Going through the necessary motions to get the vehicle running, Jack kept a one-sided conversation going with himself. Pop should’ve thought of all that before he humiliated me in front of Anna Mae. If Pop had just kept his mouth shut, I could’ve stayed. I could’ve married Anna Mae and given him grandchildren. Everything would’ve been fine. Pop did this to himself.
By the time the Model T chugged to life, Jack had himself convinced.
He backed up the car and yanked the wheel to turn toward the road, and out of the corner of his eye he spotted Pop stepping from the windbreak between the Phipps and Berkley properties. Pop raised both hands and waved, trotting across the brown grass toward the car.
Jack’s hands twitched, ready to barrel out of the yard, but the look on his father’s face—combined panic and yearning—gave him pause. Pop stopped outside the passenger door and swung it open. He didn’t slide in, but he bent down and put his head into the car. His gaze flitted to the backseat, and his face twisted in disappointment. ‘‘Son, what’re you doin’?’’
‘‘What does it look like? I’m headin’ out. Leavin’.’’
Tears glittered in Pop’s eyes. ‘‘You don’t have to do that.’’
Jack forced out a harsh snort of laughter. ‘‘Oh yes, I do. You made sure of that.’’
Pop shook his head. The old man seemed to grow older with each passing minute. ‘‘I know you’re angry at me, but—’’
‘‘Angry?’’ Jack slapped the steering wheel. ‘‘Angry, Pop? You took my chance for happiness—the chance that got stolen from me by Harley Phipps years ago—and you trampled it into the ground. Anna Mae’ll never accept me now. She’ll never understand that I did all that to protect her!’’
Pop’s forehead turned into a series of deep wrinkles. ‘‘You really believe that, son?’’
Jack clenched his jaw and jerked his gaze forward. There was no reasoning with Pop. Jack shifted gears. ‘‘I left Anna Mae’s oil money on the table. Money from cashing Harley’s checks is there, too. Left the name of the surveyor who came out so she can contact him about puttin’ up more pumps. Likely she’ll need the income since I won’t be taking care of her.’’ He risked a quick glance at Pop. The look of intense sorrow in his father’s eyes made something hot and heavy press Jack’s middle. ‘‘I gotta go.’’
But Pop didn’t back out, didn’t close the door. Instead, he leaned a little farther in and put his hand on Jack’s arm. The weathered hand, warm and familiar, burned Jack’s skin. ‘‘Back door’ll always be open.’’ The words came out in a pained whisper.
A lump filled Jack’s throat. He knew he wouldn’t be able to answer. He jerked his head up and down in a quick nod of acknowledgment, and finally Pop backed out. The moment he slammed the door, Jack popped the clutch and the Model T hopped forward.
Jack gripped the steering wheel and brought the car under control, slowing it to make the turn onto the road. As he yanked the wheel to the right, he glanced in the little mirror above the dashboard and got a brief glimpse of Pop, still in the middle of the smooth driveway, hand lifted in good-bye, tears running in rivulets down his age-wrinkled cheeks.
Jack wished he hadn’t looked back. He feared that image of his father would be pressed in his memory for the rest of his life.
Anna Mae, holding Marjorie’s hand, walked to the storage shed. She hoped she’d be able to locate the basket they’d used as a bassinet when the girls were tiny. Her fingers itched to create little sheets and flannel blankets for the new baby, but she couldn’t remember the exact size of the basket.
‘‘I hope no mousie has decided to make a home out of that thing,’’ she told Marjorie. If Harley had wrapped it good in burlap and hung it up high, it might have been safe from any little critters.
Marjorie looked upward and blinked, her long eyelashes throwing a shadow across her round cheeks. ‘‘No moufie,’’ she repeated.
Anna Mae laughed. ‘‘That’s right. No mousie.’’
A rumble intruded, and for a moment she froze, remembering the earthquake. But then she recognized the sound—the motor on Jack’s Model T. She spun to face the road, her gaze pinned on the opening of the drive to the house, anticipation rising in her chest. She wasn’t sure what she would say to Jack when she saw him, but the need to see him, to settle things between them, was strong.
The Model T roared past the drive without stopping.
Anna Mae’s shoulders slumped.
Dorothy ran up beside her. ‘‘Mama, was that Mr. Berkley?’’
Anna Mae nodded, numb. Her knees felt weak. That odd sensation was back, and she feared she’d just seen Jack for the last time. Despite his duplicity, she mourned for him.
‘‘How come he didn’t stop?’’ Dorothy’s tone reflected her hurt feelings.
Anna Mae took Marjorie’s hand again and forced a smile. ‘‘I don’t know, darlin’. He must have been in a hurry.’’
Anna Mae watched Dorothy for a moment, her heart heavy. If what she suspected was true, and Jack didn’t return, it would be one more loss for Dorothy. The little girl adored Jack. Even with all the wrong things he’d done, he’d been good to the child. Anna Mae’s mother-heart ached for the unhappy confusion Jack’s departure would create for her daughter.
With a sigh, she said, ‘‘Come on, Marjorie.’’ She located the basket, freed it of its covering of burlap held in place with thick strands of rope—Harley had made it a real challenge for a mouse to break through—and carried it to the back porch. Marjorie and Dorothy trailed behind her. She left the basket on the porch while she fixed supper, and not until the girls had been tucked into bed did she haul it into the house.
Placing it on the table, she dipped a rag in a bowl filled with soapy water and gave the basket a thorough wash. It was a mindless, automatic task, and her mind wandered as she ran the rag over the woven strips of painted wood. What a day of discovery it had been. Jack’s marriage proposal followed by Mr. Berkley’s revelations, the fear of losing her home erased by Mr. Berkley’s sacrifice, being given letters penned by Harley. After pining for word from her husband, she hadn’t been able to make herself read the letters. She had, instead, placed them in a trunk in her room with other precious keepsakes. Someday soon she would take them out and read them carefully, but for some reason she didn’t clearly understand, she needed to wait.
Although she’d kept her ear tuned toward the road, she hadn’t heard the Model T return. She wondered if Mr. Berkley was watching, waiting, hoping. It saddened her to think of the old man sitting in his house, alone, feeling guilty. Certainly he would blame himself for Jack’s leave-taking.
She owed Mr. Berkley a huge debt of gratitude for saving her property. How much it must have cost him to go against his own son. She scrubbed hard at a soiled place on the rim of the basket, vowing that she would repay the man. He wouldn’t let her pay him in money, but she would do it with time. Especially if Jack didn’t return, he would need company. She could provide it. It would benefit both of them. The girls needed a grandfather figure, and he needed someone to look after. They’d take care of each other, she and Mr. Berkley.
The basket shone, the grime erased. For a moment, she peered into the basket’s depth, remembering how sweet Dorothy and Marjorie had looked, nestled on a fluffy pillow, little faces puckered in sleep. She tried but was unable to conjure a picture of the new baby. Even as the nesting instinct began, and her extended belly shifted with the movement of the child, the pregnancy still had a feeling of unreality at times. Was it because she was facing this child’s delivery alone?
She was too tired to reason it out. Dropping the rag, she pressed her hands to her lower back. Her gaze found the open kitchen window, and she released a deep sigh as contentment washed over her. Dusk had fallen, evening shadows turning the barn into a rectangle of gray. The whisper of the willow tree branches had become a gentle clack-clack now that the leaves were starting to fall away. And she would still be here in the spring, to see new leaves bud,
to hear the lullaby of the willows another season.
‘‘Thank you, God, for letting me keep my home.’’ She spoke aloud to the quiet room.
Leaving the basket on the table to dry, she entered the parlor and sat in the overstuffed chair. The moment she sat, she pictured Jack on his knee with a little box held on his open palm. She never even saw the box’s contents. Twisting the plain gold band on her finger, she realized she was glad the box had remained closed. No ring could ever take the place of the one Harley had slipped onto her finger.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her mind to drift over snippets of time with Harley. Their marriage had been far from perfect, yet there were many good times on which to dwell, and she deliberately drew on every tender, funny, heartwarming minute. ‘‘Oh, Father God, if only I could see him one more time . . .’’
An idea struck. Anna Mae sat up, eyes wide, as the plan unfolded almost without her cooperation. Mr. Berkley had intimated she would have a tidy sum of money from the oil. If there was enough, she could buy a bus ticket—maybe even a train ticket—and travel to Lindsborg. She had the address for Harley’s boss, Mr. Peterson. She would go to his house and ask him to take her to where Harley was buried.
Surely if she were able to put a headstone at the site, say some prayers, and talk to Harley, it would be easier to move forward. Mr. Berkley would stay with the girls if she asked, and she’d only be gone a couple of days, three at most. And when she returned, she’d be able to plan for her future. But first she needed to settle her past.
Rising, she hurried to her bedroom and slipped into a nightgown. She gave the string above the bed a tug to turn out the light and pulled the sheet to her chin. Eyes closed, she willed sleep to come quickly. She had a big day ahead of her tomorrow, and she needed energy to see it through.
34
WIND RUSHED THROUGH A CRACK at the top of the bus window, tousling Anna Mae’s hair and whistling in her ears. She used her handkerchief to rub away the dust from the glass, clearing an area about six inches square. The window clean, she squinted out at the landscape of brown grasses, stretches of nearly treeless prairie, and gently lifting rises interrupted occasionally with thick clusters of yucca. This, then, must have been what Harley observed as he walked toward Lindsborg six months ago. She pressed closer to the glass, her gaze seeking, determined to memorize everything so she could tell Dorothy, Marjorie, and Mr. Berkley about it when she returned.
She smiled as she remembered Mr. Berkley’s delight at keeping the girls. He’d insisted they come to his place, though, because he had the cows to care for. They had even hitched Bossie to the back of his wagon and taken her over to his pasture. The cow had seemed confused at first, looking at the others as if she didn’t realize she was a bovine, too, but Dorothy was sure Bossie would make friends and be happier with company. Anna Mae hoped the little girl was right. She wasn’t worried about the girls—she knew Mr. Berkley would take excellent care of them—but she missed them.
Turning to face forward once more, she rubbed her belly with both hands. Little one, maybe it will be easier to think about you being real after I’ve dealt with your father’s death. I hope so. I want to look forward to your arrival, not dread it. How she longed for the unbridled anticipation that had accompanied the months she’d been pregnant with Dorothy and Marjorie. Help me, Lord, be both Mama and Daddy to this baby as well as Dorothy and Marjorie. I know I can do all things through your strength, so strengthen me, please.
‘‘Well, folks, Lindsborg’s around the next bend,’’ the bus driver called.
In unison, the few passengers sat up, peeking over seat backs to look down the road for their first glimpse of the city. Anna Mae reached under her seat and tugged her bag free. Lifting it to the empty seat beside her, she unsnapped the flap and took out her comb and compact. She removed her hat—the straw hat with daisies around the brim that was more suitable for summer than fall, yet was somehow appropriate for this journey—and used the comb to slick her hair back into the bun at the nape of her neck. After replacing the hat, she examined herself critically in the little round mirror.
The reflection looked the same, yet somehow different. She’d aged in these past months. Although she was still a young woman, maturity tinged her features. She supposed that was all right.
She dropped the comb and mirror back in the bag, snapped it, and sat up just as the driver stopped the bus outside the Red-land Midwest Bus Depot. Anna Mae waited until all other passengers had cleared the bus before picking up her bag and following. She paused beside the driver.
‘‘Sir? Could you tell me where to find Coronado Avenue?’’
The driver grabbed the brim of his hat and shifted it back and forth, his face pursed in thought. ‘‘I believe that’s on the western edge of town. A walk of maybe seven or eight blocks.’’ He gave her a worried look, his gaze bouncing to the evidence of her pregnancy before meeting her eyes again. ‘‘You up to that?’’
Anna Mae smiled at this concern. ‘‘Yes, sir. I am. Thank you for the directions.’’
On the sidewalk, she moved out of the way of new passengers pushing toward the bus. The city, although not large, bustled with Saturday morning activity. From somewhere on the block, she got a whiff of fresh bread baking, and her stomach cramped, reminding her that breakfast had been hours ago.
But she didn’t want to take the time to eat. She needed to find the Peterson place, find out where Harley was buried. After she’d made her peace with his death, she would see to her physical needs. With a deep sigh, she adjusted her grip on her bag and turned west.
Anna Mae stopped on the street and stared at the little building crouching well behind the house. The one letter Jack hadn’t filched had said Harley stayed in a little shed on Mr. Peterson’s property. That little building, then, must have been Harley’s home here in Lindsborg. Desire to go to the shed, peek inside, and touch the things that Harley had last touched, pulled hard. But fear of being accused of trespassing kept her feet on the street.
The Petersons would surely allow her to explore once they knew who she was. She’d have to see them first. Leaving her bag at the end of the walking path that led to the porch, she made her way to the front door. A brass knocker centered the painted door. She used the knocker, clanking it down with force, then waited. But no one came. She knocked again, harder and longer, tipping her head to listen for any sound from inside. Nothing.
Turning a slow half circle, she examined the grounds. There was no sign of activity anywhere. Worry struck. What if they’d gone away for the weekend? Had she come all this way for nothing? Then she remembered the busyness on the downtown streets. Perhaps the Petersons had gone in to do shopping. She shrugged, sighing. They’d have to return eventually. She’d wait.
Sitting on the top step of the porch, she ignored her parched throat and growling stomach and watched the street. A tabby cat stretched its way from under the porch and coiled around Anna Mae’s feet, arching its back in pleasure when Anna Mae scratched its ears. She petted the cat, appreciative of the company. She and the cat spent a pleasant half hour getting well-acquainted. The feline, its trust gained, started to climb into Anna Mae’s lap, but suddenly it tensed, fur on end, and darted back under the porch.
‘‘Hey, what’s the matter?’’ Anna Mae asked, looking after it, but the approach of a pickup truck captured her attention. Pushing to her feet, she smoothed her skirt down and watched the truck pull into the driveway beside the house.
Two people—a man and woman who appeared to be in their mid-fifties—stepped out of the pickup. The woman sent Anna Mae a puzzled but friendly look. ‘‘Hello. May I help you?’’
Anna Mae crossed the dried grass to meet them. ‘‘Are you the Petersons?’’
The man rounded the truck’s hood. ‘‘Yes, we are. And who might you be?’’
Anna Mae clasped her hands at her waist. ‘‘I’m Anna Mae Phipps. My husband, Harley, worked on the castle project. You sent me a letter.’’
&
nbsp; Recognition dawned across the man’s face, and he immediately reached for Anna Mae’s hand. ‘‘Mrs. Phipps, yes. It’s so good to meet you.’’ Squeezing her hand between his palms, he said, ‘‘I’m so sorry about Harley’s accident.’’
Anna Mae blinked back tears, touched by the kind sincerity in the man’s voice. ‘‘Thank you. I . . . I’m sorry to just show up this way. I hope it’s not an imposition.’’
‘‘Don’t apologize. I’m glad you were able to come.’’
Mrs. Peterson interrupted. ‘‘Let’s get these groceries inside, Jim. And Mrs. Phipps, I bet you could use a cool drink, couldn’t you?’’
Anna Mae nodded. Her tongue felt stuck to the roof of her mouth. Each of the Petersons removed a bag from the back of the truck, and then she followed them inside to a cheerful kitchen. Mrs. Peterson bustled around, pouring tea into glasses filled with crystal ice chips. Anna Mae and Mr. Peterson sat at the table, and he waited until Anna Mae had downed her glass of tea before speaking again.
‘‘Did you receive the money I sent?’’
Anna Mae nodded. ‘‘Yes, sir, and I thank you for it.’’
He waved a hand as if shooing flies. ‘‘No need for that. It was the least we could do, considering the circumstances.’’
Swallowing, Anna Mae dropped her gaze for a moment. ‘‘Yes. It’s been hard, with Harley gone, and now that the paychecks have stopped . . .’’ She looked at him again, forcing a smile. ‘‘But that money was a big help to my girls and me.’’
‘‘As I said, the least we could do. Especially since Harley won’t be doing any more farming.’’
Where Willows Grow Page 27
