A fond smile lined Mr. Berkley’s face as he watched the children climb the single step and enter the porch. When he turned to face Anna Mae, his expression sobered.
Anna Mae puckered her brow. ‘‘Is everything okay? You were so quiet on the ride home.’’
The older man lowered his head for a moment. ‘‘Honey, I’m bothered about something. Jack—’’
‘‘Where is Jack?’’ Anna Mae hugged her Bible against her chest. ‘‘He’s missed church now . . . what? Three Sundays?’’
‘‘Four.’’ Mr. Berkley’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘‘I—’’ He shook his head, his eyes sorrowful. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going on with my son these days, Anna Mae.’’
The sadness in his eyes pierced Anna Mae’s heart. She touched his arm. ‘‘I’m sure he’s okay. Just busy. He’s responsible for your dairy farm, his oil wells, and my chores, too. He’s carrying a heavy load.’’
He frowned. ‘‘Yes . . . a heavy load.’’
Worry about Jack pressed at Anna Mae, too. He’d said he would wait for her to approach him, and he’d kept his word. He came each day to do the milking, but he didn’t come to the house for conversation like he used to; he just performed the chores and headed out. It hurt Dorothy’s feelings, and it bothered Anna Mae more than she cared to admit. She felt as though something else of importance was slipping away from her. She’d lost her crops, her house, and Harley. Jack’s friendship took on a greater meaning in light of those other losses. Did she want to forfeit that, too?
She forced her lips into a bright smile even though her heart ached. ‘‘Don’t worry, Mr. Berkley. I’m sure things will settle down soon.’’ Her words sounded lame even to her ears.
Mr. Berkley released a deep sigh, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them again, he offered her a weak smile. ‘‘Honey, there is something I need to talk to you about. Do you suppose—?’’
‘‘Mama!’’ Dorothy stood inside the porch, her nose and both palms pressed to the screen.
‘‘Dorothy, don’t push on the screen,’’ Anna Mae said. ‘‘You’ll loosen it up.’’ Harley knew how to reset the screen; Anna Mae didn’t.
Dorothy took an obedient step backward, but her face crunched into a scowl. ‘‘Marjorie an’ me are hungry.’’
Anna Mae sent Mr. Berkley an apologetic look. ‘‘Could we talk later? I do need to get lunch on the table.’’
He nodded, smoothing his hand over his balding head. ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, that’d be okay. I’ll maybe come by this evening?’’
‘‘Yes, that would be fine. Come at suppertime and you can have some stew with us. Jack is welcome, as well.’’
‘‘No.’’ The word burst out forcefully, startling Anna Mae. Mr. Berkley appeared surprised, too. He took a backward step, his eyes widening. Then, drawing his hand down his face, he cleared his expression. ‘‘I . . . I’m sure Jack will be choring. Cows need to be milked, you know. It’ll just be me.’’
Trepidation struck. Mr. Berkley was hiding something, but from Anna Mae or Jack? She couldn’t be sure. She forced another quavering smile. ‘‘All right, then. Just you. I’ll bake some of Mama’s buttery baking soda biscuits. I know you like those.’’
The smile made him appear much more relaxed. ‘‘Oh yeah, your mama was a good cook.’’
Anna Mae nodded, a longing for her mother washing over her. Growing up, she’d had her parents plus Ern and Ginny Berkley in her life. Now all that was left was Mr. Berkley. The thought made her want to give the man a hug. Instead, she clutched her Bible tighter. ‘‘I’ll see you this evening.’’
After another quick smile, he pulled himself into the wagon and slapped the reins down. The horses obeyed, and the wagon turned a neat circle and rolled out the gate. Anna Mae stood for a moment, watching after him. Heat that had nothing to do with the noonday sun filled her chest.
‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice sounded more curious than fretful now. ‘‘You comin’?’’
‘‘Yes, darlin’.’’ Anna Mae turned toward the house, but her gaze followed the wagon and Mr. Berkley’s slope-shouldered position on the seat. Something worried the man. She hoped there wasn’t something wrong with Jack. She couldn’t face one more piece of bad news.
Ern entered the house through the back service porch. He found Jack at the kitchen table with a sandwich in his hands. Stopping in the doorway, he watched his son lift the sandwich to his mouth and take a bite. He shook his head, disappointment striking.
Jack raised his head to look toward the doorway. Around the bite, he said, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Did you pray before you ate?’’
Jack dropped the sandwich and slumped back in the chair. He swallowed. ‘‘It’s just a sandwich, Pop. Not that big of a deal.’’
Ern pushed himself forward, tiredness making him move slowly. He stopped at the table and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘‘Just like it’s not a big deal that you’ve missed church these past Sundays?’’
Jack screeched the chair backward and rose, stomping to the icebox, where he pulled out a pitcher of milk. He splashed milk into a cup and took a long swig before answering. ‘‘Look, Pop, I’ve been busy. Lots to do here now with those oil pumps. Gotta keep ’em primed and running at full throttle to meet the demands. You like the money coming in, don’t you?’’
Ern couldn’t deny they were blessed. Many in these troubled times didn’t have a steady source of income. He felt good dropping that tithe into the offering plate each Sunday. ‘‘ ’Course I’m pleased we don’t have money worries, son, but—’’
‘‘But what?’’ Jack returned to the table, sat, and snatched up his sandwich. ‘‘With everything I got going, something’s got to be sacrificed. Missing a few church services is a small price to pay for everything we’re gaining.’’
‘‘And what exactly are we gaining?’’
Jack scowled, shooting his father an impatient look. ‘‘That’s a dumb question.’’
Ern shrugged. ‘‘I don’t think so. What are we gaining, son? We were doin’ just fine with the dairy. Didn’t need more money. House is paid for, got a good source of income between the milk and the beef. Got a whole lot more than most do these days. Seems to me we could’ve been satisfied. Why’d we need more?’’
Jack’s huff of laughter chilled Ern’s heart. ‘‘Pop, you’re hopeless.’’ He took another bite, shaking his head.
Ern tugged out a chair and sat. Drawing in a deep breath, he whispered a silent prayer for strength and addressed the issue he knew would have to be shared with Anna Mae. ‘‘Son, I know what you’ve been doin’, the tricks you’ve been playin’ to gain more.’’
Jack’s gaze jerked upward. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly. ‘‘What’re you talking about?’’ The words were more a growl than a question.
Ern folded his hands together to control their tremor. ‘‘I found the letters.’’
Jack sat straight up, his expression turning to a fierce scowl. ‘‘You went in my room?’’
‘‘Your room’s in my house.’’ Ern kept his tone calm. No sense in having a shouting match. ‘‘And what I did was a whole lot less wrong than what you did. Jack, you stole.’’
Jack slapped his sandwich onto the plate. The layers bounced apart, the bread sending crumbs across the table. ‘‘You had no right!’’
‘‘No right?’’ Ern shook his head slowly. ‘‘Jack, you shouldn’t be hollerin’ about me havin’ no right. You should be lookin’ at yourself. What right did you have to take those letters? They were private, between Harley and Anna Mae. You know how it’s hurt her, thinkin’ Harley didn’t care enough to write. And poor Harley on the other side of Kansas, wonderin’ why his wife didn’t write to him. Can’t you see how wrong you’ve been?’’
Jack leaped from the table, stormed toward the sink, then paced back. The veins in his temples pulsed purple as his face reddened. He clenched his fists, bringing them outward, and for a moment Ern fea
red his son might strike him. But Jack stayed on the opposite side of the table.
Slowly, Jack opened his hands and pressed both palms to the tabletop. His voice rattled with anger as he said, ‘‘I’m not wrong, Pop. Everything I’ve done has been for Anna Mae’s good.’’
Disbelief at his son’s statement sagged Ern’s shoulders. ‘‘How?’’
Jack waved a hand as if shooing away Ern’s question. ‘‘Harley was never right for her, we all know that. Her old man didn’t even approve of him. Ben Elliott wanted her to marry me. But she turned stubborn, married Harley against everyone’s advice, and she’s never been happy. All I did was set things to right.’’
Ern could have argued that Anna Mae had been happy. He’d seen enough of the couple to know, despite their differences when it came to faith, they’d found happiness together. Anna Mae’s sorrow at Harley’s loss also showed evidence of how deeply she cared. But instead of arguing, Ern pointed out, ‘‘Since when do a pile of wrongs turn into a right?’’
Jack huffed. ‘‘A pile of wrongs?’’
Ern nodded. ‘‘You’ve been doin’ wrong for weeks: stealing letters, puttin’ up oil pumps on property that doesn’t belong to you, robbin’ Anna Mae of that income—’’
‘‘Whoa, Pop!’’ Jack thrust his hand upward, stopping his father’s words. ‘‘I haven’t robbed Anna Mae of any income. I’ve been putting that aside for us. When she marries me, she’ll benefit from it.’’
‘‘And if she doesn’t marry you?’’
‘‘She has to.’’ Jack’s tone turned hard. ‘‘She can’t stay on that farm by herself. How can she keep it going without a man? It’s what should have happened seven years ago—what would have happened if Harley hadn’t wandered onto their place and asked for a job. Now Harley’s gone, and I’m just setting things back to right. If I have to do a little finagling to make her see the light, then so be it.’’
Ern rose to his feet and turned toward the door. ‘‘I was plannin’ to wait until evening, but she has to know all this, Jack. She has to know what you’ve been up to.’’
Jack’s pounding feet on the floor brought Ern to a stop before the hand grabbed onto his arm. ‘‘Oh, no you’re not. You’re not going to mess this up for me.’’
Ern jerked his arm free. He looked into his son’s hate-filled face and felt as though he were looking at a stranger. Where Jack’s fingers had cut in, an ache formed. But it couldn’t compare to the pain that stabbed Ern’s heart.
‘‘Stay out of it,’’ Jack said, his tone ominous. ‘‘If you walk out, I’m locking the door behind you. You won’t be welcomed back in.’’
Ern frowned, his heart pounding. ‘‘What do you mean?’’
A sly smile crept up Jack’s face. ‘‘You signed this place over to me, remember? It’s mine, Pop. I let you stay here, but . . . that could change. You own the cows, but I own the land. If you go, the cows go. I don’t need ’em. I got money coming in by the barrel. So before you march on over to tattle to Anna Mae, you might think about all those dumb animals in the pasture. Where you gonna keep them if you can’t stay here anymore?’’
Ern stuck out his chin. ‘‘I’ll take them to Anna Mae’s place. Milk ’em myself.’’
One sharp blast of laughter pierced Ern’s ears. ‘‘Oh yeah. Milk ’em yourself. With no machines, with your arthritic hands? Besides that, Anna Mae’s lost her land. She didn’t have enough to pay the tax bill, so it’s going to auction. And I’ve got it on good authority that her land will be my land.’’ He chuckled, a mirthless sound. ‘‘Don’t fool yourself, Pop. You need me. Just like Anna Mae needs me.’’ He smiled again, a smile that sent a chill straight through Ern’s chest. ‘‘Have a sandwich. Then go upstairs and take a nap. You’re beat.’’
For long moments Ern remained rooted in place, staring into the face of a son he no longer recognized, trying to decide what to do. The ache in his chest was nearly unbearable. For the moment, Jack did have him beat. He broke eye contact first, and Jack’s low chuckle as he turned and headed for the stairs sent a new shaft of pain through his heart.
He plodded upstairs, his steps heavy, his head low. Dear heavenly Father, help me reach my son.
29
‘‘I THOUGHT YOU SAID Papa Berkley was comin’ for supper.’’
Dorothy scowled across the table at her mother. Anna Mae put down her spoon and offered Dorothy an apologetic smile.
‘‘He was invited. I don’t know what happened.’’ She hoped her calm tone masked the worry underneath. Ern Berkley had seemed so burdened this morning. There was certainly something he needed to discuss with her—something important. Why hadn’t he come?
She hoped he hadn’t fallen ill. How she wished she had a telephone so she could call and check on him.
Dorothy sighed, resting her chin in her hand. ‘‘I wanted him to come. I wanted him to tell me stories. Nobody comes anymore. Not Daddy, not Mr. Berkley, not Papa Berkley . . .’’
Anna Mae reached across the table and stroked Dorothy’s hair. ‘‘I know it’s a disappointment, darlin’, but I’ll read you stories tonight, okay?’’
Dorothy sighed again. Her face twisted into a pout. ‘‘It’s not the same.’’
No, Anna Mae supposed it wasn’t. The presence of a man in a child’s life was so important. As a little girl, she had endlessly trailed behind her father, getting in the way of his work and asking questions that he had answered patiently—she smiled in remembrance—most of the time. She’d adored her mother, too, but there was something different about being with her father. A father-to-child relationship was the first glimpse of a Father God-to-child relationship, she realized. Where would Dorothy, Marjorie, and the new baby get that glimpse now?
Anna Mae stifled the sigh she longed to release. She tapped Dorothy’s arm and said, ‘‘I’m sorry you’re sad, but you still need to eat. Finish up that stew, and then we’ll have some canned cherries for dessert, okay?’’
‘‘Not hungry.’’ Dorothy turned stubborn, the thrust of her lower jaw reminding Anna Mae of Harley.
A mingling of fond recollections and deep loneliness struck Anna Mae with the reminder. She swallowed, blinking to hold back tears. ‘‘If you don’t want to eat, that’s fine,’’ she said, forcing a reasonable tone. ‘‘You’ll probably have a tummy ache in the morning if you go to bed with an empty stomach, but you go ahead and get down if you want to.’’
Dorothy looked at her mother, her head tipped and lips pursed in thought. After several long seconds, she blew out a breath of aggravation that imitated her father perfectly, picked up her spoon, and took another bite.
Marjorie banged her hand on the high-chair tray, reminding her mother that she was ready for another bite, too. Anna Mae carried a spoonful of stew to the baby’s eager mouth, her hand trembling slightly. Mr. Berkley’s peculiar absence added one more worry to a list already too long. Where was he?
Harley drew in a deep breath and held it while the doctor ran a small silver instrument from the heel of his bare foot to the underside of his toes.
‘‘Do you feel that?’’
Harley jerked his head in a brief nod, blowing out air through his nose. ‘‘Yep. Tickles. Don’t much like it.’’
The doctor chuckled. ‘‘Well, you should be thankful. That tickle tells me the nerves have healed.’’
‘‘And that’s good?’’
‘‘It’s very good.’’ The doctor slipped the instrument into his pocket and patted Harley’s cast.
‘‘So I’ll be able to walk without problems?’’
‘‘Well . . .’’
Harley held his breath again.
‘‘Based on my observations, the bone is mending, but it was shattered. We weren’t able to line things up perfectly, which means it lost some of its length.’’ The doctor looked at Harley straight on. ‘‘I’m afraid the leg will never be one hundred percent again.’’
Harley waited for anger to strike within his chest. It didn’t. He rele
ased the breath on a sigh. ‘‘So what can I expect?’’
Another pat. ‘‘You can expect to have less strength in your left leg. You can expect to walk, but with a limp.’’ The man’s brows tipped downward as he glanced at Harley’s chart. ‘‘You were a farmer?’’
‘‘Yes, sir.’’
‘‘Did you use motorized equipment?’’
Harley allowed a rueful chuckle to escape. ‘‘No, sir. I used mules and walked behind ’em.’’
The doctor grimaced. ‘‘Well, you might be able to continue farming with motorized equipment, but I don’t think you’ll be up to walking behind mules again.’’
Harley shrugged. ‘‘Sold ’em anyway.’’ The day rushed back—his pleasure at buying groceries and that flowered hat for Annie, Annie’s reaction, their fight, sleeping in the barn . . . Swallowing, he pushed his shoulders into another shrug. ‘‘With the drought, farmin’s not gone so good. That’s why I was workin’ at the castle site.’’
The doctor nodded. His gaze drifted to the bedside table and the stack of books. He tapped the top one. ‘‘Are you considering a different vocation?’’
Harley wasn’t familiar with the word vocation, but he figured it had something to do with jobs. He nodded. ‘‘Yes, sir. My boss from the castle site—Mr. Peterson—brought me those books to study on.’’
Picking up the top book, the doctor flipped it open and glanced at a few pages. His eyebrows shot high. ‘‘Intriguing. And I would imagine there will always be a need for draftsmen, considering how the country continues to grow and change.’’ He closed the book and put it back on the stack. ‘‘I wish you success in your new venture.’’
The doctor’s high-falutin’ talk gave Harley a reminder of Annie. His heart twisted painfully. What would it do to Annie, finding out he could no longer work her land? How could he expect her to give up her childhood home? ’Specially when there was no guarantee he’d be able to get schoolin’ and learn to draw blueprints. There wasn’t money lying around for things like school.
Where Willows Grow Page 23
