Mr. Berkley tugged her hand, and her gaze met his. His grim expression startled her. ‘‘You listen to me, Anna Mae. What your mama and daddy had was a whole lot of love and commitment—and that’s just what you and Harley had. He loved you and those little girls with all his heart. And his commitment to this land? Why, I never saw a body work so hard to provide for his family. Don’t you go puttin’ down what you and Harley had. It might not’ve been perfect, but it was a whole lot more’n a lot of people ever get to experience in a lifetime.’’
Anna Mae swallowed her tears. ‘‘But he didn’t have faith, Mr. Berkley. We didn’t share that. And now—’’
‘‘You leave that in God’s hands.’’ The older man’s voice quivered with conviction. ‘‘Stewin’ about it won’t change it now anyway. It’ll only sour your stomach.’’
He was right about that. All the worry of the afternoon had created a pain in her middle that wouldn’t go away. ‘‘I just wish—’’
‘‘Wishing is a waste of time.’’ The words were brusque, but the gentle tone removed any hurt. ‘‘What’s past is past, honey. What we’ve got to do now is look ahead, make plans for your future.’’
Reality caved in around Anna Mae. What kind of future would she have now? No home, no husband, and two—no, three—other lives depending on her for their survival. How would she meet the needs of her children when she didn’t even have a roof to put over their heads? How could she work while nursing a baby?
‘‘Oh, why did God let this happen? Why, Mr. Berkley? Why?’’ Her questions turned to wails, and she laid her head on the table as she fought against giving way to another binge of weeping.
Mr. Berkley’s warm hand rubbed her shoulder. ‘‘Sometimes God’s ways are so mysterious, our human minds can’t grasp the why. This is one of those times, honey. But that’s where faith comes in. We just have to trust He can work this all out to His glory and your good.’’
‘‘My good?’’ Anna Mae lifted her head, fixing her gaze on the older man’s. ‘‘How can Harley’s death and the loss of my house do me any good?’’
Mr. Berkley’s bushy brows came down. ‘‘Loss of your house?’’
Anna Mae nodded. ‘‘Yes. I couldn’t pay the tax bill. Harley didn’t send money—’’ Suddenly an idea struck. ‘‘Maybe he couldn’t because he’s been gone for a long time.’’ Her chin quivered, tears filling her eyes again. She swiped her fingers across her eyes, removing the traces of tears. ‘‘At least, if he was dead, I know he didn’t deliberately abandon me.’’ She found a small measure of comfort in the realization. ‘‘But it doesn’t fix anything. I had no money to pay the bill, so the county is taking my land. It goes to auction the first of October.’’
She watched Mr. Berkley’s expression turn hard, his dark eyes snapping. Fear rose in her throat. What had she said that angered him so? Before she could question him, he ducked his head, sucking in a deep breath that wiped the anger from his face. When he looked at her again, the gentleness was back.
‘‘Honey, let’s tackle one problem at a time, okay? The first thing is helpin’ your Dorothy understand what’s happened to her daddy.’’
Anna Mae’s chest tightened. ‘‘It’ll be so hard.’’
‘‘Yes, but keepin’ it from her won’t help a thing.’’ He gave her shoulder a squeeze. ‘‘Do you want me to tell her?’’
Anna Mae considered his offer. It would be easier on her, most certainly, to allow someone else to assume that responsibility. And Dorothy admired Mr. Berkley so much—she’d surely listen to the older man. But was it fair to ask it of him? She knew it wasn’t. Dorothy was her child. She needed to be the one to tell her. ‘‘I appreciate your willingness to do that for me,’’ she finally said, ‘‘but I think I need to be the one to tell Dorothy.’’
Mr. Berkley nodded, admiration in his eyes. ‘‘That’s my brave girl. I can be with you, if you’d like.’’
‘‘Tell me what, Mama?’’
The little voice brought both Anna Mae and Mr. Berkley up short. They looked toward the hallway where Dorothy stood, her hair on end, rubbing her eyes with her fists.
Anna Mae stretched a hand toward her. ‘‘I’m sorry, sweetheart. Did I wake you up?’’
The little girl scampered to her mother’s side and laid her head on Anna Mae’s shoulder. ‘‘I heared Papa Berkley talking, and I wanted to tell him hello.’’ Her lips curved into a sleepy smile. ‘‘Hi, Papa Berkley.’’
‘‘Hi, honey.’’
Dorothy lifted her head and put her hands on Anna Mae’s cheeks. ‘‘You still cryin’?’’
Anna Mae choked back a sob. The child’s sweetness was like salt in an open wound. How could she bear to tell this little girl that her daddy was gone forever? Gathering Dorothy into her arms, Anna Mae whispered against her hair, ‘‘A little bit.’’
Dorothy wiggled loose and sent Mr. Berkley a knowing look. ‘‘Mama was sad at supper. She kept cryin’.’’ She turned again to her mother. ‘‘How come you’re sad, Mama?’’
Anna Mae opened her mouth, but no words came out. How could she explain death to the child in a way she would understand? Anna Mae looked at Mr. Berkley. He closed his eyes briefly, as if offering a silent prayer. When he opened his eyes, he gave her a slight nod, reaching across the table to clasp her hand. The moment his fingers closed around hers, she found the words.
‘‘Darlin’, do you remember when Ol’ Smokey caught the birdie in the barn?’’
Dorothy nodded, her blue eyes wide. ‘‘Yes. Poor birdie . . . I wanted you to make him fly again.’’
Anna Mae smoothed Dorothy’s hair from her forehead. ‘‘I know, but I couldn’t. Do you remember why?’’
‘‘Uh-huh. You said Smokey squeezed the spirit out of the birdie, and the spirit went up to heaven. With no spirit, the birdie couldn’t fly anymore. So we buried it under the bushes.’’
‘‘That’s right.’’ Anna Mae took a deep breath, finding strength in the comforting pressure of Mr. Berkley’s hand. ‘‘Sometimes the spirit gets squeezed out of people, too. And when that happens, the person’s body dies, and they can’t be with us on earth anymore.’’
‘‘Like your mama and daddy?’’
Anna Mae nodded. ‘‘Like my mama and daddy. And . . .’’ She felt her heart beat in her temple as she forced the words out. ‘‘Dorothy, I’m sad because that’s what has happened to your daddy. His body died—his spirit went away—so he isn’t going to be able to come back to us.’’
Dorothy’s brows pinched together. ‘‘Daddy went to heaven like the birdie?’’
Oh, how Anna Mae hoped he had! She managed a slight nod.
The child shook her head, her expression innocent. ‘‘No, he didn’t.’’
Anna Mae’s heart caught. She couldn’t let Dorothy think her father wasn’t in heaven. ‘‘Yes, sweetheart, Daddy is in heaven.’’
But Dorothy took a step backward. ‘‘Daddy’s not in heaven. Daddy is building a castle, and then he’ll be back. He promised.’’ The child’s matter-of-fact tone nearly broke her mother’s heart. ‘‘He’ll be back. You’ll see.’’
Without another word, Dorothy turned and headed for the bedroom. She paused at the hallway opening, peeking over her shoulder. ‘‘Good-night, Papa Berkley.’’ She skipped around the corner and closed the bedroom door.
Anna Mae looked at Mr. Berkley. There were tears in the older man’s eyes.
26
TEARS FILLED HARLEY’S EYES. The words on the page blurred together. He crushed the letter to his chest and closed his eyes, his throat convulsing, as the salutation reverberated through his mind.
Our dear Mr. Phipps . . . Our dear Mr. Phipps . . .
How could Dirk’s parents call Harley dear after what he’d done? He’d shown up at their place, hauled away their son—the son they’d specially chosen from an orphanage—and let him die because he’d been too stupid to jump out of the way of a falling block. They knew what had happened. Yet the letter op
ened with Our dear Mr. Phipps . . .
Several minutes passed before Harley gained enough control to read the rest of the letter. He dried his eyes with the backs of his wrists, lifted the page, and pushed himself past the greeting.
I’m sorry you’re hurt and laid up. Mr. Peterson told us you were hurt in the accident, but I’m thankful it wasn’t worse. Your little girls need their daddy to come home again. Thank the Lord, you’ll be able to do that.
Mr. Phipps, you’re probably feeling guilty about what happened with Dirk. Don’t. It isn’t your fault. Dirk did what Dirk’s always done—took care of others. We knew when we brought him home seventeen years ago that he was a special boy. We accepted that he was a gift from the Lord. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. He’s with his heavenly Father now, and although it pains us to say good-bye, we know he’s happy.
Dirk thought a lot of you, Mr. Phipps. He considered you a friend. He asked us to pray for your family and for you. He especially wanted you to find a relationship with God through Jesus. We will continue to pray that for you. I hope you will keep in touch with us. It will be quiet here without Dirk, but the Lord will see us through.
Take care of yourself, Mr. Phipps.
In Christ’s love,
(Mr. and) Mrs. Eldo Farley
Harley laid the letter back on his chest, folded his hands on top of it, and closed his eyes. What a dear woman. Her heart must be breaking, but she took time to comfort Harley, to reassure Harley, to tell Harley she’d be praying for him. Emotion filled his throat with the need to cry. And something else pressed at him, too—a need for . . . something.
His mind drifted back to conversations with Dirk. The big man had told Harley more than once that God loved him—loved him enough to let His Son die for Harley’s sins. Harley had questioned that—how could someone he didn’t even know give His life for him? It hadn’t made sense . . . until now. Seeing Dirk wrap his arms around Nelson, throw him to the ground and offer the protection of his body, painted a picture of sacrifice.
Nelson had never been nice to Dirk. He’d needled Dirk and tormented him until Harley wanted to punch the man right in the nose. Yet Dirk had sacrificed his own life to keep Nelson from being harmed.
Just like Jesus had done.
I reckon I’d like to know a man like that. I’d like to know Jesus. The need increased, building pressure around Harley’s chest that threatened to squeeze the air from his lungs. He couldn’t hold back his sobs. One burst out, followed by a second. Harley crossed both arms over his face and gave vent to the pain of loss and the power of need. The bed shook with the violence of his crying, sending spasms of pain through his hip and leg, but he ignored the physical discomfort and continued to cry in huge, hiccupping sobs that echoed through the room.
Footsteps approached, and a hand touched his shoulder. ‘‘Mr. Phipps? Mr. Phipps, is it the pain? I have a pill for you. Here . . .’’
Harley shook his head behind the shield of his arms. ‘‘I don’t need a pill. I . . . I need to talk to someone. A minister. I need to talk to a minister.’’
The hand offered a gentle pat. ‘‘Yes, sir. You hold on. I’ll make a call right now.’’
Anna Mae walked to the end of the lane where the mailbox stood lonely sentinel. Her legs felt weak, and she paused for a moment to grab hold of a fence post and rest. She’d hardly slept and had eaten next to nothing since last week when Jack had careened into the yard, leaped out of his Model T, swept her up in a hug, and delivered the news. Her appetite, as well as her ability to sleep, had slipped away with the knowledge of Harley’s death.
Jack and his father came by every day to see to things, to check on her. She knew they worried about her. Mr. Berkley even thought she should go see the doctor. But what could Doc Warren do? Could he turn back time, bring back the rains and her husband so the farm would prosper once more? She lifted her eyes to the blue sky. A desire to talk to God—to lay all of her worries at His feet—welled up inside of her, but she pushed it aside. Fear that He wouldn’t answer silenced her prayer.
A gust of wind tangled her skirt around her knees and tossed her uncombed hair across her cheek. Inside her belly, Harley’s baby shifted, a tiny foot pressing into Anna Mae’s ribs. She pushed the heel of her hand to the spot, sorrow striking anew. What kind of life would this child lead with no daddy, no home, and a mama who was fast losing hope?
‘‘Oh, Lord, I’m so tired.’’ The words found their way from her broken heart, slipping out in a whisper. Another gust struck, and fleetingly Anna Mae wondered if her simple statement would be carried by the wind to heaven, to God’s ears, and He would send rest. How she needed rest.
Pushing off from the post, she walked the final few feet to the mailbox and looked inside. One thick envelope leaned against the side of the tin tube. She plucked it out, frowning at the unfamiliar handwriting. Holding it in front of her, she scuffed her way back to the house. The branches of the weeping willow swayed in the wind, as if beckoning her to draw near. She sidestepped past the tree and entered the house.
It was quiet. Marjorie and Dorothy both napped. She sank down at the table, brushed a few crumbs from lunch aside, and used her thumb to pop loose the flap on the envelope.
Money spilled across the oilcloth. She reared back in surprise. Bills—several ones, a few fives, a ten . . . Her hands shook as she counted it. Money enough to pay the tax bill? Hope set up a patter in her heart. Among the bills was a sheet of paper torn from a note pad. She snatched it up.
Dear Mrs. Phipps,
Enclosed is a small token of affection collected in honor of Harley and his family by the workers of the Coronado Heights Castle project. It is our hope this will lighten your load as you cope with Harley’s absence. Please use these funds as needed. If there is anything I can do to assist you, please do not hesitate to contact me.
God bless you.
James Peterson
Anna Mae dropped the brief note. Holding the evidence of Harley’s death burned her fingers. She stared at the paper lying on top of the pile of bills, her mind racing. There was so much she wished to know—how the accident had happened, if Harley had suffered, where he was buried. None of that was addressed in the few lines of text.
But Mr. Peterson had invited her to contact him if she needed assistance. She sprang from the chair and raced to the parlor, to Mama’s bow-front secretary. Behind the fold-down desk lid she saw the writing paper and envelopes.
Mr. Peterson had offered to assist her. Anna Mae was going to ask.
Jack reached into the back of his wagon and lifted out the large crate. He grunted as he cleared the side of the wagon—the box was heavy. It smacked against his thighs, sending him backward a step. But he managed to keep his grip and his footing. With a muffled curse, he hefted the box a little higher and headed, in stumbling steps, toward the back porch of Anna Mae’s house.
Through the open kitchen doorway, he spotted her at the table, hunched forward over something. With no free hand to knock, he called through the screen, ‘‘Anna Mae? Come get the door, huh?’’
She straightened in the seat, scowling as she turned in his direction. Then the scowl turned to an expression of surprise. She dashed across the porch and swung the door wide, pressing herself backward to clear the way for his passage.
‘‘Ooph!’’ He thumped the box onto the table, covering several sheets of paper that were scattered across the tabletop.
Anna Mae stood at his elbow, her puzzled gaze aimed into the crate. ‘‘What’s all this?’’
Jack swiped his arm across his forehead, removing the beads of perspiration from his exertion. ‘‘Collection from town. Folks’ve been dropping stuff in this box when they shop at Martin’s. It got full, so Martin asked me to bring it on out.’’
Anna Mae rested her fingertips on the edge of the crate, her eyes bright with unshed tears. ‘‘That’s so nice of everyone.’’
Jack gave her shoulders a quick rub. ‘‘People care, Anna Mae.’’<
br />
She nodded. Stepping away from him, she rounded the table and tried to tug loose the papers from underneath the crate. He tipped it up to help her. She slid them all free, tamped them into a stack, then carried them into the parlor. She returned empty-handed. For several seconds, she stood across the table, staring at the crate, an unreadable expression in her gray-blue eyes.
‘‘Want me to help you put this all away?’’ Jack offered, taking out a five-pound sack of flour. ‘‘Looks like there’s enough to keep you goin’ for a while.’’
When she didn’t answer, he looked at her again. One lone tear slid down her cheek. She did nothing to stop it, just stood silent and staring, allowing the tear to fall. In those moments, Jack experienced a tiny niggle of regret that Harley wasn’t coming back. He hated to see Anna Mae so forlorn. ‘‘Hey? You okay?’’
She gave a start, and her gaze bounced up to meet his. ‘‘Yes. I . . . I was just thinking about Harley. His last day here, he carted in a crate like that—only smaller—full of groceries. I . . . I didn’t really thank him for it.’’ Her voice dropped to a whisper. ‘‘And now I can’t.’’
Jack circled the table and put his arms loosely around her. She pressed her cheek to his chest. But when he tightened his grip, she pulled free and moved to the table.
‘‘I’ll need to post a thank-you note at the store—let people know how much this is appreciated.’’ She reached into the crate and began removing items, stacking them on the table.
Jack didn’t say anything, just helped unload, and then watched as she put things away in the cupboards.
When she’d placed the last can of beans on a shelf, she turned with a sigh. ‘‘Feels good to have full cupboards again. Especially since it looks like maybe I won’t have to move after all.’’
Jack’s brows jerked downward. ‘‘You won’t?’’
Where Willows Grow Page 21
