Julia's Hope

by Leisha Kelly

  Dear Julia, always trying to shelter the kids from our trouble, answered quickly before I got the chance. “It’s someone who travels a lot, honey.”

  “Why don’t they wanna ennertain ’em, then, Mama?” Sarah asked. “I think it’d be fun. They could tell about neat places. Like Affica, maybe.”

  Robert set his spoon down hard and grimaced at his sister. “Don’t you know nothing?” he demanded. “She was calling us vagabonds! That means we’re poor!”

  Sarah looked at her mother with her round eyes full of question. I couldn’t have said a word, even if I’d wanted to. The carrots and potatoes went down hard just then, like they were made of shoe leather. But Julia just looked over at Robert and told him to finish his soup. “Not all vagabonds are poor,” she said. “Not of heart, at least.”

  A gray-headed old man told us about a church a few blocks down that had beds for the homeless. I thanked him, knowing we had no choice but to get what help we could. We walked to the church quickly when the soup was gone. And I was thinking the whole time that Julia hadn’t said one word to me and had scarcely even looked at me since I’d talked with Dewey.

  She was bound to be angry, and I knew that one of these times she’d up and let me know how she really felt, but not in front of the kids. She’d wait till they were asleep, surely, and then tell me what a dismal failure I was. After all this time, I thought it would almost be a relief to hear her say the things I imagined she must be thinking about me: If I could have kept my job, or got another one, if I could have left Grandma Pearl’s money in her shoebox instead of buying company shares, we might still have had our house.

  The folks at the church were more pleasant than the soup lady, but they didn’t seem to have a minute to spare for us. They gave us a room apart from the rest of the people who’d come to them, mostly men, and then left us on our own. The kids were soon asleep, and then Julia too. Still without a word.

  But I couldn’t even lay my head down. What would my family wake up to? What would I have to give them? We didn’t even have Evansville’s soup line to look forward to. We had nothing, and they would know it. I’d promised them Illinois, with prospering prairies and fields. I’d promised them Cousin Dewey, a happy welcome, a happy visit, and a future.

  Dewey hadn’t said to turn back. We were welcome to visit, since we’d come so far. But he held out no scrap of hope for me. There was not a chance of being hired.

  I tried to pray, knowing Julia and the grandma she remembered so fondly would certainly think it best. But I found no light and certainly no arrows pointing me the way. By sunup, feeling raw inside, I decided that we would have to go on, if only to be doing something.

  Julia accepted my decision immediately. She bought us day-old biscuits from a diner owner’s nephew who was out peddling bargains from his Fleetwood wagon. He walked up and down the sidewalk in the business district, trying to sell what his uncle couldn’t serve. And Julia praised him for his enterprise. The boy gave her a smile and two extra biscuits for being so nice.

  Then when we got a ride, she chatted with the driver as though we hadn’t a care in the world. Bolstered by their mother’s calm exterior, Sarah scanned the fields for wildflowers and Robert sat quietly, without a single complaint about another day’s travel.

  Juli puts up such a good front, I kept thinking. I couldn’t do that. But she had the children thinking our situation was no big deal, or at least no permanent problem. Just another day of doing what needed to be done.

  My family would come out all right. They had the grace of God’s angels and all the pluck Grandma Pearl had managed to grow in Julia. There’d be a way somehow. I could see them starting over, managing to make ends meet and finding a roof over their heads. But I could only see myself drowning, with every mile going deeper into the depths of my inability.

  THREE

  Julia

  In the middle of the afternoon we stopped alongside a field somewhere near Dearing, Illinois. Sam didn’t want to turn farther south again, which would take us away from Mt. Vernon. So the driver let us out. Not one vehicle passed our way after that, so I carried my tired little girl. After two hours of walking, angry clouds pitched over one another and the wind whipped Sarah’s brown curls into my face.

  I’d never felt so angry before. We were in the middle of nowhere and about to be stuck in the worst storm I’d seen all year. It was going to be bad, I could see that, though I couldn’t say so for the sake of the children. We had to find shelter, and fast, before the storm’s full fury broke over us.

  Sam was the first to see a barn to the south of us, and I ran for it, trying my best to juggle my handbag and Sarah at the same time. Robert jogged alongside me, surely wondering what would become of us now. There’d been bad days before, plenty of them. But this one surely outdid them all.

  I could hear the old barn creaking in the wind. What kind of a shelter was it going to be? I expected to see it give up and tumble to the ground before we even reached it.

  “Hurry!” Sam yelled, but I wouldn’t look his way. This whole journey had been his idea, to take our kids and hitchhike halfway across the country on the strength of Dewey’s word. I didn’t care what buddies Sam and Dewey had been. I didn’t even care how badly Sam might be feeling. The only thing I could think of was his plans falling through again. We had nothing at all to show for our leaving Pennsylvania behind. We were stuck in a strange state, now with less than a dollar between us, and nowhere else to go.

  The stubble from last season’s corn made the unworked field a nightmare to cross. And it was getting darker. A sudden crash of thunder behind me sent Sarah’s face into the folds of my coat. She clutched at me so tightly that my scarf slipped backward and my unbraided hair went flying in the wind.

  “We’ll make it, baby,” I said to her. “We’ll be inside before this storm hits.”

  Robert went sprinting ahead of me as fast as his lanky, ten-year-old legs could carry him. He reached the rickety old barn before his father did and pushed and pulled the floppy old door until Sam reached him and slid the thing open. I passed the two old trees that stood like sentries beside the barn and then ducked inside just as the downpour began.

  Sam had already thrown his bags to the middle of the straw-strewn floor. What a stench this place had! Like a hundred years’ worth of dirt and cattle and mice and wet, moldy hay. Robert crinkled his nose and stared at me.

  But Sarah lifted her eyes for only a second. “I’m scared, Daddy!” she cried. The poor thing had always been scared of thunderstorms.

  “It’ll be okay, pumpkin.” Sam tried his best to reassure her, pulling her from my arms to hug her close.

  But I could see his eyes wandering over our shelter. The whole place seemed to rattle and shake with every thunderclap. There were holes in the roof and walls where the rain had begun pouring in. The west side of the old structure appeared to be solid, but the rest seemed to defy its own nature just to remain standing in that wind.

  I knew I should be thankful for the shelter, poor though it was. In the right light, such an old barn would enchant me. But I was still too mad to find the good in this mess.

  And Sam’s tenderness with Sarah was suddenly tough to take. I found it hard to be angry when watching him kiss away her tears. I knew Sam loved us; I could never really doubt that. He hadn’t meant for this to happen. He’d had no way of knowing the market would crash. Or that the Cooper plant would fold soon after. He thought he’d been doing me a favor by putting my inheritance into his doomed company. If only he’d just left it alone! The shoe-box was good enough for Grandma, and it would’ve been better for us.

  Robert set his gunnysack of belongings beside me and walked to the opposite side of the barn as Sarah leaned into her father’s shoulder. Robert was braver than his sister when it came to things like thunder. But I was worried for him just the same, because I knew he worried with me, knowing as he did just how bad off we really were.

  “Mom, look here,” Robert call
ed from the far door, which had been flopping in the wind until he took hold of it. I hurried to him, and he pointed to the southwest, past a rickety chicken coop to an old, two-story farmhouse. The back door was standing ajar, and we could see two broken windows.

  “If somebody lived here, they’d shut the door, Mom,” he said. “There’s nothing in the yard but weeds.”

  He was right, of course. But it was not so much the condition of the place that told me it was empty. There was no dog, or it would have heard us and come to greet us by now. Ever since my first stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s, I couldn’t conceive of a farm without a dog.

  There was no sign of anyone on these grounds. No cows. No chickens. No truck or wagon. Maybe the people were long gone, and their trusty dog with them.

  And maybe the Lord had led us to an abandoned farm on purpose. The house stood there in front of my eyes, surely a better shelter for my children than this crooked barn. I looked up at the rain pouring in through the barn’s holey roof. It didn’t seem likely that even the dry corners of the straw-strewn floor would stay dry for long.

  “Sam,” I said. “This is no fit place to spend the night.”

  He didn’t even turn around. “We’ll make do, Julia.”

  I shook my head and looked out at the house again. I could tell it had been a nice one once, years ago. The dark windows and pillared porch drew me, and I had the irrational thought that God had placed it here, just this night, knowing how much we needed it.

  “Can we go in?” Robert begged. “Please?”

  Sam carried Sarah over beside us, took one look at the house, and shook his head. “We can’t let ourselves into somebody’s house,” he insisted. “It’s not right. We can wait out the storm here and move on.”

  “It’s gonna get too cold out here for Sarah tonight,” Robert reasoned. “Nobody lives here. Maybe there’s even a fireplace.”

  Sarah perked up at that idea. The fireplace had been her favorite part of our house in Harrisburg. “Please, Daddy?” she joined in. “Can we go and see?”

  “Somebody owns this place,” my husband protested, looking down at the straw at his feet. He didn’t like it, I knew that. But I also knew he would leave the decision up to me.

  “I don’t think anyone’d fault us one night, Sam,” I said.

  “The storm may set in for awhile. We need a dry place to rest the night. And I’m not sure this rickety old barn will stand a good stiff wind.”

  He didn’t say anything but just set Sarah down and picked up all the bags.

  “Can we run for it?” Robert asked with the kind of excitement I loved to hear in him.

  “We don’t have much choice,” I told him. “But wait a minute and see if the rain slows at all.”

  After five minutes, the rain had not let up. But when the wind sent a chunk of barn roof sailing in the air, we made a break for it across the wide yard anyway. With Sarah dangling from my arms, I burst through the open back door, right behind Robert. Sam stumbled in after me and dropped all our things in a heap on the kitchen floor.

  It was already dark inside the house, but mostly dry. The kitchen smelled of must and had cobwebs generously spread in the corners. A sagging table, three chairs, and a dusty wood cookstove took up most of the room. I fumbled through my bag for a couple of candles and a match while Sam tried to get the door closed. It had a broken hinge and just wouldn’t stay shut, so he propped one of the chairs against it to keep out the rain and wind.

  I lit a candle and handed it to Sam. After I lit the second one, we all went together to the next room.

  “Look, a fireplace!” Sarah exclaimed. “Can we have a fire? And popcorn?”

  Just like Harrisburg, I thought. That’s all my kids really want. Their old life back. “We don’t have firewood, honey,” I told her. “Or popcorn either. But we’ll make do.”

  I put my candle on the mantle to light the room. The only furniture it held was a broken chair in one corner. I was glad to see that the windows were intact.

  Sam went back to the kitchen and brought our bags. He pulled out our two thin blankets.

  “Can we explore?” Robert asked.

  “Let’s eat now,” I told him, trying to sound as pleased with our adventure as he seemed to be. But there were only two apples and a few old biscuits left in my bag. The Lord would have to provide tomorrow’s breakfast.

  I cut the apples in half and set a biscuit in front of each child. I started to offer Sam a biscuit, but he shook his head, so I gave him our old canteen instead. There should be a prayer, I thought, but I only whispered a rote blessing out loud. Lord, I prayed in my head, help us make a life again. Give Sam a hope again. Help us be close like we used to be.

  It occurred to me then that I ought to pray for help in getting over the anger I felt toward Sam. But I didn’t do it. I guess it was easier to think that I’d forgiven him already and was just entitled to my feelings beyond that.

  I let the children have all the food. I couldn’t have eaten anyway, with Sam refusing. I would find us more food in the morning. Even though it was only the first part of May, I could be confident of finding something edible among all the things growing outside. Grandma Pearl had walked me through the seasons on her farm, showing me what to look for. That was before Grandpa Charlie had died and we had to move to town. I could still remember how embarrassed Papa had always been by Mama’s parents and their strange country ways. But I’d loved them dearly and had come to thank God for the things they had taught me.

  Sam was sitting with his back against the wall, watching his youngsters finish off our last crumb. Once he looked up at me for a moment and then turned his head.

  I should hug him, I thought. I should tell him we’ll be okay, that it’s not his fault. But I didn’t move and couldn’t seem to say anything.

  Sarah leaned into me. “Sing ‘Button Up Your Overcoat,’ Mama,” she whispered.

  Sam looked at her with the barest hint of a smile, and I took heart. I did my best with the song, adding the hand motions we’d made up as we hitchhiked across Kentucky. Then I jumped into my own silly rendition of “Bye, Bye, Blackbird.”

  And all the while as I sang, Sam watched me. What must he be thinking, me acting this way? I’d barely spoken to him for days. But I carried on for Sarah like this was some kind of picnic!

  But whatever he thought, my antics for Sarah were genuine. No matter how worried I got or how mad Sam made me, I would still make light of our situation for my kids, just to see them smile. They were going to act like kids. They were going to play and laugh like kids, no matter how bad things got. And somehow, with the help of the good Lord, I’d find a way to fill their bellies, whether Sam found work again or not.

  “Can we look around now?” Robert asked me eagerly as lightning crashed outside the window.

  Sarah jumped onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. “It’s too dark, Mama,” she whispered. “And too loud.”

  “Light a couple more candles,” I told Robert. “It won’t hurt to explore a bit, but only on the ground floor, do you hear? Don’t try any old stairs.”

  Sam gave me a reproachful look but ended up helping Robert with the candles and walking through the rest of the downstairs rooms with him while I cuddled with Sarah and sang her another song.

  “Are we going to live here forever?” she suddenly asked me. Her gentle whisper shocked me as much as if she’d shouted the words.

  I should have told her no. But my mind turned to the house, the high ceilings, the dark woodwork I could see in carved detail with every flash of the lightning outside. There were two little shelves with empty kerosene lamps and a wide mantle with a huge mirror set above the fire-place stone. Pale green drapes hung limp at the windows, still looking presentable despite their years.

  It was a decent and sturdy house, despite the lack of care. And I was glad to be away from the road and strangers, glad we weren’t hitchhiking through the night, trying to make it to Dewey’s before morning. I didn�
�t care if we ever got to Dewey’s. Illinois had been Sam’s promise. A job at the wheel plant. A place to stay. But there was nothing to that now. The plant would close just like Cooper’s back home, and Sam had even said that Dewey was thinking to go south and ask for work in the mines.

  I found myself hoping the storm would last for days on end, keeping us stranded here so we wouldn’t have to face the decision of what to do next. We could use the rest. If only we had food, nothing else would matter.

  Sam and Robert weren’t gone long. They came back with three dusty blankets they’d found in the closet of a bedroom where one of the broken windows was. Sam apologized for the blankets but said they were better than the ground and warmer than a bare wood floor.

  They’d found a pantry too, and the staircase going upstairs. That was it for the ground floor except for the kitchen and the sitting room we were in. Robert wanted to see the second floor, but Sam and I both told him no.

  I shook out the old blankets one by one, wondering why anyone would leave them behind. Especially the quilt, with its diagonal rows of alternating dark and light. Someone had pieced together this now-tattered quilt, perhaps for a child or an aging parent. Somebody had loved this house once. Where were they now? The thought was hard in my stomach. People don’t just walk away from a farm like this. They don’t up and leave a home unless they have no choice.

  I thought of our house in Harrisburg and wondered if there’d been a foreclosure at this house too, and another family, disheartened and humiliated, watching their possessions being auctioned away. But if that was the case, why was there no new owner? Why would a bank let such a house sit empty long enough for the spiders to lace webs in every doorway?

  I stretched out two blankets on the floor, one for each child. They would be warm enough with a blanket of our own on top of them. Sam and I would huddle together under the quilt tonight, I decided. We would manage with nothing under us. And I was glad the kids wouldn’t have to share a blanket like we’d done before. They would sleep warmer here. We owed a debt of gratitude to the owners of this place. Or the past owners. Whoever had left the blankets in the closet and the door wide open. Perhaps there would be a way to repay them someday.