He couldn’t stop his smile from growing. Might be that he could sell off his stock and give up the dairying completely, depending on how much oil was pumped from the ground. He set his feet in motion toward the house, plans tumbling through his mind. Yes sir, no more early morning trips to the barn to line up sleepy cows, no more meeting the milk truck, no more doctoring sick cows or wrestling calves, no more work or worry. Just let the pumps do their job and carry the bags of money to the bank.
The bank. Jack glanced at his watch. Yep, there was still time to get in to Hutchinson and check the amount in his savings account. Then he needed to make a little visit to Robert Syler at the courthouse. Anna Mae’s land would go delinquent in less than two weeks. He’d better be ready.
Anna Mae kneeled beside the claw-foot tub, one hand on Marjorie’s waist. She scooped a cup of cool water and poured it down Dorothy’s bare back. The child squealed, arching backward, then begged for her mama to do it again. Smiling, Anna Mae followed Dorothy’s directions, but her thoughts were miles away from the bathtub and the two naked little girls who sat in four inches of water, their mama’s way of keeping them cool on this unbearably hot day.
Right now, in Hutchinson at the courthouse, her land was being declared delinquent. Well, she conceded as she splashed water over Marjorie’s chubby knees, it might not be happening right that minute. But the exact time didn’t matter so much. What mattered was that after today, the land that had been in her family’s possession since her granddaddy homesteaded back in 1862 would no longer be hers.
Her heart ached at the thought. She was glad her father wasn’t here to see this day. Her gaze moved slowly around the small room, examining the evidence of her daddy’s handiwork. She smiled, remembering how he’d carried Mama over the threshold of the bathroom when the hot water heater was set up. His voice boomed in her memory: ‘‘Now you can take you a hot bath without heating pots on the stove. Ain’t that somethin’, honey bunch?’’
It had taken Daddy two weeks of late evenings to turn half the porch into a bathing room, his hammer-banging keeping her and Mama from sleep, but it had been a small price to pay for the pride she witnessed on his face. Daddy had always taken such pride in this property. Who would own it now? Would the new owners even care about the split-rail fence Daddy had built using trees from their own hedgerow? Would they appreciate the tall ceiling of the lean-to on the side of the barn, set high so a man could wear his hat in there without bumping against the rafters? And all those acres of land that Daddy had so tenderly tilled and planted and sown. Would the person who took over the land care as much about it as Daddy had, letting one plot go fallow each planting season so the soil could renew itself?
She felt tears gather in her eyes, and she splashed a little water on her own face to hide them. Now that the land was being taken away, she couldn’t imagine why she’d ever considered leaving it. This was her home.
‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice interrupted Anna Mae’s thoughts. ‘‘Can we open the window? It’s snuffly in here.’’
Despite herself, Anna Mae released a short laugh. ‘‘Darlin’, I think you mean stuffy.’’
Dorothy made a face. ‘‘It’s hot. Can we?’’
Anna Mae shook her head. ‘‘The window’s closed to keep out the dust. The wind is really strong today.’’ She spattered Dorothy with water. ‘‘If I opened the window now, the dust would stick to all your wet places, and you’d be black as coal.’’
The child shrugged, grinning. She flicked her wet fingers at Anna Mae, then laughed when her mother pretended to sputter.
‘‘Mama? Can we have bologna samwiches for lunch?’’
Again, Anna Mae had to shake her head. ‘‘I’m sorry, darlin’. The bologna is all gone. How about jelly-bread sandwiches instead?’’
Dorothy sighed. ‘‘Okay. But I sure like bologna samwiches. Daddy does, too.’’ She hummed as she ran her fingers through the cool water.
Anna Mae’s heart lurched. How long had it been since Dorothy had mentioned her daddy? Weeks. Anna Mae thought of Harley every day, but she’d stopped talking about him to the girls, just in case.
She forced a close to the thought. He would come back. He would come home. But when? And why didn’t he answer her letters? Why didn’t he send money, as he’d said he would?
And then reality struck hard. Come home to what? The farm would no longer be theirs. What was the point of Harley returning now? He’d be coming back to nothing. She didn’t know where she and the girls would go when the county treasurer banged on the door and told her to git. Even if Harley did come back, where would he find her?
Oh, Lord, what’s going to happen to us? Are you watching? Do you even care?
A mighty gust of wind roared, slapping the branches of the weeping willow hard against the wood siding. When she was a little girl, maybe ten or eleven years old, Anna Mae had asked her mother how she could be so certain God was there. Her mother had smiled softly, taken her by the hand, and led her to the willow tree. Her sweet reply, using the willow as a living example of her words, had given Anna Mae all the security she’d needed to trust completely that God was there and that He cared.
The branches slashed again, more fiercely this time. Marjorie, eyes wide, reached for her mama. Anna Mae scooped her up, cradling the wet baby against her breast, and soothed, ‘‘It’s okay, angel-baby. That was just God’s way of reminding me He’s listening.’’
Dorothy scrunched her face in puzzlement. ‘‘Huh?’’
Anna Mae smiled. ‘‘You see, darlin’, the roots on a willow tree run deep, clear under the ground to the source of water. That’s what keeps it alive even when everything around it is drying out. Faith works the same way. It runs way down deep through our souls to the Source—to God—and keeps us going when things get hard.’’
Anna Mae could tell by the look on Dorothy’s face that she didn’t understand what her mama had said. But it didn’t matter. Anna Mae understood, and that was enough. Reaching for a towel, she said, ‘‘You two are going to look like little prunes if you don’t get out. Let’s dry off and have some lunch now, okay?’’
Dorothy grumbled, but she stood and took the towel. Anna Mae struggled to her feet, wrapped a towel around Marjorie, and headed to the bedroom to dress the baby. Another slap on the siding made her smile.
‘‘When do you think it’ll stop?’’
Harley shot an impatient look in Dirk’s direction. He squelched a sharp retort. This wind and heat were making him cranky. No need to take it out on Dirk. ‘‘Don’t rightly know. I hope soon.’’
‘‘Yeah.’’ Dirk closed the shed door against the blowing dust. ‘‘Me too. Don’t much like being cooped up in here.’’
Harley didn’t, either. He felt trapped, like a chicken in a crate. They had to keep the door closed so they wouldn’t suffocate from breathing dust, but with the shed closed up, they nearly suffocated from the heat. The small building had no windows, so the only light sneaked through cracks between the weathered boards. Dust motes swam on slivers of light, and just watching them made Harley want to sneeze.
They’d been stuck in this shed for two days now. The wind blew so much dust, a person could hardly see his hand in front of his face. Mr. Peterson had decided it was too dangerous to work the machinery when visibility was so poor, so he’d brought the project to a halt until this dust storm passed. Harley worried about home. What kind of soil would he have to work with when winter passed and he was ready to plant again? Surely the wind had carried away every bit of fertile topsoil by now.
Dirk had been praying for their farms and for the windstorm to pass quickly, and Harley had caught himself echoing Dirk’s words in his heart. Took him by surprise, because it was mighty close to talking to God. Funny how Dirk’s habit of prayer was rubbing off on him when Annie’s never had. He pondered the reason for this, and even though he couldn’t come up with a solid reason, he suspected it had to do with strength.
Annie was a female. St
rong in spirit, perhaps, but weak in body. A weak body needed to rely on someone else’s strength. But Dirk wasn’t weak—not in spirit or in body. Yet he leaned into the strength of a higher power. Seeing the strong man on his knees in prayer humbled Harley—made him realize that maybe sometimes a man could benefit from a little bolstering.
Dirk returned to his cot, sat down, and picked up his Bible. Seemed like all Dirk had done for the past two days was read that book. Sometimes he read out loud in his halting speech, stumbling now and then with the thees and therefores. At first Harley had prickled—too much like sitting in church—but at least it had been something to do. And some of it . . . Harley scratched his head. Well, some of it sounded kind of good and reminded him of things Annie’d said in the past.
He’d liked the reminder of Annie.
He lay back on his own cot, the canvas squeaking with his weight, and closed his eyes for a moment, allowing pictures of Annie to fill his head. Less than two more months and he’d be seeing her again. Peterson predicted they’d be done with the castle by mid-October. He’d be home even before the snow flew. Peterson would be moving farther west in the county to put up some bridges, and he’d invited Dirk and Harley to go with the crew. Dirk was planning to go, but Harley just figured on going home.
They’d have to pinch their pennies to get through the winter, but if the rains came back by springtime, and if the bank would loan him money for seed, and if the depression would lift, then things would go back to normal. He chuckled to himself. That was a lot of ifs. Ask Dirk, and he’d say God could take on those ifs. Harley wouldn’t ask Dirk.
Rolling to his side, he reached beneath his cot and picked up his tablet. He propped himself up on one elbow and flopped the tablet open. The first few pages held crude drawings: bird’s-eye views of his house, his barn and lean-to, the grounds. He was sure they weren’t accurate, but he wasn’t a bird and couldn’t fly over to see. Plus he didn’t have any tools to measure feet. Still, he didn’t think they looked too bad. He’d made a few from his imagination, too: a bigger house, with separate bedrooms for each of the girls and a bathroom that held more than a tub and sink. It had a real flush toilet, so there’d be no need for the outhouse.
Not that he figured he’d ever be able to afford such a place, and not because he was unhappy with the house he had. It just gave him something to do. And it was satisfying. Almost as satisfying as dropping seeds in the earth and looking forward to the day the stalks would shoot for the sky and grow thick with plump ears of corn. He squinted as he struggled to read the pencil lines in the dim light. What would that house look like all tall and proud with white-painted siding and green trim?
‘‘Gonna write to Annie again?’’
Harley gave a start. The pad slipped from his hand and hit the dirt floor with a soft flump. He picked it up, shook the dust free, and put it back on the cot. ‘‘Why you ask that?’’
Dirk pointed. ‘‘Got your writin’ pad out.’’
Harley swung his feet over the edge of the cot and sat up. Sweat trickled down the center of his back. He squirmed at the tickle. ‘‘Guess I could. Nothin’ else to do.’’
‘‘Heard from her yet?’’
‘‘You seen me get any mail?’’ Harley hadn’t intended to snarl, but it came out that way.
Dirk ducked his head. ‘‘No, I reckon I haven’t.’’
Harley blew out an aggravated breath. Apologizing was hard, and he couldn’t make himself do it even though he knew he should. Instead, he flipped to a clean sheet of paper, licked the end of his pencil, and held the pad to capture one of the stray beams of flickering sunlight. Dear Annie . . .
And there he stopped. What could he say? I’m holed up in a shed waiting out a dust storm and decided to write to you. Oh, she’d love that. I miss you and the girls. He’d written that already at least three times. Had it done him any good? How’s the farm? She’d interpret that as him caring more for the land than for her. Bet the new baby’s making your stomach grow.
He yanked out the paper, wadded it up, and threw it under the cot. There wasn’t anything he could say that was worth saying. Not until he heard from her. He needed something to respond to. He’d never been good at starting conversations, and it was worse on paper when there was no give-and-take at all.
Flopping back onto the cot, he unbuttoned his shirt and let it hang open. Dust blew in from the crack above his head and settled on his chest and belly, leaving black specks on his sweaty skin. He didn’t even bother to try to wipe it away. Just closed his eyes. Please let me sleep. Let me . . . sleep.
He didn’t consider that a prayer.
23
JACK POPPED OPEN ANNA MAE’S MAILBOX and removed a single envelope—a long one like businesses used, boasting the Reno County Courthouse address in the upper left-hand corner. This was it. His heart pounded.
What would Anna Mae do when she opened the letter? Would she cry? If she cried, he’d hold her, let her get his whole shirt front wet if she needed to. Then, when she’d dispelled all that sorrow, he’d give her the good news—she was welcome to stay at his house in one of the upstairs bedrooms. She could stay as long as she liked, she and the girls. And with her under his roof, with more contact between the two of them, he’d finally be able to convince her that they were meant to be together.
He pulled himself back into the wagon and urged the horses forward, then brought the wagon to a stop at her back door. He hopped down, strode to the screen door, and walked right on in.
Anna Mae stood beside the kitchen table, running a soapy rag over the oilcloth table cover. When he stopped in the doorway, she looked up. She opened her mouth, but before any words came out he held up the envelope. He watched her gaze jump to the rectangle of paper. Her eyes grew wide, and the rag dropped from her hand. Wiping her hands on her apron, she approached slowly, her lower lip tucked between her teeth.
One hand extended to take the letter from him, and she stared a long time at the address. He waited for the tears to start, but her eyes remained dry. Finally, still without opening the envelope, she raised her eyes to meet his. The calm acceptance reflected in her gray-blue eyes took him by surprise.
‘‘I knew it would be coming, just didn’t expect it so soon. I guess they don’t waste any time.’’
Jack stuck his hands in his pockets. He guessed he wouldn’t need to wrap his arms around her. At least not yet. Remembering he was supposed to be ignorant about her unpaid tax bill, he formed a question. ‘‘That your tax receipt?’’
She cringed, and his hands convulsed in his pockets, ready to grab her in a hug the moment she needed it. Her head moved back and forth, and a sad smile tipped up the corners of her lips. ‘‘Not a receipt . . .’’
Turning her back, she lowered her head over the envelope. Her shoulders rose and fell, and then her fingers finally moved to peel back the flap. Jack shifted forward a few inches to peer over her shoulder as she read the official statement of delinquency.
Dear Mrs. Harley Phipps,
This letter is to inform you that, as of September 1, 1936, taxes on the property located in Reno County Township, Section 24, which were due August 1 of same year, remain unpaid. According to the laws of Reno County, a 30-day grace period is allowed. As of September 1, the 30-day grace period has ended and the property has been declared delinquent. Land and structural holdings, minus personal effects belonging to the residents, will be made available for public purchase.
Therefore, please allow this letter to serve as your notice that the aforementioned property will be placed for auction on October 1, 1936.
Sincerely,
Henry Jones Wright
Reno County Secretary
Jack knew when she reached the end, because another sigh raised her shoulders. He clamped his hands around her upper arms and squeezed. ‘‘You okay, Anna Mae?’’
She spun around, dislodging his hands. ‘‘This is wonderful news.’’
Jack scowled. ‘‘Wonderful? How do you fi
gure that?’’
‘‘I thought this letter would tell me I had to get out immediately. But it’s thirty more days before it goes to auction. Surely that will give Harley time to get money to us, and I’ll be able to pay the taxes and stop the auction. Or I can buy the property myself.’’
Jack felt heat climb from his neck to his hairline. His hands balled into fists, and he gritted his teeth as he fought the urge to explode at her naïveté. When would she finally accept the fact that Harley was not the answer to her problems? The man was so stupid he couldn’t figure out to send money to a bank account instead of to a home address where anything could happen to it. She didn’t need Harley; she had Jack!
Anna Mae turned and headed to the hallway that led to the bedrooms. She disappeared from view, but he could hear a drawer squeak open, then click closed. When she came back into the kitchen, she wore a smile. ‘‘Three days ago I told God I wouldn’t give up. Today He’s given me a reason to keep hoping. Isn’t He good, Jack?’’
Jack swallowed his frustration, forced his lips into a grim smile, and gave the answer he knew she expected. ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, He’s real good, Anna Mae.’’
She scooped up the rag she’d left on the table, carried it to the sink, and then faced him again. ‘‘I didn’t even ask why you came by. Did you need something?’’
‘‘No.’’ He stepped closer to the table and clamped his fingers over the top rung of a chair’s back. ‘‘Just saw the mail wagon go by and decided to bring your mail in.’’
She smiled. ‘‘I could have done that. The walk to the mailbox isn’t long. You’ve kind of become my own personal mail deliverer.’’
Where Willows Grow Page 18
