“You’ll see,” he said with a grin. “When I’m done you’ll be so surprised that you’ll apologize for doubting me. Morgan!” he shouted heartily. “Get my toolbox and get over here. The men in this family have work to do.”
“Yes, sir!” Morgan replied and ran off to find the tools while Papa rolled up his sleeves and strode, whistling, to inspect the cars.
“The men of the family. Hmmph.” Mama shook her head and chuckled tolerantly.
For weeks on end the sound of scraping, hammering, and sawing filled our ears. Morgan and Papa spent all their spare time on the project, only coming inside to sleep and eat before they were back at it again. It was a happy, purposeful time; three months passed quicker than three weeks used to before Papa had started working. Using part of his small salary and whatever they could salvage from abandoned farms around the county, Papa and Morgan worked magic.
One day they made us close our eyes while they led us by our hands to see what all that hammering and sawing had wrought.
“One, two, three,” Papa and Morgan counted together. Morgan shouted out the final command: “Open your eyes!”
It was amazing. The caboose had been turned into a private and cozy little apartment all its own. It was really nothing more than a tiny sitting room connected by a hallway to an alcove for the bedroom and closet, but it was just as cunning and complete as it could be.
“It’s for you, Ruby,” Papa said, smiling. “It’s small, but it’s yours.”
Ruby was speechless, not daring to believe, I suppose, that such a perfect little space was really meant for her alone. Somehow Papa and Morgan had managed to sneak into our room and spirit Ruby’s own quilt off her bed and into the caboose without anyone noticing. It looked clean and crisp on the new bed. The bedroom had just enough space for the bed, Ruby’s rocker, and a shiny black wood-stove that would keep everything warm as toast in winter. The walls were a warm brick color, mounted with two gleaming brass oil lamps that gave off a clear, bright light. Everything was so tidy and clever. Ruby, who had been stoic and strong throughout the aftermath of Clarence’s death, suddenly burst into tears.
“Now don’t go doing that, Aunt Ruby,” Morgan squeezed her arm while Papa fished in his pocket for a clean handkerchief to offer the sobbing Ruby. “We can paint it a different color if you don’t like this one.” Morgan laughed. “You just say the word and we’ll break out the paintbrushes, but there’s no need to cry about it.”
“I’m sorry,” Ruby wailed. “It’s just so beautiful. You’ve all been so good to me, and now that Clarence is gone I’m more of a burden than ever. I can’t even pay you the three dollars a week for my keep anymore, and you all go and do this!” She broke into a fresh stream of tears, bawling louder than before and trumpeting her nose into Papa’s handkerchief.
“Don’t be silly,” I said, patting her on the back. “You saved my quilting business. We couldn’t manage without you.”
“That’s right,” Mama agreed. “If you didn’t help with all the cutting, we’d never be able to make quilts up fast enough to make any money. With the arthritis in my hands, I’m not as much help as I used to be. Anyway, you’re family now.”
That only made Ruby cry harder, but we could all tell they were the good kind of tears, the sort of release you just have to have now and then if for no other reason than to know that some things can still touch you down deep.
“That’s enough of that, Aunt Ruby,” Morgan said gamely. “You haven’t even seen the best part yet.” He led the way toward the old freight car and pushed open the door with a strength and enthusiasm that reminded me he wasn’t a little boy anymore. Thirteen years old, practically grown up. We all followed him inside. The freight car had been cleaned and shelved with row upon row of chicken coops and roosts. Papa grinned from ear to ear as Morgan gave the tour. We all admired their handiwork. Everything was planned out so cleverly. I told Morgan it looked beautiful and wondered how he ever thought of raising chickens.
“It was all his idea.” Papa beamed, winking and pointing to Morgan. “And he did almost all the carpentry by himself, too.”
“I read about what you need to farm chickens in my Four-H handbook,” Morgan said proudly. “Once we got a place to keep them, the rest was easy. I’ve even figured out a design for an incubator for baby chicks. Works with a light bulb. Now all we need are the chickens!”
Ruby sniffed away the last of her tears. “I’ll take care of that,” she said. “How many do you need to start?”
“Oh no, Ruby,” Papa holding up his hands in protest. “We couldn’t let you do that.”
“Mr. Glennon, I’ve got a little money left over from Clay’s funeral and I’m buying chickens with it,” she said in a voice that would brook no argument, the stream of tears suddenly blocked. “You’ve given me a home here with you, and now you’ve even built a place I can call my own. It’s little enough for me to do by way of thanking you. I’m sure if Clay were here he’d agree with me. Besides, if I really am family, why shouldn’t I help?”
And so it was agreed. Morgan and Ruby would go into town the next day and buy enough baby chicks to start a real flock. Though it would be months before we had hens laying and eggs to sell, when we sat down to our small supper that night it was like old times, with everyone laughing and talking at once. Papa was himself again, presiding over the table with the confidence of a man who is sure of his usefulness in the world. Morgan kept chattering excitedly about pullets and cockerels and even drew out a diagram of his new incubator invention. Mama, Ruby, and I studied it with genuine admiration.
I couldn’t help but think that Slim would be so very proud of his son, a chip off the old block, his mechanical mind already seeing things that other people missed and turning his ambitions into plans. I resolved to start writing him about Morgan, forwarding the letters to his lawyers in the hope that he’d read them. I wouldn’t mention anything about myself, just about our boy. He had a right to know about his own son. His son had a right to be known. The idea warmed me inside.
For myself, I was through with love, through with Slim Lindbergh, but where Morgan was concerned things were different. They were still father and son. Surely there was a happily ever after for Morgan.
Morgan felt my eyes on him, admiring him, and got up from his place at the dinner table to come and kiss me on the cheek. It was a good day. The best we’d had in a long, long time and the best we would have for a long time after. For a moment, we really believed the worst had passed. Is it better sometimes not to know what’s coming?
Chapter 13
I used to believe that if I lived my life a certain way and didn’t make mistakes, I could make things come out the way I wanted. If I planted the right seed, it would grow; if I said the right thing, he would love me; if I ate the right food, I could ward off death. It’s all foolishness, of course, but you’ve got to hang hope on something. The older I get the more I see our struggles for what they are, but still I think our efforts have a certain brave, tender optimism that must touch the heart of God. We mean so well and we try so hard, and in the end, we are at the end.
I never asked to know what was coming. No one had ever read my palm or tried to see my future in the bottom of a teacup, and I wouldn’t have wanted them to. Yet, oftentimes, I knew more about Slim’s life than he did. I could almost smell the trials around the corner, though I was unable to change any of it. What good did it do, for me or for him? I never did understand it. How often I tried to wish away that strange gift, even to the point of closing my eyes and refusing to see. I didn’t seem to have the same sensitivity for anyone but Slim. It might have been of some use for someone else, but my sight failed me when it came to those who were near enough that I might actually have helped them. If I had known what was coming, the day and hour, I would have done something differently. Don’t ask me what, but something.
When Papa came in from work early that day in September, complaining of the heat and coughing more than usual, I didn
’t know it was the last day. He said he wanted to lie down and rest awhile. Mama brought him a glass of cool water and dosed him with two tablespoons of amber-colored whiskey before he fell into a fitful, troubled sleep.
During the night his breathing got raspy and irregular. Mama came into my room to wake me, but I was already sitting up in bed, listening to Papa struggle for air. The rattling sound scared me so much I didn’t even stop to look at Papa before running out the door, my only thought to call for the doctor. I never said good-bye.
The nearest house with a phone was Thompson’s. I drove there as fast as I could and called Dr. Townsend to come right away, but it was too late. Papa died before he arrived.
When I returned Mama was stretched out across the bed, covering Papa’s feet like a blanket, screaming, just screaming, as though someone was tearing away parts of her flesh while she was still alive. That was more shocking than anything. I could never have imagined her losing herself that way. Ruby tried to comfort her, but it didn’t do any good. Morgan stood holding on to the doorjamb of Mama and Papa’s room with both hands, tears running down his face at the sight of the only father he’d ever really known lying so still and white on the bed, a stillness that can’t be mistaken for anything but death. I didn’t know what to do, so I just waited, paralyzed, until the doctor came and brushed past us all, ordering Ruby to take Mama out. Ruby half-walked, half-carried Mama into the next room, but I could still hear Mama’s sobs coming from behind the closed door. Dr. Townsend examined Papa quickly, listening to his chest and lifting up each eyelid perfunctorily before he spoke.
“It’s dust-bowl pneumonia,” he said with finality. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it, Eva. Your father’s swallowed so much dust it gradually clogged up his lungs, probably his stomach, too. One of my own hogs up and died last week. When we butchered it there was over two inches of dirt blocking the stomach.”
I could not put Dr. Townsend’s words into a picture that made sense. I wanted him to keep quiet while I figured things out. Talking about butchered hogs and blocked entrails and my papa all in the same breath. I didn’t understand what he was saying. What did any of that have to do with Papa lying still, looking pale and small in the big bed and Mama in the next room sobbing like she’d lost her mind. When was he going to shut up and do something?
“Eva ... Miz Eva? Did you hear me?” I looked up to see the doctor’s face, tired and patient, peering into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “What did you say?”
“Had he been eating well lately?” he said each word slowly, as though talking to a child.
“No. He said he wasn’t hungry. Said it made his stomach hurt to eat too much. He put most of his food on Morgan’s plate. I thought he was worried about Morgan getting enough to eat.”
“Well, it was likely some of both. Glennon doted on that boy and you.” The doctor patted me on the arm awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Eva. I’m real sorry. He was a good man. Don’t go blaming yourself, now. Even if I’d gotten here earlier, I probably couldn’t have done anything. He was too far gone. You’d best pull yourself together and help your mama. Be better if you left the room while I finish my examination and fill out the death certificate.” I stood still as a statue, trying to believe what the doctor said.
“G’on now, Eva,” he prompted. “Tend to your mama. She needs you.”
“Yes,” I started as though waking from a bad dream, “I have to take care of Mama now.”
As quick as saying the words, I was head of the family. I’d never thought about Papa dying. He was young, years from sixty. If I had thought about a time when he wouldn’t be there, I would have supposed that Mama would rise up, strong and straight-necked, practical as always, and taken over, pushing me and Morgan, getting us through it all somehow. I never realized, until Papa was gone, that any strength Mama had she drew from him. It was like she had said, death changes the balance of things somehow, the weak become strong and the strong become weak. Maybe they were never all that strong to begin with. Whatever the reason, Mama was overcome by grief, and the funeral arrangements were left up to me. It was just as well—having something to do saved me from thinking too much.
Pastor Wilder, who had spent thirty years in the pulpit, had retired only the month before, so I called the new minister, the Reverend Paul Van Dyver, to say the service. I had never even met him until the morning of the funeral. His face was serious and not especially handsome, though it had some interesting angles, as if it were composed entirely of triangles. He was well over six feet tall and very, very thin, reminding me of an illustration of Ichabod Crane I’d seen as a child. He wasn’t quite thirty at the time, but the expression of a much older man was written upon his face. His manner was sincere; even in my grief, I felt there was something about him I liked. Maybe it was the way he looked at me straight on, in a manner that was so frank and plain it might have been mistaken for rudeness if his blue eyes had not been so kind. He spoke with an accent, enunciating each word carefully to make sure he was understood properly.
“I did not know your father, Miss Glennon. Normally, as his pastor, I would want to say a few words about him. However, in this case, I feel it would be improper and, coming from a stranger, insincere. It is clear that your father was very much loved by his family. It would do him more honor and be more meaningful if one of you would speak of him.”
I appreciated him stepping aside. Many a new minister trying to make an impression on the community wouldn’t have wanted to miss the opportunity to give a sermon. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t much of a speaker and was merely afraid he’d embarrass himself. Either way, Pastor Van Dyver was right. It wouldn’t do to have a stranger eulogizing Papa. But who would speak? Mama certainly was in no condition to do so, and I wasn’t sure I could carry it off without dissolving into tears.
“I can do it.” Morgan stepped into the conversation. “I’d like to,” he told the young minister. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Mama.”
“Oh, Morgan. It’s going to be such a hard day for all of us. Are you sure you want to? I could ask Mr. Dwyer. He liked Papa, and he’s a good speaker. “
“He’s too good,” Morgan said seriously. “You’ve heard him give the announcements at church, haven’t you, Mama? Hooks his thumbs in his vest and booms on and on as though he were giving the Gettysburg Address instead of letting people know the time of the deacons’ meeting had been changed.” The minister’s eyes twinkled, and he suppressed a chuckle by suddenly needing to clear his throat.
“I’m sorry, Pastor,” Morgan apologized sheepishly. “Guess I shouldn’t say something like that about one of the deacons. Don’t get me wrong. I like Mr. Dwyer; he’s a nice man and a real good deacon; it’s just that ... Well, I think someone from the family should talk about Grandpa. That’s all.”
Van Dyver nodded to Morgan and assured him he understood entirely, then he turned to me with a trace of a smile still on his lips. “Miss Glennon, I hope you will forgive me for interjecting myself into family business, but I think young Morgan is right. For a boy his age he shows not only intelligence, but remarkable insight.” He smiled at Morgan and then turned to me again. “Though I did not have the privilege of knowing your father personally, I am sure he would be honored to have Morgan say his eulogy.”
I had to agree. Papa would have been proud to have Morgan speak of him and pleased that doing so obviously meant so much to the boy.
“It’s decided then,” the minister said. “I will return at one o’clock tomorrow, an hour before the service.” He said good-bye and shook my hand, locking my eyes again with his compassionate, concerned gaze. “If there is anything I can do to help you, I want you to feel certain you may call on me at any time.”
As many times and as many people as had said those exact words in the previous forty-eight hours, it was the first time I felt that they were spoken with utter sincerity.
Mama cried and cried, but not at the funeral. Just before the
service she pulled me and Morgan aside and said, “If you have any crying to do, do it now. I won’t have us shame your papa by blubbering in front of the neighbors, do you hear?”
For one wonderful moment, I thought the old Mama was back, ordering us around like always, but guarding her grief from outsiders was as far as it went. That was the last reserve of her force. She took my arm as we walked out to the front porch to greet the arriving mourners, leaning on me for balance, suddenly becoming ancient.
The day was hot. The house was filled to bursting with sweating, sober-faced neighbors. Farmers and merchants Papa knew from town twisted their hat brims nervously in their hands and looked pitifully at their shoes as they told me of a hundred little kindnesses Papa had done them, secret loans of money or tools, and well remembered words of encouragement given in moments of despair.
Women who would not have spoken to me on the street before suddenly called me by my first name, all my past sins apparently paid for by my loss, at least for this one day. They wrung my hand and told me how sorry they were and asked me to tell Mama to let them know if there was anything they could do, though she was standing right next to me and they could easily have told her themselves. Somehow they sensed that I was in charge now, the conveyor of condolences and maker of plans.
Mr. Ashton, from the bank, tipped his hat to Mama as he came in and shook my hand more firmly than I expected. He murmured his sympathies and asked in a soft, discreet voice, “Miss Glennon, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the bank tomorrow afternoon? If you’re feeling up to it, that is.” I just had time to answer yes before Morgan came up and whispered in my ear that it was time to start.
Everyone filed into the parlor where Papa was laid out in his best suit in front of rows of straight-backed chairs, some ours, some borrowed from neighbors. If I had not known it really was Papa, had not helped wash him and dress him with my own hands, I would not have recognized him, so small, so shrunken, so still he was. Strangely, that was a comfort to me. It seemed the part of him that I knew, the part that was truly Papa, was simply gone, leaving behind a shell that had nothing to do with him or where he was now. I squeezed Mama’s hand as she sat next to me, a black veil shading eyes that seemed to see but not understand what was happening around her.
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