Fields of Gold
MARIE BOSTWICK
KENSINGTON BOOKS
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com
All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Acknowledgments
A Special Chat with Marie Bostwick
Copyright Page
To my husband, Brad, the finest man on the planet.
Prologue
This would be easier if I were writing about someone else. Then I could change it, fatten up the thin parts and leave out the dull ones, turning them like frayed collars and cuffs, making them over into something more romantic than they really were, but then the remembering would be neither so painful, nor so sweet. I suppose you can’t have one without the other. A name seems as good a place to begin as any, maybe even better than most. I think we live many names in a lifetime. We take them on and off like new suits of clothes, donned or discarded according to the mood and moment.
Everyone calls me Eva. It’s a name that makes sense in Dillon, plain and easy to pronounce, not too many syllables. My father always called me by my full name, Evangeline. He and Slim were the only ones who ever did. Papa named me, over Mama’s objections, after Longfellow’s Evangeline. When I was little he would hold me on his lap and recite from memory. I could feel the verses rumbling rich from his chest,
Fair was she to behold, that maiden of seventeen summers.
Black were her eyes as the berry that grows on the thorn by the wayside,
Black, yet how softly they gleamed beneath the brown shade of her tresses!
My eyes are green and my hair is auburn, nothing like the description of that poetic heroine, but Papa was never bothered much by details. He was given to taking the romantic view of life and always said exaggeration should never stand in the way of a good story. In Papa’s stories it never did.
Mama thought Evangeline sounded pretentious. She wanted to call me Cora or Emma, something that wouldn’t make my other differences so obvious, though there was never a prayer of that happening. People who are different draw a lot of attention in Dillon. Me more than most. After forty years, people still gawk when I walk through town. They can’t help themselves. No disguise or name, no matter how bland, could camouflage me from the eyes of the curious as I thump and twist my way down Main Street.
I was born with a lame leg. My muscles are small and weak below the knee of my left leg, and my foot curls inward, looking like the gnarled root of the cottonwoods that grow near the river. I walk slowly with the help of a cane, bracing myself with one hand, contracting the muscles in my upper leg to drag my foot along the ground, and then swinging and dropping it forward for the next step—an uneven, rolling gait like a wagon with wheels of different sizes.
I never remember either of my parents talking to me about my leg. In Mama’s case I think this was because she didn’t want me to feel self-conscious, but Papa just didn’t seem to notice. It never crossed his mind that I might not be as whole and capable as everyone else. He saw me from the inside out, full of possibilities, and assumed everyone else had the same view.
Until I started school I felt the same as Papa. I tried as hard as I could to fit in, which is to say too hard, but whenever I came into the schoolyard the girls would giggle and whisper behind their hands and I would feel ashamed, though I wasn’t even sure what I was ashamed of.
In a sense, I came from a family of outcasts, yet we never left Dillon, even when it would have made a world of sense to go. When the storms came and the dust rolled, we fought with everything we had to stay on the land. Sometimes it seemed like the going price was ... everything.
As I said, Papa wasn’t from Dillon. He was born in a small seaside village in County Tipperary, Ireland. He emigrated when he was fourteen, settled in Boston, and became a lobsterman. He always loved the sea, and until he met Mama he never had a thought of living or working anywhere else than on the waves; but one rainy afternoon he went to the public library and happened to reach for a copy of the same book that had caught the eye of a twenty-five-year-old spinster who was on her one and only trip out of Oklahoma. Their fingers met on the spine of a worn copy of Walden, and, just that quick, they were in love.
When Mama climbed off the train in Dillon four months behind schedule, she was Mrs. Seamus Glennon. The folks back home were positively scandalized. In Dillon, Oklahoma, even a bride or groom who’d married into a family from only as far away as Liberal, ten miles north over the Kansas border, would be considered an alien for the first two or three decades after their wedding. Mama had brought home an actual foreigner, complete with a brogue and a handshake that wasn’t nearly strange enough for a stranger. If that wasn’t bad enough, he was a Roman Catholic to boot! For all the people in Dillon knew, the man might have horns.
When I was eight, Darla Simpson said her mother had said exactly that about us. I wanted to slap her for saying it, but I knew Mama would be mad if I did. Mama believed that whatever happened in life, good or bad, was God’s will and had to be borne with humility or submission, as the occasion warranted.
I, on the other hand, figured that God’s will could constitute any number of choices and it was up to us to choose the best among them, but whether we chose well or poorly, God still stood beside us. Secretly, I liked to think that sometimes God made little mistakes, like my leg. I just couldn’t believe God would make me lame intentionally.
Mama would have disapproved of my theology. “God will be merciful unto whom He will be merciful,” she would say. “Only He knows why he sends good fortune to some and bad to others. That’s His business. Ours is to accept things as they come and bear them by His grace.” To tell the truth, Mama seemed more at ease when things weren’t going too well. Too much comfort could only mean calamity was around the corner. Mama was a farmer’s daughter that way.
Papa, on the other hand, was a man who farmed and did it well, but he wasn’t a farmer at heart. Eventually the people in town, especially the men, came to respect him, but they always held him at arm’s length. He was just too different. For one thing, Papa read. In Dillon the only things a real farmer would be caught dead reading was the Almanac, seed advertisements, and the local newspaper. Papa read books, practically ate them, with an Irish love for language and lore that bordered on passion. He could recite scores of lines of poetry, and did, at the drop of a hat.
There was no one in Dillon, no one in the world, like Papa. The salt and romance of the ocean always clung to him. He always sat high on the seat of the combine, proudly above billows of golden bowing wheat stalks, looking for all the world as though he were scanning the horizon for a good port, a fisherman lost on the plains.
Papa came to Dillon because he loved Mama. I suppose he could have insisted they sell the farm and move. I could have done the same, but something changed in us. I don’t know if Papa’s transformation came over time or all in a day, like it did for me, but somehow that alien land became home. There were too many memories tilled into those furrow
s to just up and leave.
Before Slim came, I couldn’t have understood how that was possible. No matter what came after, I shall always be thankful to him for that. The day I met him was the day my eyes started to open, though it took a long time to sharpen my sight. Up until then I saw things, Dillon especially, the same way other people did: a small, dusty farm town in the middle of nowhere that never bred anyone that mattered and likely never would, the sort of place that only looks good in a rearview mirror. But that’s just the view from the ground.
From the air, Dillon is enchanted. The river cuts through the fields, carving them like sharp, silver thread. The cheap tin roofs shimmer and wink like gemstones in the sun. The colors of the dark earth bleed slowly into the yellow wheat, and the breathing air, burnt white as ash by the heat of the sun, melts into brilliant blue sky and pearly clouds. When you’re airborne, the scales fall from your eyes, and suddenly you can see the full spectrum of quiet colors, inky black-brown to blinding white. So perfect and seamless, you can’t feel where one color leaves off and the next begins. From above, the wheat crops are dressed in a thousand subtle shades of gold, each field just different enough to set it off from the others, showing colors you can’t see from the ground: yellow and saffron and lemon and sand and a hundred other shades there aren’t even words for. The fields make a tidy checkerboard of gold to the horizon, so square that you know they were made by man, cut and planted where they don’t belong by sheer force of will. You can feel the sweat and muscle that went into each acre. And though you are so removed from it all, you can’t help but feel a whisper of respect and pity for those left below, people of iron will who fight and inevitably die to bring order and plenty out of a hard, unyielding land.
From the air we see with the eyes of angels. I’ve only seen it that way once, but I remember it perfectly. For the first time in my life I felt sorry for anyone who wasn’t me. I was the only one in the world who wasn’t chained to the ground, forced to crawl and scratch along the earth, the taste of dirt sour in my mouth, pining without any real hope for one full, clear breath of air. Even when we landed and I was earthbound again, the feeling stayed with me. It is with me still. Slim described it better than I ever could. He said, “I lose all consciousness with the past. I live only in the moment, in strange unmortal space, crowded with beauty, pierced with danger.” I guess that’s why I stayed in Dillon, because that one memory we shared so long ago in my seventeenth summer is still stronger than all that came after. It changed everything.
Even when I’m on the ground, I see things as from above.
Chapter 1
1922
“Eva,” Mama called from the kitchen window, “when you’ve finished picking the tomatoes, bring me in some of those cucumbers too. It’s so hot I believe we’ll just have salad and bread for supper. That sound all right to you? “
“Yes, Mama.”
“Don’t forget to get all the ripe ones. Pick up the vines so you can see the little red ones underneath. You don’t want to waste them.”
“No, Mama.”
Actually, I didn’t care if I wasted them or not, but there was no use arguing that we already had more tomatoes than we could eat in a month of Sundays. The tomatoes were ripe and had to be picked. It was part of Mama’s creed. Just as Papa had been firm that naming me was his right, Mama was firm that she be in charge of my religious and moral training, which included those good Christian virtues, hard work and thrift. On that score, Mama was working toward sainthood.
She saved everything: bacon fat, paper sacks, bits of twine, and the smallest scraps of leftover fabric that she kept in a bag and used to make quilts. When I was young it seemed silly, saving every little thing, but now I’m glad she did. If not, I would never have started quilting. Trying to imagine my life today without a number ten needle clasped in the fingers of my right hand would be like trying to imagine myself mute.
My first quilt was a wobbly-seamed nine-patch in bright spring greens and yellows. Mama kept a sharp eye on me, making sure I didn’t throw away even the tiniest patches of leftover fabric, urging me to experiment with my own patterns where smaller and smaller bits of cotton could be used. Eventually, all those scraps became the mosaic of my imagination, but in the beginning I was just trying to please Mama. “Economy is nothing to be ashamed of, Eva,” she moralized. “I won’t have you growing up to be a spendthrift.”
For years I didn’t even know what a spendthrift was, but the way Mama said it made me pretty sure it led down the path to hell, so I stitched tiny patches and picked the vegetable plot clean, both without complaining, at least not out loud.
It was so hot that day. Our farm was never a particularly beautiful place, not like those clean and green farms from out East like you saw on Currier & Ives cards, where the barns were painted to match the privies and the sheep never got mud splattered on their wool. Nobody would have ever thought of making a picture postcard of our farm. The house was small, just four rooms before Morgan was born and Papa added on a third bedroom. Except for those few dustbowl years when it was impossible to keep ahead of the dirt, it was always clean and neat, with crisp blue gingham curtains that Mama took down to wash, iron, and starch every spring. We had a few pictures on the wall, an average number of crocheted doilies and painted china figurines, and far more books than our neighbors, but we weren’t exactly weighed down with ornaments.
We were too poor to think of wasting time and money painting fences and outhouses. All the farm outbuildings, except the barn, were weathered silver gray. The barn had been an honest midwestern red at one time, but the pigments had faded so much in the sun and the prairie winds had blown so hard that the boards now mostly matched the color of the barnyard, a deep, dull mahogany.
The barn itself was too close to the house, and there was no yard to speak of. Every inch of ground was used to grow crops; there was none that could be spared for decoration. Of course, Mama always planted a few petunias by the front porch each spring, about the same time the wildflowers came out and dotted the hills with specks of pink, blue, and gold for a few precious weeks, but by July the sun had burned all the wildflowers to straw and Mama’s petunias had grown leggy and brown in the heat. August was worse. In August even the house looked dusty and oven-baked, as though if the temperature rose one degree higher the chipped white paint on the siding would crackle and peel off like the skin of an onion and the little blinking windowpanes might shatter in the shimmering heat.
Normally I loved working in the diligently tended half acre that was our garden, the only green space for miles around. Working among the tender stalks and curling vines seemed to give rest to my eyes and soul, but that day it was too hot and the rows too long to think of gardening as anything but a chore. I wanted to lie down in the shade of our one big oak tree and ignore the vegetables; I knew I couldn’t, so I picked up another vine and continued plucking at an epidemic of ripe tomatoes. At least I was outside, I thought a little guiltily. Mama was stuck in the house, standing over a mess of steaming canning jars, making sure every last one was filled with tomatoes against the coming winter. The shelves were already full of jars of stewed tomatoes, pickled beets, green beans, and yellow corn, but boxes and boxes of empty jars still sat on the kitchen floor waiting to be filled. How would we ever eat so many? And yet, come spring all those jars would be empty again, just like every year. I popped a tiny, fully ripened tomato into my mouth and crushed it against my teeth to feel the sweet, summery juice spill onto my tongue. Nothing ever changed, I thought with a sigh. Not in Dillon. Not to me. I wished it would.
With the taste of the wish and the summer still lingering in my mouth, I heard a faint, buzzing noise coming toward me, growing louder by the second. It was a sound I couldn’t place, not like a bee or a locust, but more machine-like, though I knew it wasn’t a car or a tractor.
The noise got louder, and I wondered if maybe I’d been in the sun too long and was going to faint. I’d heard of girls who fainted at school
say their ears started buzzing just before everything went black, but I didn’t feel dizzy. For an instant, a shadow shielded me from the sun, and I looked up to see a great sapphire bird soaring across the still, white sky—a flying machine! It moved so fast, faster than any car. I could see it clearly, right down to the riblike supports in each double wing and the cables that were strung between them. It was just like the planes I’d seen on the newsreels and in a book Papa had about the Wright brothers, but I’d never imagined them to be so loud and bright, vibrating like a living thing.
Mama stepped out onto the porch to see what all the noise was. We waved as the pilot dipped his wings and raised his arm to greet us. For a moment I could see him, his chin and the sharp line of his jaw jutting below a pair of goggles, like eyes on a grasshopper. In another moment he was gone, over the roof of our barn and toward the edge of the hill where Papa’s fields lay. The humming grew fainter and fainter until it finally stopped and I remembered to breathe.
“Did you see that, Mama!” I marveled. “Did you ever see anything so fast?”
“I never did. That was something, wasn’t it? Up in the air like that.” We both stood and watched the sky for an expectant minute until Mama murmured distractedly, “Well, this isn’t getting supper on the table, is it? I still need those cucumbers, Eva. It’s nearly five o’clock.”
“Yes, ma’am. Right away.” But I didn’t move. I stood very still in the middle of the garden, holding my breath and listening for the hum of a plane engine, wishing he’d come back.
Twice in a day my wish came true. Suddenly, there he was, wiping his feet on our front mat as Papa held the door and urged him to come in and make himself at home.
I knew him. I recognized the tanned curve of his face clearly, as though he’d been standing next to me and not soaring two hundred feet overhead, but in the plane I hadn’t been able to see how tall and slender he was. He was a good head taller than Papa, thin but strong, like a tree you could cling to in a hard wind. Papa was grinning even wider than usual, bursting with the surprise.
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