picture took up more than half a page. Jack’s chest got so tight he found it hard to breathe. He’d paid for her tickets, her popcorn and soda, and all she could talk about was the theater. Why was she being so ungrateful?
Taking a deep breath, he reminded himself she was writing this letter to Harley. How could she pour out her gratitude toward Jack in a letter to her husband? Of course she couldn’t. But he’d heard it in her voice this morning as she’d welcomed him. He’d seen it in her eyes as she’d thanked him for being willing to take her to town.
And he knew when it had blossomed. Friday, in the car, when he’d prayed before leaving for Hutchinson. Harley’s lack of faith had been a sore spot for Anna Mae for a long time; Jack had overheard his father advising Anna Mae’s father on the subject, and Ern Berkley continued to pray daily for Harley’s salvation. Jack released a wry chuckle. He’d offered that prayer out of habit—Pop expected it—but the look on Anna Mae’s face had told him it had a deeper implication for her. It was the turning point in her trusting him again.
Oh yes, Anna Mae’s gratitude was there. It just needed to stay between the two of them—Harley couldn’t know.
His thoughts calmed, and he flattened the pages against his lap, using his finger to underline the words as he read. Now that your paycheck has arrived, I’ll ask Jack to take me into town so I can buy flour, sugar, and some other groceries. I promised Dorothy she could pick out the flour sack, and I’ll make her an apron from the fabric. I’ll also pay for some shoes. Jack smirked. What a cl
ever way of wording it. It wasn’t a lie, yet it hid the fact that Jack had already purchased shoes. It pleased him to have a secret between himself and Anna Mae.
Thank you for telling me about the taxes. I’ll be cautious not to spend too much and set as much aside as I can. I’m sure Jack will take me to the courthouse to pay our tax bill.
Hmm. Another drive all the way to Hutchinson with Anna Mae. Maybe they’d take in another picture show, only this time they’d leave the girls with his father and go alone—just the two of them. He sucked in a breath of anticipation, his gaze aimed unseeingly across the dusty landscape, before turning back to the pages in his hand.
The letter went on, telling about how the garden fared, Margie’s new tooth, Ol’ Smokey’s capture of a barn swallow and Dottie’s horror at witnessing it, as well as other little items that were more important to women than men. And finally, the letter came to a close.
We miss you, Harley, and eagerly anticipate your return. Please greet your friend Dirk for me. I’m so pleased you’ve found someone to spend time with while you’re away. It helps to have a friend. Could those words hint about the time she’d spent with him? Do you know when the castle might be finished so you can come home? We’re managing, but it will be nice when we are all together again. Take care of yourself, Harley. My prayers are with you even if I can’t be. I love you, Anna Mae.
The closing tightened Jack’s chest with an envy so deep it almost frightened him. How often had he hoped to hear ‘‘I love you’’ from Anna Mae’s lips? His whole life, it seemed. And there they were, staring up at him in black lead on white paper, but they were meant for someone else.
Without a thought, he crushed the pages in his fist until they were nothing but a mangled ball. He threw the wad as hard as he could into the brown weeds beside the road. ‘‘Git up there,’’ he commanded, slapping the reins on the horses’ backs once more. A few yards farther, he ripped the envelope to shreds and disposed of it the same way. The pennies sat heavily in his pocket, reminding him of his traitorous act, but he reasoned he could use those coins to buy some candy for Dorothy and Marjorie; then it wouldn’t be wasted.
Where Willows Grow Page 12
