The house itself, with the wraparound porch that made Minerva’s look shabby, sprawled endlessly, but it would have to with all those children. Two married sons had homes in far corners of the farm, but they farmed the land with Marlin and took their midday meals at the big house.
Two sons who stayed home to farm with their father.
Minerva eyed her husband in her peripheral vision. Nothing would make his heart happier than if his sons were home to take their midday meals with children of their own on their knees.
Ernie stopped the truck and turned off the engine.
“Do we really have to walk the rest of the way?” Minerva made no effort to disguise her irritation.
“Automobiles are not part of their way of life,” Ernie said. “It’s simple enough to respect that when we come to dinner.”
Ernie had left her no room to get out on the passenger side. He got out and held the driver’s door open. Minerva slid past the steering wheel and straightened her hat.
Gloria stirred the stew. She had baked an extra dozen biscuits to make sure no one’s stomach would detect the slightly smaller stew portions. Now she debated adding some water and tomatoes to stretch the stew. It was too late to think extra potatoes would cook through. She and Marlin and the maedel were eight. The boys and their wives raised the number to twelve, and Cousin Lillian brought it to thirteen. The two kinner, the most delightful grandchildren a woman could hope for, were young enough to eat off their mothers’ plates. Ernie and Minerva made fifteen, and if Rose was with them, sixteen.
Gloria liked Rose, who had inherited her father’s inquisitive disposition. It was the girl’s mother who made Gloria whisper prayers for a more Christian attitude.
Betsy lifted plates and bowls out of the cupboard and arranged them around the table that ran the length of the kitchen. Years ago Marlin had enclosed the original back porch, making the space part of the kitchen to accommodate their growing family, and built on another porch to hold the butter churns, cabinets of canning supplies, a table where the girls sometimes played checkers, and a swing. The side porch, connecting front and back, had come later. At this time of year, baskets of fresh vegetables awaited attention. The sunny weeks of summer kept the garden yielding faster than Gloria could find time to do the canning.
Gloria caught herself just before calling her youngest daughter by her oldest daughter’s name. Only yesterday it was Polly’s chore to set the table when she was barely old enough to reach it. Gloria had to get the dishes off the shelves, but it was Polly’s task to distribute them around the table. Would Gloria turn around again and find all her daughters off and married and working on their own farms?
Marlin’s slightly uneven gait stomping up the back porch steps announced his imminent arrival.
“I made sure the boys know to come in soon,” he said.
Marlin brushed his beard across the back of her neck as he passed. He did that whether the room was crowded and he had need to pass so closely or the two of them were the only ones in the house. His beard was just scratchy enough to make her bristle involuntarily, but she would miss the gesture if he ever stopped.
They had six daughters ranging in age from twenty down to ten. The next decade was sure to bring wedding after wedding. Every one of the Grabill girls deserved a man as devoted as Marlin.
Marlin moved through the room. As his footfalls faded, a familiar shuffle alerted Gloria. Lillian.
“Did you say something, Mamm?” Betsy said.
Gloria put three fingers to her mouth, surprised to learn she had spoken. The thought was not one meant for Betsy’s ears. “Nothing important. You did a nice job with the table. Danki.”
“You’re welcome. I’ll go make sure Nancy isn’t lost in a book again.”
The shuffle drew closer. Gloria counted down—in her head this time. Four. Three. Two. One.
Cousin Lillian stood in the doorframe, sniffing. “How did you season the stew?”
“The way I always do.” Gloria turned away from the stove to heap biscuits on platters. Regret seeped in as she saw Lillian remove the lid on the enormous pot and lower a spoon in for a taste. Refusing to sigh, Gloria continued with her task. If she had stood guard at the stove, Lillian would have pinched a biscuit and pronounced a fault with that portion of the meal. It may as well be the stew she judged.
“The bay leaf must not have been mature enough,” Lillian said.
“Next time.” Gloria had discovered months ago that this simple response, implying she would mend her ways, seemed to satisfy Lillian enough for the conversation to move on.
Lillian was her mother’s cousin but only seven years older than Gloria. One year and seven months of marriage, before a farm accident made her a widow, apparently qualified her as an expert on meal portions, straw requirements in the barn stalls, planting depth and spacing for any seed, chicken health, and child discipline.
And any other subject that arose at the family table or in a private conversation Lillian happened to overhear.
Surely Lillian could have married again. She hadn’t been much older than Polly was now when her husband died. Instead, steady chatter about the virtues of her deceased spouse chased off further prospects. It seemed intentional to Gloria. Lillian was content to move from one relative’s house to another every few years. Pennsylvania, Missouri, Maryland, Ohio, back to Pennsylvania. The last move brought her to Gloria.
With no departure date.
“A wholesome tongue is a tree of life.” Gloria mentally repeated the words from Proverbs three times before meeting Lillian’s eyes.
“I wonder if you would look outside and make sure everyone is washing up,” Gloria said.
“Do you really think they need reminding?” Lillian twisted her lips in doubt.
“We’re having guests,” Gloria said. “Just to be sure no one lost track of time.”
“I suppose.”
“I could have done that,” Betsy said after Lillian left the kitchen. “Remind everybody, that is.”
“Thank you, Betsy.” Quite possibly the youngest of the eight Grabill children was the sweetest.
Battling the hens left Polly disheveled, and she walked toward the water pump brushing straw from her dress. Her sisters had just rinsed off, so the pump was primed and Polly had only to lift and lower the handle once to create a stream into the bucket below. Splashing her hands in the cool well water brought instant refreshment, and Polly raised the bucket to tip it over her bare feet.
Her grip slipped before she moved her skirts, and the bucket’s contents spilled down the front of her clothing, soaking through the layers and dampening her knees. She’d missed her dusty feet altogether.
“Are you all right, Polly?”
At the commotion—and Polly’s yelp—Lena had turned from the path to the back door.
“Just wet.” Polly fisted cloth in one hand to wring it. The day was hot enough that the moisture revived her. It would dry soon enough.
“Oh look,” Lena said. “Yost has Thomas with him.”
Polly’s head snapped up. Thomas was here, just when she was dirty and wet.
There he was. Thomas Coblentz, dark blond hair lapping his neck and blue eyes glinting while he elbowed his childhood friend, Yost, the eldest of the Grabill offspring.
Yost laughed. “Seems that you had quite a mishap, Polly.”
“It’s only water,” she said, ambivalent about looking Thomas in the eye under the circumstances. “The bucket wasn’t even full.”
Her eyes finally settled on Thomas. It was only water. But Thomas held back a smile, and Polly was unsure how to interpret his expression. In an instant her ability to excuse her own clumsiness as inconsequential dissipated, and in its place embarrassment draped her mood. Polly turned her head to discover Lena had withdrawn into the house.
Lena would have known what to say to silence Yost’s amusement. Polly could think of nothing but how much she wished Thomas had not arrived at that moment to find her in that state.
“Thomas is staying for dinner,” Yost said.
“Oh?” Polly glanced at Thomas.
Thomas nodded. “If your mamm will have me.”
“Of course she will,” Yost said. “I’ll just go tell her you’re here.”
Yost bounced into the house.
Despite her best intentions, the smile Polly produced for Thomas was awkward.
“What brings you our way?” she asked.
“Yost asked if I might help in your family’s fields.” Thomas hooked one thumb through a suspender strap.
“What about your family’s fields?”
He shrugged. “Our farm is much smaller, and I have all those brothers sharing ownership, and they all have wives. They’ll hardly notice I’m gone.”
“The ratio of workers to your acreage is certainly favorable. I would think with your workforce the harvest would go well.” Polly caught herself. Thomas wouldn’t be interested in hearing her algebraic calculations. “What I mean is … I’m sure they’ll miss you anyway. You’re a wonderful farmer.”
Thomas took a step back.
CHAPTER 3
Polly cringed. What had she said to make Thomas step away?
“Is everything all right?” she asked.
Thomas nodded but looked over her shoulder toward the Grabill back door.
Polly took a step back now as well. The dampness down the front of her dress hung like a hideous target. A hairpin crept out of place, and her clumsy reflex was to reach up and shove it back in, but she misjudged the gesture and the pin fell to the dirt.
Thomas’s lips were pressed together. Polly had never had difficulty talking to him before. He was Yost’s best friend and had been a familiar figure among the Grabills since they were children. Thomas had been taking Polly home from Singings for close to a year, never offering a ride to another young woman. They chatted freely, and his kisses—rare but sweet—assured her Thomas was not merely making conversation with his friend’s sister.
She couldn’t have been wrong all this time.
Talking about numbers and ratios or anything mathematical was foolish. Sounding impersonal wouldn’t help matters.
All the young women liked Thomas. At least three failed to hide their envious expressions when he began taking Polly home so predictably.
“Well,” she said, “it’s wonderful of you to come and help. Yost loves having you around. He always has.”
We all have.
I have.
The back door banged open and Yost bounded across the porch and down the steps toward Polly and Thomas.
“Mamm says of course Thomas should stay. She made enough biscuits for a church feast.”
Polly doubted that. If Mamm was making extra biscuits, it was because she felt dubious about the quantity of the main dish. There probably would be more apples on the table than usual as well. Yost was a hard worker with an inviting, congenial personality. Everybody enjoyed Yost. But if his father and brother were not around to do the math, he would never know how much seed to plant in an acre. How far the food must stretch in a household the size of the Grabills’ was the least of his concerns.
“More guests,” Yost said, looking past Thomas and Polly.
Polly turned. Minerva and Ernie Swain had made their way down the lane while she was absorbed in whether she had offended Thomas. The lane sloped down toward the house. In her bare feet Polly never minded the slightly uneven terrain, but Minerva wore colorful English shoes that matched her dress and had a spindly two-inch heel. And her hat. Minerva was never without a hat atop the blond hair Polly suspected was not its true color. At least Polly had never seen her without one. Today’s had a wide brim and a band of red ribbon, a long tail, and some of the silly artificial fruit the English were so fond of. Fruit was for eating, not wearing.
When out of habit Polly brushed her hand down the front of her dress, now wrinkled from her wringing efforts, chagrin trickled down her spine. She shrugged it off.
Daed had been to the Swain farm just that morning. The only reason they would turn up now was for a meal. No wonder Mamm made so many biscuits.
“Welcome,” she said.
Ernie grinned. Minerva pursed her lips. Polly led them into the house.
The scratchy swish of Minerva’s skirt was the first indication of her presence to reach Gloria’s ears. It was not the sound of simple cotton, of that she was sure. What did the English call it? The word came to her. Crinoline. Gloria had never seen the inside of an English woman’s closet, but she suspected that Minerva crammed more garments into hers than most women.
Polly’s voice was an indistinct murmur, but in reply Ernie laughed.
Polly came in from the front room. “Unless you’re expecting another guest, everyone’s here.”
Until an hour ago, Gloria had not been expecting any of the guests who would take their seats at her table. Betsy had just finished rearranging the table to squeeze in Thomas.
“Is Rose here?” Betsy looked up with expectation.
Polly shook her head. “Just her parents.”
Betsy’s shoulders sagged. “I guess I can take out that extra plate I just set.”
Sharing her youngest daughter’s disappointment, Gloria nodded, and Betsy once again redistributed dishes and chairs. All the Grabill children had attended school alongside English students. Gloria rarely was alarmed if one of the girls came home talking about a friend who did not belong to the Amish congregation. She admitted to misgivings when Polly and Lena, as little girls, had come home talking about Rosie Swain. Of all the English girls they might befriend, they had chosen Minerva Swain’s daughter. But when Gloria met Rose, she couldn’t bring herself to disapprove of the friendship.
“Have you left the Swains alone in the front room?” Gloria asked.
“Lillian is there,” Polly said.
Gloria grimaced. Leaving guests alone with Lillian could be multiple times worse than leaving them on their own. She caught Polly’s eyes.
“I’ll go back,” Polly said.
“Find your father,” Gloria suggested. It was Marlin who invited the Swains. If he would come downstairs to greet them, his conversation with Ernie would ease the atmosphere.
Polly went up the back stairs.
“Are we sure this is how many plates we need?” Betsy asked.
Sixteen seemed plenty to Gloria. The table would accommodate eighteen if they exchanged a few of the chairs for smaller stools and made good use of the benches at the ends. But even at sixteen, Minerva was not going to like how crowded the table seemed.
“Let’s give Mr. and Mrs. Swain a little extra room,” Gloria said. Bea and Rebecca would hold their babies on their laps. There was space. She moved to the far end of the table to help Betsy with the chairs.
The scrape of wooden legs along the linoleum hid the sound of the rising boil on the stove. She heard it too late.
“Oh no.” Gloria shoved a chair under the table.
The door swung open and Lena entered from the front room. “Are we—”
“The stew!” Gloria said.
Lena raced to the stove and lifted the pot just as the first splash of stew sloshed over the brim.
And right behind Lena was Lillian, leading the Swains into the kitchen.
Minerva dragged a smile across her face when she caught Gloria’s eye.
“Good afternoon,” Gloria said. “Welcome.”
“It smells delicious,” Ernie said.
“I thought you would be ready by now,” Lillian said.
“Not quite,” Gloria said. “We’re still waiting for Bea and Rebecca to come with the little ones.”
“How are your grandchildren?” Minerva asked. It seemed like a safe inquiry—polite, if nothing else.
“They are well,” Gloria said. “Since all have not yet arrived, I am sure you would all be more comfortable waiting in the front room.”
Minerva examined Gloria’s words. She had done her best to be cordial, yet Gloria couldn’t wai
t to get rid of her. She might at least have waited until after the meal to shoo off her guests.
“Perhaps you’re right,” Lillian said. She touched Minerva’s elbow. “We may as well sit somewhere comfortable.”
“I’m going to go find Marlin,” Ernie announced.
“Polly just went up to look for him,” Gloria said.
“Could he have gone outside?”
“I suppose so.”
“Then I’ll look.”
Frigid indignation stiffened Minerva. It was bad enough that Ernie had dragged her to the Grabills’. Abandoning her was beyond excuse. Nevertheless, Ernie went out the back door.
Standing in the kitchen watching Gloria arrange the meal seemed the greater of two evils, so Minerva followed Lillian back to the front room. She had met Lillian many times because Ernie and Marlin insisted on these silly impromptu expressions of hospitality. Minerva could only imagine that Gloria hated them as much as she did. Lillian’s presence the last several years had done nothing to make them more pleasant.
Minerva groped for anything to say. Lillian did not even have a husband or children, much less her own farm and house to run. What in the world would they talk about? Minerva selected a wooden rocker and sat down. Staying off the davenport would keep Lillian from sitting directly next to her.
“I suppose,” Lillian said, “that your farm is having trouble because of the economy.”
“We’re managing quite well, thank you.” Minerva sat rigidly, away from the back of the chair.
“Are you making a good profit, then?” Lillian asked.
Minerva glared. Lillian was even ruder than she remembered.
“Of course, I do not read English newspapers,” Lillian said, “but it does seem like the remarks I hear around town suggest that all the English farms are having difficulty. How you manage to hang on with your newfangled farming methods is unimaginable.”
Hope in the Land Page 2
