by Leisha Kelly
THIRTY
Samuel
I knew the birthing was done. I’d heard as much. I’d sent Sarah farther off into the barn to sing with Mrs. Post and was still piecing together fence when George came out the back door of the house. He didn’t see me at first and almost walked right past me. When I asked how they were inside, he jumped.
“Kinda hopin’ there won’t be no more’n ten,” he said.
“Wilametta looks so blame tired, I don’t know what we’ll do.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond to that.
“Got a girl,” he told me. “I ’spect that ain’t no more’n right.” He took a hard look at the fence and at his pliers, which were still in my hand. “What are you doing here, anyway?”
He didn’t sound angry, just surprised to find me on his property, let alone with my hands working on anything.
“I . . . uh . . . wanted to help. I heard that my Sarah broke your fence.”
“She done this?”
“Yes, sir, but not for trying to.”
“S’pose it coulda been the old billy just as easy, or one a’ my little ol’ wild injuns runnin’ around.”
“Maybe.”
“Your wife’s inside,” he said, as if he’d just woken up to who I was.
“I know.”
“I got me another girl.”
“You told me.”
“Wilametta’s already callin’ her Grace, but I been thinkin’ we oughta call this’un Emma. Stands t’ reason, don’t it? Emma Grace. How’s that sound?”
I couldn’t help but smile, seeing a side of George Hammond I hadn’t seen before. “It sounds fitting.”
“I didn’t think she’d come,” he said solemnly, turning his face toward the distant field. “Bein’ sick, you know, and havin’ you to turn her again’ me.”
“That wouldn’t gain me anything. Emma cares about all of you.”
“I reckon she cares ’bout ever’body.” He was quiet, just studying the horizon. “You know Miss Hazel means to have you ’way from here, don’t you?”
“I know.”
“What’re you gonna do about it?”
I tried to think of what to say, but the first words out of my mouth weren’t at all what I’d had in mind. “I’m going to build Emma a wheelchair.”
“What?”
“I’ve got to get it done,” I explained. “No matter what else happens. She needs it, and she’s always doing for everybody else.”
George cocked his head. “You know how t’ do somethin’ like that?”
“Almost have it figured out. I need some bolts, though, and a couple of smaller wheels for balance in the back. I saw a picture of one once that a fellow made for his granddaughter after she had polio.”
“Well . . .”
He let that one word hang in the air a long time. “I got plenty a’ hardware in a couple a’ buckets in the barn,” he finally said. “Can’t say it’d be what you need for bolt size, but you can use what you want. I’d have to study me on them wheels, though. How big you need?”
“Not less than six inches, I don’t think. Or much bigger than a foot. It’s got to handle the rough ground but not be too big and heavy.”
George looked down at his scuffed gray boots. “Wilametta and the baby don’t appear too strong, but they’ll come out fine. Did I tell you they’d come out fine?”
“I understood you to mean that.”
“Need help on that chair?”
His offer took me by surprise. The last time I talked to this man, he’d been as hard as a stump. Nothing like a birth to soften things, I decided. And having us here right in the middle of it too.
“I might need help,” I admitted. “Getting the chair on the wheels so they can still turn, but not bounce her clear out of there. I need a metal piece under each side of the seat for some give. You know what I mean?”
“Like buggy springs.”
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“When you workin’ on this?”
“At night. So she won’t know.”
“Why is that?”
“I guess because I’m not real sure I can get it done.”
“You’ll get it done. By God, you will. Workin’ on it tonight?”
“I don’t know.”
“I’ll be there past sundown. We’ll get ’er done, boy.”
“Won’t your wife need you tonight?”
“Lizbeth tends a whole lot better than I ever could. I won’t be gone long. An’ one of the boys can run over if they need anythin’.” He took the pliers out of my hand and tightened down a wire that hadn’t even come loose.
“I aim to give Emma a chicken for her help, or another a’ her cows, even, but I’d like to be a part a’ this, if you’ll let me. She’s done a lot more for me over the years than I managed doin’ for her. Guess maybe she tol’ you I ain’t got no claim on nothin’ no more. Got so far behind on payin’, I ain’t got a leg to stand on. I figure when Emma dies, we’ll be throwed out on our ears. You might be the ones doin’ it too. But Emma needs a chair, like you said. It ain’t no more’n right.”
“Bring the buckets and a light,” I told him. “It’ll be easier finding what we need with everything there together.”
He smiled and extended his hand. “You ever do much butcherin’?”
I shook his hand. “No, sir.”
“Might have you help me when it gets cold enough. For a side a’ pork. What d’ya say?”
“I never did anything with hogs before. You’d probably laugh at me.”
“I never teached it to no city boy, neither. But you’ll learn. If you think you can put together a wheelchair, I s’pose you’d do for figurin’ out a lick a’ other stuff, don’t you reckon?”
I didn’t have time to answer. Lizbeth had run past us to tell the others the news, and now George’s kids and mine were coming up from the barn. Robert and Kirk had been in school when Mr. Post stopped by to tell Elvira that the baby was coming. She had dismissed the two right away, saying they couldn’t possibly think with that on their minds. Now Kirk was in front of the others on his way to the house.
“You go to the well and wash ’fore you set one foot inside,” George told them. “Lizbeth, you go and see if your mama’s ready for any a’ these hooligans.”
THIRTY-ONE
Julia
I finally got Emma to sit down in a chair in the kitchen, where I was stewing shepherd’s purse for Wilametta. She and her baby were both asleep and seemed to be doing well. I’d taken the liberty of making some coffee too, and was trying to coax Emma to have a bit to refresh herself with.
“I’ll tell you, Juli, I hope to never see another breech! God have mercy, it scares me to pieces.”
I was still shaking myself, but I tried not to show it. “You didn’t look scared. Most of the time, anyway. You ought to eat something. There’s some bread here—”
“I couldn’t eat a bite. Not a’ nothin’. I’m so glad that’s over.” She plunked her arms on the table and sighed. “That Lizbeth’ll think twice ’bout havin’ any babies now. Might not even want to get married after today.”
I couldn’t deny that. I’d thought it was too much for the girl, but she wouldn’t leave, and her mother hadn’t wanted her to. Thinking back on it all made me queasy, and I had to sit down.
“Emma, did you really have a breech baby before?”
“Sure enough, I did. At least fourteen years ago. But I lost ’er then.” She was quiet a minute. “The only time I ever did lose any, Juli. Didn’t want to tell ’em that, though.
It’d been the finish of ’em today, just expectin’ the worst.”
“How many babies have you helped along? A lot?”
“Near fifty, I guess. I used to write ’em down, but I lost m’ book in the rain one night when the wagon tipped on the way home. That was the first time I hurt m’ leg. There wasn’t no doctor when I started. Lot a’ folks still’d rather not call on one. Folks has got them automobiles now,
though. They can get to one most times, if they need to.”
“Should we get Wilametta to go, do you think? She’s so weak.”
“I got nothin’ again’ it, but the worst is past. She won’t be wantin’ to go, and George ain’t gonna favor takin’ her.
It ain’t their way. I just thank the good Lord for pullin’ ’em through. I wouldn’t want their last mem’ry of me bein’ over such a loss.”
“Oh, Emma.” It scared me for her to say such a thing. And she looked so awfully tired. “Emma, can I help you lie down?”
“Not here. Once we get home, maybe. We’ll be needin’ the rest, you an’ me. But I gotta stay awhile longer, till Wila’s up and ready to take some a’ that broth or somethin’. You done good. You oughta be proud.”
I could hear the sounds of children just outside. Emma heard them too, and shook her head before I could say anything. “They can’t come in,” she said. “Not ’less they tiptoe for a peek, one at a time. Can’t be wakin’ ’em. Not yet. This ain’t no time for shenanigans.”
THIRTY-TWO
Samuel
We stayed at the Hammonds’ till well after dark. Mrs. Post helped the oldest girl fix us some supper. Once Emma was satisfied that Mrs. Hammond was gaining strength and the baby could suck, we all piled in George’s wagon, and the oldest boy took us home.
Mrs. Post was a little distressed at her husband for not coming back, but I told her he might be just as distressed at me for not doing any roofing.
“He can just stay on that roof!” she snapped. “If he’s gonna leave me somewhere, he oughta have the decency to come back for me.”
We took her home first, and Barrett’s truck was there, but he didn’t come out. “Don’t you worry about the work, now,” she told me. “He’ll be by tomorrow. I’ll see to that.
It ain’t your fault such circumstances come up. You did the right thing, makin’ me stay. Hate to say it, but I rather ’joyed myself with them fool kids.”
“She’d be a good Sunday school teacher,” I told Julia when we’d left their farm. “If Emma ever convinces them to go to church.”
I was in the barn a couple of hours later when George Hammond came in with his kerosene lantern and buckets of nails, screws, and bolts. I hadn’t expected him at that hour. He should have been asleep, the same as me.
He studied my drawings by the lantern light and then took a look at the frame chair I’d made. “Looks like it could work,” he said. “You got them wheel mounts. Was you fixin’ to set ’em in place tonight?”
“There’s a three-inch strip of metal brace along the bottom edge of that old wagon,” I told him. “I was taking that off. If we could cut two pieces to size and bend them to a crescent, I’d like to rest the chair on that, bolt the metal to a frame of two-bys, and mount the wheels from the bottom frame. We could end up with a basket right under the seat for carrying along a bag or something.”
“You got your thing worked out, ain’t you? What about them little wheels you ain’t got yet?”
“I’ll have to jut them out from the frame in back. I won’t know for sure how to do that till I know what kind of wheel I’m working with.”
“You ever make a car?”
I looked up in surprise at what sounded like a true measure of respect in his voice. “Not by myself,” I told him. “My cousin and I and a couple of friends came up with a pretty good Tin Lizzie from wrecks. I used to love that kind of work. But it was really play, I guess.”
“So if you had somethin’ to work with, you could make a car?”
“I suppose. If I had the parts.”
“Well. Seems to me like you could’ve got a city job.”
“Had a good one for awhile. There’s a lot of guys like me right now, though. Not enough work to go around.”
“Yep. I been hearin’ that. Pays to keep livestock, like I told you. Least you know you’re gonna eat.”
“Can’t do that without land, though.”
“Yep. That’s what scares me.”
He looked at me, deep and solemn, his face a mix of strange shadows in the kerosene light.
“It ain’t that I ain’t wanted to pay Emma, you understand,” he said. “I jus’ do a better job makin’ food than cash. Then I trades me food for the stuff we need and end up never seein’ a dime. Ain’t had enough left over to bring her nothin’ decent. She’s got good land, that ain’t the problem. We ain’t had the weather for it recent years. ’Sides that, I can’t work it the way I oughta without another horse or two. Bird and Teddy is gettin’ too old to put in a full day. That slows ever’thin’ down. I’d give ’em pasture if I had another way of it. Hate to hitch ’em at all anymore.”
He sighed at the telling of his troubles. “’Course, nobody’ll trade for ’em. Can’t get a loan neither. Willard had him a tractor, a 1920 Fordson. Made me feel like a king, ’cause there ain’t many got them ’round here. But she quit on me ’bout four years ago. Been all downhill since.”
Such information was enough to set my blood pumping. “Tell you what. I can’t help you get a horse, but when I get done with this, I’ll take a look at Willard’s tractor. I’ve never laid hands on one before, but I doubt you could have killed an engine like that entirely. I might be able to get it running.”
“Lordy, you could turn out a respectable neighbor after all.”
He was serious, from the look on his face. And there was nothing to say but a simple thank-you.
We worked for about an hour, making the chair’s base frame and mounting the old wagon wheels. I pulled the rest of the metal strip off the wagon and was going to do my best punching holes through it with a quarter bit and Willard’s old hand drill.
“Be easier hot,” George told me. “Easier gettin’ the bend right too.”
“I know. But I don’t have a forge.”
“Frank Cafey does. I’ll take you over there tomorrow.”
That decided, we parted ways to get some sleep. But I lay awake for a long time, considering what a miracle had been done. The man I could have almost called an enemy had been turned around for a friend. It was easy to see that, separately, George and I probably would always be struggling here. But together, we just might make things work.
Robert wanted to take Emma’s old bicycle to school for the first time the next morning. I pulled it out for him and looked at the wheels on it with some longing, but decided they were too big anyway. It was a Red Rider, kind of old, but in pretty good shape, with a basket to hold his books and the biscuits Julia wrapped up for his lunch. I sent him off early so he’d have time to stop at the Hammonds’ and tell George I might be at the Posts’ till suppertime.
Barrett was over before we’d even finished breakfast, ready to get me on his roof and get that job done. I had an obligation, so I gladly went, even though my mind was still on Emma’s chair. All I lacked was a set of small wheels and a few more hours’ work, and the thing would be usable.
I hammered shingles down almost that whole day, new ones that were long and thin. I thought Barrett must be doing pretty well to be able to afford that. Back in Harrisburg, I knew people who nailed the old ones back in, or tin, or whatever they could find.
Barrett didn’t say much while we were working, and Louise said he was sore at her for scolding him the night before. He said his truck wouldn’t start, but she didn’t believe him, especially since it had run fine when he went to pick me up that morning. But when it came time to take me home, the truck wouldn’t start again, and Barrett whooped and hollered for Louise to come and witness the fact.
I took a look at the truck and eventually got the thing running, while Barrett talked almost constantly about the turn-crank model he used to have.
“I liked it,” he said. “Weren’t too easy to reckon with of a winter morning, though.”
We were just about to leave when I spotted George Hammond’s wagon coming up the road.
“Better wait for my neighbor,” I told Barrett. “He’s taking me to see Frank Cafe
y.”
“Now there’s a stubborn old man, that Frank,” Barrett said. “Gonna starve, he will. Ain’t much call for a smithy no more. I told him to get hisself another job, but he ain’t never been one to listen to me.”
He looked down the road and watched George get closer and closer. “Now Hammond here, he comes in a wagon still! Don’t know if he ever did drive a car, do you? Most folks ain’t like that. He still goes to Frank for his horseshoes, but there ain’t too many doin’ that no more. Everybody that matters for much got ’em a car back in the twenties. And them that ain’t got one is doin’ some itchin’ for it now. You’re one of ’em. You’re progress-minded, I can see it.”
He turned his hat slightly to better block the sun. “You ain’t gonna be happy at Emma’s for long,” he declared.
“She ain’t even got a pitcher pump in the kitchen over there! You’ll up and leave one of these days for a city job again, once there’s jobs to be had. I can see it in you. You got to have good things.”
I glanced his way, wondering how he’d managed to draw his conclusions. Maybe we wouldn’t have to leave to have good things. We might get a car one day. A pitcher-pump kitchen sink with a line to the well, or even complete indoor plumbing, could eventually be installed. And Julia would be happy even if it never was.
As George turned down the lane, Barrett just shook his head. “What’re you doin’, goin’ with him over to Frank’s? You ain’t got no horse.”
I wasn’t sure why, but I didn’t want to tell him about Emma’s chair. So I just said I had a couple of metal pieces to bend and left it at that.
George was hollering in a minute, and Barrett hollered right back. “Shut up, you old fool! We know you’re there!” But he softened as George stopped in front us, and asked how his wife and baby were doing.
“Both cryin’ today. Ever’ time I come in the house. But that’s the way it was ever’ time with Wilametta, so I guess they’re fine enough. She fawns over them little ones, she does. Counts their fingers and toes ’least six or seven times an hour.”
