by Bonnie Leon
“Susie, you stay here. You can help me make supper.” Jean waited for her youngest to climb the steps, then asked, “Luke, you want more to drink?”
“No, thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes on Tom. “Feels strange having someone else do Dad's chores.”
“I know.” Another wind gust swept through the porch, and Jean rubbed her arms, studying the fields. Dust blew up and swirled into a cloud. “Oh, no,” she said, leaning on the railing. She stared as more dirt, along with seed, lifted into the air. “I can't believe it. It's just blowing away—all my work, all that seed.” She wanted to cry. “If it keeps up, I'll have to replant.”
“Maybe it's just a few gusts,” Luke said. “And if it's not, I'll take care of replanting.”
They waited and watched, but the wind continued and carried away precious seeds. Jean sank into her chair. Shaking her head, she finally said, “I'm not sure we can make it. We don't have enough money, and there's too much work for the two of us.”
“I can do it. And I'll get another job.”
Jean looked at her son with a mix of pride and sorrow. “I know you mean well, but you can't do it all. And with the co-op doing such a poor job of selling our produce …”
“I've been thinking on that,” Luke said, a note of excitement in his voice. “I've decided we ought to bypass the co-op and go straight to the buyers. We can do our own selling.”
“But we signed a contract, agreeing to sell only through the co-op. I don't know…”
“The only farmers making it are the ones sidestepping the co-op. Dad and I talked about it.”
“And what did your father want to do?”
Luke didn't answer right away. “He hadn't decided yet. But remember last year. We had a good crop, but most of it didn't sell. Instead, it rotted in the boxes.”
“But last year the homesteaders weren't buying. This year will be different.”
“There aren't enough of them. It won't make that much difference. We've got to sell directly to the towns—Anchorage, Seward, Cordova. I can do it.”
“I don't know, Luke. How will you do all that and work the farm?”
“I won't have to do much traveling 'til the end of summer. Robert did a lot of selling last year. We could go together.”
Jean nodded, considering the possibilities. “If we're caught, we could lose the farm.”
“The government won't do anything. And like I said, I could get a job.”
“How can you hold down a job and take care of everything around here?”
Susie had wandered off the porch and picked a buttercup. She carried it to her mother. “This is a pretty flower,” she said, holding out the blossom.
Jean nodded. “Yes. Pretty.” She looked at Luke. “And have you forgotten the agreement we made? No outside jobs. The government could take back the farm.”
“Agreement!” Luke spat. “I'm sick of hearing about how we need to uphold our end of the bargain while the government does whatever it wants. The government promised us plenty of buyers, lots of work, and a good life. And what did we get? Nothing. What happened to the government's promises to us?”
“The government has helped a lot, Luke.”
He strode across the porch. “They got us here, but they didn't tell us we'd have to make it on almost no money after we moved in. How are we supposed to pay back what we owe when we can't even make enough to live on? The government controls everything. Have you read the papers lately? They're saying this project is a flop, a disaster. And they're comparing it to Russian collectives.” He squared his jaw. “I agree.”
“Those reports are distorted, and you know it,” Jean said as calmly as she could. She walked across the porch and leaned on the railing. Gazing at their fields, she asked, “Have you forgotten how rich the soil is or about the money the government has paid us for clearing our land? And what about the livestock they gave us? And don't forget about our community—a new school, a modern hospital, a fine church. We have so much.”
“That might be true, but the government still controls us. We have no freedom to choose what's best for us.”
“You know how newspaper reporters can be. They love to get things stirred up. You can't let what they say push you into doing something you'll regret. We just need to work hard and trust God. He'll see us through.”
“You just said you don't think we can make it.”
“I know I said that, but… I was wrong. I'm not thinking straight these days. God will see us through this.” Susie leaned against her mother's leg, and Jean rested a hand on her blonde curls. “We can't give up.” Her eyes teared. “I remember how hard it was for your father to leave Wisconsin—how we prayed and prayed, wanting to do the right thing. It wasn't easy. Your father left everything he'd worked for and the life he'd always known just for this chance. We have to keep the farm.”
“That's what I'm trying to do,” Luke said, his voice almost shrill. Without another word, he headed for the barn.
Chapter 11
LAUREL MOVED THE PERCOLATING COFFEE TO THE BACK OF THE STOVE AND slid the cast-iron frying pan over high heat. Dropping a spoonful of bacon grease into the skillet, she watched it liquefy and glide across the pan. The smell of aged bacon assaulted her senses, and her stomach roiled. She'd been queasy all morning, and it wasn't the first time.
Placing a hand on her abdomen, she wondered if she might be pregnant and decided if she were, she didn't mind being sick. She considered what Adam's reaction might be when he found out, and she smiled. He would be thrilled. Adam loved the idea of being a father.
Thoughts of her own father melted away her delight. Why did he have to die? she asked, still unable to comprehend why God hadn't protected him. Ray should have been the one to die. Laurel felt a twinge of guilt. If he had, then Celeste would be the one grieving. Why did anyone have to die? It didn't make sense.
She cracked two eggs and dropped them into the hot oil. Yellow yolks stared up at her, and Laurel's stomach churned. Toast for me, she decided. Sawing off three slices of bread, she placed them on an oven rack.
If I'm pregnant, maybe Adam will be happy again, she thought. Since Will's death, Adam couldn't seem to break away from his grief. He'd been quiet and kept more to himself. “All my life I wanted and needed a father,” he'd said, “and when I finally find him, he's taken away.”
Again Laurel rested her hand on her abdomen. It was all so confusing—one life ending, another beginning.
“Morning,” Adam said, walking into the kitchen. He kissed Laurel. “You look like you're far away. You all right?”
“I was just thinking.”
“About what?”
“Oh, Daddy and how confusing the cycle of life and death is.” She opened the oven and turned the toast. “You look almost happy this morning.”
“I'm better,” he said with a sigh and leaned on the table. “It feels awful to me; I can't imagine how hard it must be for you.”
Laurel offered him a smile. “It's hard—for all of us. Sometimes I still can't believe he's gone. I worry about Mama. She has a haunted look about her.” She turned to Adam. “Don't ever leave me. OK?”
“I'll try to stick around, but I can only do so much.”
Laurel slid the eggs for Adam onto a plate and set them on the warming shelf. “Maybe we'll die together.”
“What about our children?”
Laurel hadn't thought about that. “We don't have any yet.”
“We will one day.”
Laurel forced a smile. “They'll just have to be grown up, that's all. And we'll be very old.” Taking the toast out of the oven, she buttered it and put two slices on Adam's plate. She set the meal on the table in front of him, then taking one piece of toast for herself, she sat across from him.
“Is that all you're eating?”
“I'm not very hungry.” She took a small bite. “You want coffee?”
“Sure.”
She filled a cup, then returned to her place at the table.
&n
bsp; Adam studied her. “This the fourth day in a row you haven't felt well. Are you all right?”
“I'm fine. Probably just a touch of something.”
“Maybe you should see the doctor.”
“If I'm not better in the next couple of days, I'll go.” She'd already planned on seeing the doctor but didn't want to say anything about her suspicions just yet.
“I'd better go on over to your mother's this afternoon and give her a hand,” Adam said, scrubbing his face with his hands, then yawning. “There's more to farming than I realized. The work never ends.”
“It's always been like that and always will be. I've never known anything different.”
“I have. And it's looking awfully good from here.” Adam shook his head slowly. “I can barely keep up with the work here, let alone your mother's. I wish I could do more for her, but there's only so much of me to go around.”
Laurel leaned over the table and laid her hand on Adam's. “I know this is hard on you—just learning how to farm and taking care of two places.” She squeezed his hand. “Maybe you should stay home today. Mama has lots of help. Tom Jenkins, Drew Prosser, and Robert have been giving her a hand. And I can go over today.” She smiled. “That way you can catch up on some of the chores around here.”
“I thought you were going to Jessie's today. At the rate you two are working, you'll never finish.”
“It can wait a little longer. Anyway, I'm not sure I want to finish. I love spending time with Jessie and going over her husband's notes.”
Adam took a bite of toast and chewed thoughtfully. “Well, the weeds are about to take over, so I'll work around here today.” He sipped his coffee. “And maybe I could find a little time to write.”
“What are you writing?”
“I've mostly been thinking, but I'd like to write a piece about your father, what happened between him and Ray Townsend, and how he died. He was an extraordinary man.”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I want to tell about how it's touched people's lives here in the valley. You know, the change in Ray Townsend and how people have started to trust one another and be real neighbors.”
“What about Mr. Townsend? Have you asked him how he feels about it?”
“Yeah. He said he didn't mind. I think it's a good story, one people ought to hear.” He leaned on the table and looked earnestly at Laurel. “I feel like I've got to write it—let people know what kind of man your father was and what kind of God we have.”
“What will you do with it?”
“I figured I'd send it to the editors at the Trib, maybe as a personal interest story. They might be interested.” He speared a bite of egg.
“That's a wonderful idea.”
Adam dipped his toast in egg yolk and took a bite.
Watching Adam eat nauseated Laurel, so she looked away. She set her half-eaten toast on the plate. The sight of food and the smells in the kitchen were becoming too much. She thought she might be sick.
“Are you all right? You don't look good.”
Laurel stood, bracing herself against the table. “I need some air, that's all.” Shakily, she walked to the door.
Adam got to the door before her and opened it. Holding onto her arm, he guided her outside. “I want you to see the doctor today.”
Laurel nodded and sat on the front step. After a few minutes in the fresh air, she felt a little better, the sweet smell of flowers and the clean aroma of summer grass reviving her.
“It's chilly out here.” Adam disappeared inside, returning a moment later with her jacket. He draped it over her shoulders. “You feeling better?” he asked, sitting beside her.
Laurel nodded and rested her head against his upper arm. She smiled up at him. “You're so good to me.”
For several minutes they sat quietly, taking in the Alaskan scenery. Reluctantly Adam said, “Well, I've got work waiting for me. Will you be all right?”
“Uh-huh. I'm fine.”
“You sure?”
“Yes. Go on.”
He stood. “I'm off to work then.” With a sigh, he added, “Another day of farming.” He headed for the barn.
Laurel watched him, her pride swelling. He'd done so well and worked so hard. Having grown up in the city, adjusting to farming life hadn't been easy. In the beginning he plowed crooked rows, and after much practice, had finally settled for rows that were almost straight. Laurel had shown him how to plant seed and starts. He learned quickly, but each vegetable had a different planting schedule and different instructions, so it took him a while to sort them all out.
Working with the animals had proven to be a greater challenge. Harnessing the horses was one of the more intimidating and frustrating chores. They often refused to cooperate. If they were in the pasture, they'd do all they could to avoid capture, and once harnessed, fought the yoke. It sometimes took Adam the better part of the morning to get them in harness. His greatest frustration was knowing that his own ineptness set the horses against him. He'd persevered, however, and finally managed to do a respectable job of harnessing and driving the Belgians.
Adam had so much to learn. He had never milked a cow before marrying Laurel. When he was first learning, more milk ended up on the barn floor than in the pail. Laurel nearly giggled out loud remembering the first time he'd killed a chicken. The headless rooster had taken flight and headed straight at an astounded Adam, splattering him with blood. He'd sworn never to eat chicken again. He did, of course, and actually became competent at killing and butchering the birds.
With a sigh, Laurel got up. Some day he'll be a fine farmer. Sadness touched her. Her father had talked about all he'd wanted to teach Adam and how they would work together.
Adam sat at the kitchen table, typewriter in front of him, while Laurel kneaded bread dough. Occasionally her eyes wandered to her husband. Deep in thought, his fingers eagerly struck the keys. Laurel shaped the dough into two loaves and placed them in bread pans to rise. She started working on sweet dough for cinnamon rolls, Adam's favorite confection. “How would cinnamon rolls be for breakfast tomorrow?” she asked.
Adam didn't look up.
“I'm making cinnamon rolls,” she said.
“Good.” Adam still didn't look up.
Laurel kept working, a smile touching her lips. Adam was so wrapped up in his work that he hadn't heard what she'd said. It was good to see him doing what he loved. His face was flushed, and his eyes were bright. He's happy, she thought, realizing the light had gone out of him even before her father's death. She'd known Adam wasn't a farmer, but she had hoped he'd learn to love it. Now she realized the enormity of the sacrifice he'd made for her. Writing was part of who he was; it had been his life.
Guilt crept over Laurel. Adam had given up writing for her, and she'd encouraged him to do so. She hadn't really considered what God had wanted for him. Maybe they should have moved to Chicago; then Adam could have continued to write for the paper. I want him to be happy, but how can he be without writing? Maybe we ought to move.
What about Mama? She needs me. Laurel knew she couldn't leave yet; it was too soon. And she had the baby to think about. The doctor had said it was due around Christmas. They'd have to stay at least until after it was born.
Laurel studied Adam. He was completely absorbed. She'd planned on telling him about the baby right after supper, but he'd gone straight to work on his story. Once he knew, what would he say about leaving or staying? Maybe she ought to keep it to herself until he could make a decision.
She set the rolls on the warming shelf beside the bread. “Would you like more coffee?”
“No thanks.” Adam pulled a sheet of paper out of the typewriter. “You want to hear what I've written so far?”
Laurel sat at the table. “Absolutely.” While Adam read, she rested her face in her hands and listened. It was a wonderful piece. He started with the bear's perspective, which was thrilling and frightening, then went on to tell how the colonists came to the valley and how hate had
grown between them and the homesteaders. He used the prowling bear as an illustration of the enemy prowling through the valley, seeking to destroy. He talked about Will Hasper and Ray Townsend—how the conflict had grown between them and how the two ended up hunting the bear together. The piece ended with Will's death and how his example of love and sacrifice finally brought peace to Ray Townsend and to the valley.
By the time Adam finished reading, Laurel was crying. “It's beautiful,” she said, moving around the table and sitting in his lap. She hugged him around the neck and wept. “Daddy would have loved it.”
Adam held her closely. “I hope the paper likes it. I want people to read it, not just because I wrote it, but because they need to hear.”
Laurel kissed Adam. “I know the editor will like it, and people will read it.”
Adam mailed the story to the Trib the following morning. The waiting began. He went about his work, but the question of the story's fate stayed with him. He liked what he'd written, and now that his appetite had been whetted, he wanted to do more. Running the farm was important and even fulfilling in many ways, but it didn't satisfy his need and drive to write. He'd already decided that if the paper liked the story he'd propose a series of stories. He might even write a book.
Two weeks later a special delivery letter arrived. Laurel ran to the cabbage field, waving it in the air. “Adam, this came for you. It's from the Tribune.”
Adam brought his hoe down, burying it in the dirt. Then he looked at Laurel and the letter in her hand. “From the Trib?”
“Yep. I thought you'd want to read it right away.” She handed him the letter.
He pulled off his gloves, shoved them into a back pocket, and tucked his hoe under one arm. “I hope it's good news,” he said, ripping open the envelope and removing a letter. Silently he read.
“Well, what does it say?”
Adam kept reading, a smile emerging. Finally, with a dumbfounded expression, he said, “They loved it! It's going to run in this coming Sunday's edition.”
