‘‘Thanks, Papa Berkley!’’ The little girl scooted off the chair and tiptoed to the bedroom. In minutes she was back, a battered Crayola box in her hand. Kneeling on the chair, she dumped the well-used crayons out on the table and got busy creating shaggy arches of bright color.
Ern watched for a few minutes, smiling as Dorothy’s tongue poked out on the left side of her mouth while she worked. Anna Mae had done the same thing when she was little. She just wasn’t concentrating hard if the tip of her tongue wasn’t showing. She’d poked it out while doing her homework, when lost in thought, or when reasoning something out.
The rumble of a wagon interrupted his thoughts. Dorothy raised her head, looking toward the open kitchen window. ‘‘Somebody’s here,’’ she said. She hopped down from the table, raced to the porch, then careened back in, a panicked look on her face. ‘‘The mailman’s out at the box! An’ my picture’s not done!’’
Ern pointed to the crayons. ‘‘It’s okay, Dorothy. He comes every day. We’ll send your picture tomorrow. I don’t have the letter ready to go anyway, so it will have to wait until tomorrow.’’
Dorothy’s face twisted into a pout. ‘‘I wanted to send it now.’’
Ern said in a reasonable tone, ‘‘Well, you don’t want to send half a rainbow, do you?’’
Her lower lip poking out, Dorothy shook her head.
‘‘Well, then, finish that up. I’ll finish your daddy’s letter, and I’ll put everything in the mail tomorrow.’’
With a great heaving of shoulders, Dorothy climbed back into the chair and picked up the red crayon. Ern waited until she was thoroughly engrossed in her coloring before finishing his letter. His wording was concise and carefully avoided any suggestions regarding what Harley should do—it simply stated the facts: Anna Mae had injured herself in a fall, she and the baby were fine, and the chores were being seen to by Jack. Harley would have to decide for himself what to do with the information. ‘‘All done!’’ Dorothy held up the drawing of a crooked rainbow, its colors running together as if the sun had melted it. The pride on her face made Ern smile.
‘‘Very good,’’ he praised, taking it and folding it to fit the envelope. He slipped it in with his letter and sealed the envelope with a dab of glue. He gave the envelope a pat. ‘‘There now! I’ll put a stamp on it when I get home and send it off tomorrow, okay?’’
‘‘Okay!’’
The kitchen door opened and Jack stepped through. He glanced at the table as he headed for the sink. ‘‘What’re you doin’, Pop?’’
Ern spoke over the sound of running water while Jack washed his hands. ‘‘I wrote a letter to Harley. Anna Mae asked me to let him know about her accident.’’
Jack’s shoulders stiffened. ‘‘She tell you to ask him to come back?’’
Ern felt a prickle of trepidation. Jack’s tone was too disinterested to be sincere. ‘‘No. Just lettin’ him know what’s going on here. Why?’’
‘‘No reason.’’ The answer came fast. Too fast. Jack turned around, wiped his hands on his pant legs, and offered a broad smile that didn’t reach his eyes. ‘‘Want me to stamp it and get it sent?’’
Ern rose. He tucked the envelope in his shirt pocket, but he couldn’t tuck away the odd sensation that Jack was hiding something. ‘‘That’s fine, son. I’ve got stamps at home. I’ll put it out in the box for tomorrow’s pickup.’’ He tousled Dorothy’s hair, giving the child a smile. ‘‘Dorothy here included a picture of a rainbow for her daddy, too.’’
‘‘That so?’’ Jack scooped Dorothy from the floor and bounced her in the air a couple of times, making her squeal. ‘‘You drew a rainbow? How come?’’
Between giggles, Dorothy explained. ‘‘My Sunday school teacher says rainbows is s’posed to help us remember promises. I promised to be good, an’ my daddy promised to come home. So I drawed him a promise rainbow.’’
Ern watched Jack’s lips form a grim line. Jack set Dorothy on the floor and turned back to the sink. He seemed to gaze out the window, lost in thought. Watching him, Ern experienced another uneasy feeling. What’s going on in your heart these days, son? You’ve been a tower of strength and a source of helpfulness to Anna Mae. If only I didn’t feel you were up to no good.
19
JACK PAUSED BY THE BACK DOOR, hand on the doorknob, ear tuned to his father’s footsteps as the old man climbed the stairs to his bedroom. At the click of the bedroom door, Jack’s breath released in a whoosh. He hadn’t even realized he’d been holding it back.
He rotated his shoulders, tension creating a knot between his shoulder blades. The letter Pop had written to Harley was stamped and waiting for pickup in the mailbox at the end of the drive. The drive could clearly be seen from Pop’s bedroom window. And Pop was in his bedroom. Jack tipped his head, trying to detect any movement from upstairs. If Pop was wandering around, he might look out the window and catch Jack in the act. But if he were in bed . . .
Squeak.
Jack smiled. The old springs on Pop’s bed gave him away. He was no doubt stretched out for his after-breakfast Bible reading. It was safe. Jack held tight to the door, easing it closed without a sound. He tiptoed across the porch, avoiding the creaky middle board, then broke into a run across the yard and slid to a stop beside the mailbox. A quick glance up and down the road confirmed no one was around. He removed the letter, folded it in half, and jammed it into his back pocket. He’d deal with it later.
Interfering with mail was a federal offense, he knew. And he’d interfered with more mail in the past several weeks than he could keep track of, sneaking off with every letter Anna Mae tried to send to Harley, as well as an envelope that came from Lindsborg addressed to Anna Mae in sloppy handwriting. If Pop found the stash of letters underneath the long johns in Jack’s bureau drawer, he’d be pretty upset. But what else could Jack do? Harley couldn’t know about Anna Mae’s accident. If he knew, he would come home. If he came home, Jack wouldn’t be needed over there anymore. And Jack wasn’t ready to give up his position of being needed.
Harley lifted his gaze as Mr. Peterson’s truck rolled onto the work site and rattled to a stop beside the boss’s shack. Must be nice to be able to go home to a wife and a home-cooked lunch every day. Harley watched the boss step out. Then the man reached back inside the cab for something. Harley squinted, his heart thumping hopefully. Yep, Peterson held a package. Harley’s hands curled around the shovel handle, ready to drop it and trot over when his name was called.
Peterson shielded his eyes with his hand, scanning the grounds, and his gaze went right past Harley. The rise of expectation was crushed by a wave of envy when he heard the boss call out Dirk’s name. Giving the shovel a jerk, he spun from the sight of Dirk jogging to the boss’s side. That made three packages in addition to the letters that arrived twice weekly for the young man. Harley hadn’t yet heard from Annie. Not once. She knew she could reach him at Peterson’s place—why didn’t she write? She must still be powerful mad to hold out this long.
‘‘Hey, Harley!’’
Harley turned slowly to face Dirk, who bounded across the dry landscape. ‘‘Lookee here. Ma sent me clean socks and a loaf of pumpkin bread loaded with cinnamon and pecans.’’ He laughed, his face nearly split from his grin. ‘‘Bread’s purty well smashed, but reckon it’ll taste the same. We’ll have us quite a treat for our supper tonight. Just can’t beat Ma’s pumpkin bread.’’
Harley tried, but he couldn’t muster so much as a smile in response.
Dirk pointed to a crumpled note in the bottom of the box. ‘‘Ma says to give you one of these pairs o’ socks’’—he held out a gray pair with red toes and heels—‘‘and to tell you thanks again.’’ Dirk shook his head. ‘‘This paycheck’s been a real help, Harley. Don’t know what we would’ve done if you hadn’t happened along.’’
Harley fingered the socks, his calluses catching on the soft woven cotton. ‘‘You don’t need to keep thankin’ me. I’m just glad it worked out for both of us.�
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Dirk’s smile faded. He nudged Harley with his elbow. ‘‘Hey. What’s wrong?’’
Harley angled his gaze past Dirk’s shoulder. The empty landscape appeared as lonesome today as it had when he’d first arrived. The lonely ache in his heart hadn’t gone away, either. ‘‘How long we been here now?’’
Dirk shifted the box to his hip and scratched his head. ‘‘Gotta be eight weeks at least, ’cause we just sent off our second paychecks to home.’’
Harley nodded slowly, squinting against the high sun. ‘‘Long time.’’
Understanding dawned across Dirk’s face. ‘‘You ain’t heard from Annie, have you?’’
Harley swallowed. ‘‘Nope.’’
‘‘Worried something’s wrong?’’
Harley released a short huff. ‘‘I reckon she’s still mad at me for goin’. ’Course, she was mad about some other things before I left. Reckon she’s just . . . mad.’’
Dirk shook his head, sadness drooping his face. ‘‘Aw, I’m sorry.’’
Harley forced a wry chuckle. ‘‘What you sorry for? You didn’t have anything to do with our fussing. That’s just what Annie and me do—fuss.’’ Although he tried to make light of it, the truth of his statement struck hard. Why had he and Annie turned to fussing so much? His folks had fussed at each other. A lot. He’d never liked listening to it, and he’d always sworn he’d avoid it if he was ever lucky enough to have a family. Yet he fussed at Annie, and she fussed at him. Their peaceful times ended when the rains went away. Would it change if the rains started falling again?
Dirk rocked back on his heels, his eyes narrowed thoughtfully. ‘‘Well, I ain’t got a wife, but I guess I’ve learned from watchin’ my folks that fussin’ just happens sometimes, mostly when a body’s tired. And I’d have to say hardship makes a body tired. Can’t hardly live with somebody without fussin’ now and again. But . . .’’ He scrunched his lips to one side, his forehead crinkled. ‘‘Gotta be careful that the fuss doesn’t turn into a grudge. Grudges are harder to set aside.’’
Harley nodded. For a young man, Dirk had a lot of wisdom.
Dirk gave Harley a firm clap on the shoulder. ‘‘Listen, don’t let it get you down. You’re busy here—reckon she’s busy there. Probably just busyness that keeps her from writin’.’’
Harley scuffed his toe in the dirt. ‘‘You’re probably right. Busy. Yeah.’’ Although, what did she have to do besides care for the few animals and the garden? Maybe she was busy with things that had nothing to do with the farm. Like spending time with her neighbor.
Harley’s chin shot up, his gaze colliding with Dirk’s. ‘‘Dirk, you . . . you said you’d been prayin’ for Annie?’’
Dirk nodded, his hair flopping. ‘‘Every day.’’
Harley swallowed again, his dry throat making it hard to form words. ‘‘Could you maybe add a prayer for her to . . . to forgive me? So maybe she’d write and let me know for sure how she and the girls are doing?’’
‘‘Sure, I’ll do that. But’’—Dirk clamped a big hand over Harley’s shoulder—‘‘you know you can talk to God yourself. God’s ears are open to the prayers of every man.’’
Harley shook his head, releasing a mirthless chuckle. ‘‘Can’t imagine why God would want to hear from me. I’m not so much.’’
Dirk’s hand tightened. ‘‘To Him, you’re everything, Harley. You’re so much, He let His only Son Jesus be nailed to a cross just to take on your sins. That’s a love that can’t be measured.’’
Dirk’s serious tone and fervent expression made Harley squirm. ‘‘Well . . .’’ He shifted, pulling himself away from Dirk’s warm hand. ‘‘Since you’re already on a first-name basis with Him, I guess I’ll leave the prayin’ to you.’’ He bent over and picked up his shovel, ignoring the worried look on Dirk’s face.
‘‘Farley!’’
The angry voice made both Harley and Dirk turn quickly. They looked toward the half-built castle, where Nelson stood, hands on hips.
‘‘What’re you doin’? Lunch break is over! Stop yammering and get to work!’’
Harley’s hackles rose. Who put Nelson in charge?
Dirk offered a brief wave in Harley’s direction. ‘‘Catch ya later, Harley.’’ He backpedaled toward the castle. ‘‘I’ll be prayin’ for your wife, but remember what I said—you can talk to God yourself. It’s a good thing to be able to talk to God.’’
‘‘Farley!’’
‘‘Comin’!’’ Dirk spun around and took off at a trot.
Harley watched him for a moment before turning back to his shoveling. Dirk’s words replayed in his head as he forced the metal blade into the hard ground. ‘‘To Him, you’re everything.’’ Harley broke loose a clump of sod and tossed it aside. Everything, huh? No-account son of a whiskey-drinking sharecropper was everything to God? That didn’t make sense.
Harley paused, a band clamping painfully around his heart. Might be nice to think of being loved that much, loved so much someone was willing to die for you. But he didn’t even know God. God surely didn’t know him. Why would God care? No, it was better to let Dirk do the praying if there was any hope of prayers being heard. Harley’d spent too many years denying God’s existence for God to pay him any mind now.
Still, as Harley jammed the shovel into the ground, a part of him wished he could be wrong about God.
‘‘Still nothing?’’
Anna Mae clapped a hand over her mouth. She hadn’t intended to voice the question aloud, and Jack’s quirked eyebrow magnified her embarrassment. She should have known the answer since he returned from the mailbox empty-handed. Why hadn’t Harley responded to her letters? She wrote faithfully every week. It was too much to expect he’d write lengthy letters in return, but couldn’t he send a note? Something to let her know how he was? To let her know he thought about her, was worried about her recent accident, or happy she hadn’t lost the baby after all?
And why hadn’t another paycheck arrived? More than enough time had passed for him to have received a second check. In one more month the taxes would be due. After paying Doc Warren for his visits and paying Mrs. Stevenson for her care, Anna Mae had nearly used up the money Harley had sent the first time. Even if she used every cent from the bank on the windowsill, there still wouldn’t be enough. They needed his paycheck, and soon.
Tiredness sagged her shoulders. It seemed as though, despite all the resting she’d been forced to do since her tumble from the ladder four weeks ago, she couldn’t get her energy back. Disappointment was a weight too heavy to carry on top of all that tiredness. Jack slid his hands into his pockets, his shoulders high. ‘‘I’m sorry, but I can’t give you anything today.’’
‘‘I know.’’ She sighed, turning toward the stove to stir a thick, bubbling vegetable stew. ‘‘I just hoped by now . . .’’
Warm hands closed around her upper arms, the touch intimate. ‘‘Anna Mae, can I say something without you getting upset?’’ Jack’s voice, whisper soft, stirred the hair behind her left ear.
Anna Mae’s hand on the wooden spoon stilled, and she held her breath. ‘‘W-what?’’
‘‘It’s about Harley.’’
She felt Jack’s chin brush against the side of her head. A prickle of awareness shot down her spine. Releasing the spoon, she twisted away from the stove and walked to the sink. From this safer distance, she asked again, ‘‘What?’’
Jack leaned his weight on one hip, slipping a hand into his pocket. With the other hand, he clasped the back of his neck. The pose gave the impression of great worry, and Anna Mae’s heartbeat accelerated.
Jack drew in a deep breath. ‘‘Do you remember when you told me you were going to marry Harley?’’
Frowning, she nodded.
‘‘I tried to talk you out of it, remember?’’
She gave another nod.
‘‘Why?’’
Because you were jealous. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Instead, she pressed her memory, trying to
come up with the words he’d used. It didn’t take a great deal of effort to find them; he’d made her so angry that day. ‘‘You said Harley was a no-good drifter only after my daddy’s land.’’ Even after all the time that had passed, repeating his statement made her angry all over again.
Jack must have seen her temper rising, because he raised his palm toward her as if to head her off at the pass. ‘‘Now, I don’t want to upset you, but I just wonder . . . Is it possible Harley has drifted off? It’s too hard to make a living here, so he’s decided to move on?’’
Anna Mae raised her chin, her jaw jutting forward. ‘‘Without the girls and me?’’
Jack held out his hands in a gesture of surrender. ‘‘Don’t get riled. It’s an honest question.’’
Anna Mae plunked her fists on her hips. ‘‘How so?’’
Jack’s lips quirked. ‘‘He’s been gone . . . what, now? Over two months? How often have you heard from him? Once?’’
‘‘So?’’ The defensiveness came automatically. You’ve got no right to be putting down Harley, Jack.
‘‘So Harley wasn’t raised like you and me, Anna Mae.’’ Jack lowered his tone, taking a step forward. If he stretched out his hand he’d be able to graze her cheek with his fingertips. She watched his hand to be sure he kept it to himself. ‘‘He wasn’t brought up in the church, or with any kind of real tie to anything. Sharecroppers are a different lot; they don’t own anything, so they never learn pride of ownership. Doesn’t hurt them to walk away.’’
‘‘That’s not true.’’ Anna Mae shook her head wildly. ‘‘Harley takes a great deal of pride in this farm. He—he takes care of it like it has always been his.’’ Jack hadn’t seen Harley the day he’d walked away. Anna Mae had. It had hurt him. It had hurt him a lot.
‘‘Yeah . . . he took care of it while it was producing.’’ Jack’s words came out slowly, deliberately, cutting Anna Mae like a knife. ‘‘But now that he can’t get anything out of it, what’s he done? Took off for parts unknown.’’
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