Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  “Do you mean Minerva Swain or Thomas Coblentz?”

  Polly flushed.

  “Polly!” Her mother’s voice divided the moment.

  “Aha,” Lillian said. “You do know him.”

  “Coming.” Pushing past Lillian, Polly answered her mother.

  “I believe you will know far more about this young man’s visit than I do,” Gloria said. “Something about a government research project?”

  The young man’s brown eyes pleaded with Polly to acknowledge that she knew why he was there.

  “I confess I do,” Polly said. It was Mr. Edison after all.

  “I’m sorry,” Mr. Edison said, turning to Polly. “Are you Mrs. Marlin Grabill?”

  Gloria chuckled. “We’ve already established I am Mrs. Grabill. This is my daughter Polly.”

  “I’m sorry, Mamm,” Polly said. “I didn’t expect it would come to this.”

  Her mother waited.

  “There were some simple forms to fill out,” Polly explained. “Nothing the least bit difficult, just information about who lives on the farm—like a census—and what our basic expenses are. They arrived in the mail and a woman came to collect them. That’s all. I didn’t see the harm.”

  “That’s correct,” Mr. Edison said. “And as I said in my letter, your household has been selected to continue into the next phase of the research. My predecessor suggested this would be the best farm to begin my work.”

  Polly’s chest warmed. “I saw the letter only yesterday. There hasn’t been time to discuss it.”

  Gloria would not want to have to confess it to the bishop, but watching Polly squirm when she got herself into these predicaments provided some amusement. Ever since Polly was old enough to walk out of a room unattended, she had managed to walk into mazes of her own making without leaving herself a direct path out. Gloria had given up years ago on trying to get Polly to think three steps ahead of herself. Perhaps if she had played more checkers with her brothers when she was little she would have learned that her choices would catch up with her. Gloria constrained her smile to her eyes and away from her lips.

  “My understanding,” Mr. Edison said, “was that I would be communicating with the wife of the household. The female head of household.”

  “I’m sure we will sort this out,” Polly said. “How much trouble can it be to answer a few more questions?”

  Gloria studied Mr. Edison’s face, once again persuaded that his physique was not simply a matter of wiry genes. He wouldn’t be the first hungry man to pass through the farms of Lancaster County, but generally they showed up at her back door offering to work for a meal rather than knocking at the front claiming previous correspondence.

  She glanced away from the halting conversation between Polly and Mr. Edison and saw her youngest daughter peeking around the door from the kitchen. Gloria raised one finger to her lips and began to move toward Betsy.

  “Daed wants to know if everything is all right,” Betsy whispered. “You and Polly and Lillian all left the table and no one came back.”

  Gloria saw Lillian now, holding vigil at the window and peering through.

  “Everything is fine,” Gloria said. “Our visitor sent us a letter, and Polly read it, so she’s talking to him.”

  “What does he want?” Betsy asked.

  Gloria looked back at Mr. Edison. “I think he would very much like some dinner.”

  Across the room, Lillian gasped. Gloria made no attempt to hide the diversion Lillian’s reaction supplied. All the more reason to feed the man.

  “Mr. Edison.” Gloria spoke more loudly. “I would be pleased to have you join our dinner.”

  Betsy tugged her mother’s arm and whispered, “Where will he sit?”

  “Betsy, please set another place,” Gloria said.

  “Where?” the girl said.

  “I don’t want to be any trouble,” Mr. Edison said.

  “No trouble,” Gloria said. “We can all scooch down a few inches.”

  Obediently Betsy turned to complete her task.

  Lillian’s jaw dropped open.

  “Come, Polly,” Gloria said. “Show Mr. Edison through.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Minerva had no choice but to shift to the left.

  “Betsy?” Marlin raised an eyebrow.

  “My apologies, Mrs. Swain,” Betsy said, setting a plate on the table beside Minerva’s. “Mamm said to set another plate. I thought there might be room here.”

  “Of course there is,” Ernie said from across the table. “You can make room, can’t you, Min?”

  Min. When would Ernie get it through his head that she had outgrown that nickname twenty years ago? Minerva lifted her plate and set it down eight inches to the left. It would have made more sense to try to squeeze in another diner at the end of the table where some of the Grabills were sitting on backless benches, but on her right, one of the middle Grabill girls—Minerva couldn’t tell them apart—moved in with a mismatched narrow chair from the corner. All the chairs were mismatched, though, no more than four alike in any one design.

  Gloria returned to the kitchen with Lillian, Polly, and a stranger behind her.

  “This is Mr. Edison,” Gloria said. “I’ve invited him to share our meal.”

  “Welcome!” Marlin nodded his head at the stranger.

  Polly went straight to the stove to scrape the last of the stew into a bowl, which she set before the chair Betsy had just placed.

  “I don’t mean to interrupt,” Mr. Edison said.

  Why in the world would Gloria invite this man to eat? Minerva leaned away from him as he sat down.

  Ernie passed a bread basket. Mr. Edison seemed too eager to receive it.

  “What brings you to the Grabills’?” Ernie asked.

  The young man straightened, as if he were still in school and knew he ought to know the answer to this question. He needed to study more conscientiously before he was ready to recite in class. Minerva listened to his stilted explanation.

  “Didn’t you answer some questions like that, Min?” Ernie asked.

  “I believe I did.” If Minerva had known Gloria was filling out the government forms, Minerva would have said she was too busy to do it.

  Ernie nudged a butter dish across the table. “So will you be following up on our farm, too, Mr. Edison?”

  “A list of names has been assigned to me,” Mr. Edison said. “I would have to check the other names. And please call me Henry.”

  “Ernie Swain.”

  If Ernie reached across the table to shake this man’s hand, Minerva would kick his shin.

  “Let the man eat, Ernie,” she said.

  Henry Edison had wasted no time shoving a biscuit into his mouth and stirred his stew, though it could hardly be hot after all this time. He did not look prepared for his task. He should have eaten before he called on any of the families on his list.

  “Henry looks about the age of your boys,” Gloria said. “How are your sons? Have you any word?”

  Steeled, Minerva pulled her lips into a tight smile. “Of course.

  I’m happy to say they are both fine. Thank you for asking.”

  Ernie’s gaze drifted over Minerva’s shoulder and lost focus.

  Never in her life had Gloria been sorry to see Minerva squirm. It was not the same kind of amusement as when Polly found herself in a quagmire of her own making. Polly would always find her way out, and her intentions were for the best. But Gloria had enough experience with Minerva’s intentions to last a lifetime. Already they had endured a lifetime—forty years. The last time Gloria trusted Minerva Swain was when they were eight years old. She was Minnie Handelman in those days, but even then she was snooty. Gloria once had forgotten to bring her lunch bucket to school, and Minnie offered to share her lunch. But the waxed paper packet she handed Gloria contained wet, mud-pressed leaves. Every English girl in the schoolyard laughed, and some of the Amish as well.

  Henry ate quickly—ravenously—confirming Gloria’s susp
icions about his rail-thin appearance. On the farm, as long as she kept her chickens in good health and planted enough vegetables, her children would not know hunger. The girls might have to share their dresses and wait longer for new cloth than they had five years ago, but her children were well fed and well loved. For this she gave thanks every day.

  Henry Edison’s story was a different one. Gloria followed his gaze to the empty bread basket in front of him.

  “Alice,” she said, “why don’t you get some more biscuits for Mr. Edison from the counter?”

  Alice complied.

  “Mr. Edison,” Gloria said, “we’re not a fancy family, but if you’d like to stay with us, we would be happy to have you.”

  The gasp that came out of Minerva’s mouth was worth the invitation even if the unexpected guest declined the offer.

  “I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you,” Mr. Edison said.

  Beside Mr. Edison, Minerva moved her spoon around in her stew. Unless she had eaten in an unladylike manner and refilled her bowl while Gloria was out of the room, she hadn’t consumed more than three bites.

  “Has the government made other arrangements for you?” Gloria asked.

  “They have provided me with some information of where I might make inquiries.”

  “Then it’s settled,” Gloria said. “You can stay here.”

  The relief that washed over his face was more persuasive than any words he might speak.

  “It will have to be in the barn though.” Gloria gestured around the table “As you can imagine, we are full to the rafters in the house.”

  Minerva coughed in that way she always had when she intended to be polite about being impolite. Gloria dug her toes into the floor.

  “I’m sure a government employee would be more comfortable somewhere else,” Minerva said.

  “Nonsense,” Gloria replied.

  “The barn?” Minerva said.

  “Min,” Ernie rumbled.

  The warning in his voice goaded Gloria on.

  “It’s a very nice barn,” Gloria said. “You’ll remember that we had a barn raising here just four years ago. The weather is still mild. Polly can get him settled with everything he needs.”

  Minerva released her spoon to settle into her uneaten dinner. If Mr. Edison turned out to be any extra work, it would be worth it for the expression on Minerva’s face just then. Minnie Handelman would have no influence over anything that happened at the Grabill house.

  “Well, then,” Gloria said. “We have four pies to enjoy.”

  Henry’s appetite had not been so indulged in weeks, not since the last time Coralie invited him to dine at her family’s home over her mother’s objections. Something told Henry that Coralie’s mother would get on well with Minerva Swain despite the economic differences. If Mrs. Swain lived on a nearby farm, her home was not likely to resemble Mrs. Kimball’s, but they would find at least fleeting kinship on other levels.

  He was not lost now, and—for the moment—not hungry. His thoughts turned to the barn. Would he be bedded down next to a cow? No one he knew in Philadelphia kept cows anymore. The Kimballs bought their meat from a butcher, and even at the far more modest house where Henry grew up, a dairy delivered bottles of milk every morning. He might have agreed too quickly to the invitation to stay with the Grabills.

  He did have a list of boardinghouses, though he suspected they were not near the farms he had been assigned. It wouldn’t have mattered. If he was careful with every penny in his pocket, he might have just enough to put gasoline in his car and drive to his interviews. Until he received his first paycheck from the Works Progress Administration, Henry was prepared to find an out-of-sight place to park his car and sleep there. A barn could be no worse.

  “Mr. Edison.”

  Henry’s name seeped into his mental wanderings. He focused on Polly’s face.

  “Mr. Edison, I was asking if you would like apple or boysenberry.”

  Pie. Henry’s taste buds salivated.

  “Apple,” he said. “I mean, boysenberry.”

  Polly laughed. “Maybe a sliver of each?”

  Henry nodded, grateful he was not at a drugstore lunch counter paying half price for yesterday’s stale baked goods.

  Polly and two of her sisters were slicing pie and handing plates around the table.

  Mrs. Swain cleared her throat. “What does one call a person in your position?”

  Henry slowly turned his face to meet hers. His position? Penniless, alone, without a home—that position? At last, her inquiry made sense.

  “Agents,” Henry said. “They call us agents.”

  “Agent Edison,” Mrs. Swain said, “I trust you will represent your government well.”

  “I will do my best,” Henry said. He would do this job well so that he could step up. Though he might never make much money, a career in government work would impress even Coralie—though perhaps not her mother.

  Polly handed him a plate with both apple and boysenberry pie. Henry caught her eye and nodded his thanks. His gaze went to the sisters on either side of her, also slicing pie, and then around the table. For the first time he counted. When he arrived, the introductions had been quick, but if he remembered right, six of the eight young women at the table were Gloria’s daughters and two were her sons’ wives. None of them looked older than he was. Their dresses lacked the individuality he was used to seeing. Henry didn’t have any sisters, but the girls he knew fussed over individual prints or fabrics or belts. The Grabill girls’ dresses had to have been cut from the same pattern, and while the colors were rich in hue, the nine Amish dresses at the table were either black, dark green, or purple. Were all the Amish families he was soon to meet this large?

  Henry watched Polly. He was here because of her. She was the one who bothered with the first round of forms and made sure they were properly submitted and the one who made such an impression on the agent he replaced.

  Polly cut pie and passed plates. When she released one plate and followed its progress, Henry followed her gaze. Her eyes settled on the young man who was not her brother.

  Leaving her sisters to clean up after the meal, Polly walked with Agent Edison down the front porch steps and toward his car. They did not have to go far. The vehicle was parked indelicately close to the house. Local visitors tended to respect Amish ways and leave their automobiles farther up the lane, as Ernie always did. But Agent Edison wasn’t to know that.

  Polly had ridden in automobiles a few times. While she didn’t know much about them, she could see this one was far from new. Scratches on the door, mismatched mirrors and headlights, a missing passenger sideboard, and a rip on the roof revealed the truth that the car had seen better days. But even though it was red, it looked as if it had once been a sensible car. One of Mr. Ford’s. On another day, Polly would explain where he should park.

  “I don’t have much,” the agent said, “just the one grip and a typewriter.”

  He had to yank three times to get the stubborn, creaking door open. The bag he extracted might have been new when he was a boy and journeyed often since then or it might have come from a secondhand store, its history gone from anyone’s memory. Brown with black leather straps, its latch looked as if it might give way as easily as the handle on his briefcase had failed him. He grasped the grip in one hand, with his satchel squeezed under his upper arm, and the boxy typewriter case in the other.

  They walked toward the barn. Had he ever been in a barn? Despite his threadbare appearance, Agent Edison struck Polly as a city boy. At least he had no difficulty deciphering which structure was the barn.

  Polly slid the door open. “The animals are all outside right now.”

  The agent slowed his steps. “It’s much bigger than I imagined.”

  “Perhaps bigger than we need,” Polly said, “especially since Mamm keeps the chickens in their own sheds and the horses are in a separate stable. But Daed figured that as long as we were building a new one we may as well have room to grow.”r />
  Agent Edison tilted his head back and looked up.

  “Don’t worry,” Polly said. “I won’t put you in the loft. We have a corner where people sometimes stay. They say it’s comfortable.”

  “I’m sure anything will be fine,” he said. “I’m grateful for your mother’s generosity.”

  Polly led him past a row of stalls. “The milk cows go here, and the others on the other side.”

  “Others?”

  “We raise steer for meat and some to sell.”

  “Oh. Of course.”

  “You’ll get used to it,” Polly said. If he didn’t, he would have a difficult time doing his job as she understood it. All of the families on his list were farmers. That was the defined scope of the study. At the far end of the barn, she led him to a corner. “Here we are.”

  The space was wider than a stall with taller walls but the same half door in the front wall that suited the bovine occupants. Beside the door a bowl and pitcher stood on a washstand with metal legs. A small bookcase butted up against the small desk that had been discarded from the house two years ago. No one had used it since, but now it occurred to Polly that its presence would be useful to Agent Edison. He would need a chair though. More hooks than he would require for the clothes in one grip protruded from the wall.

  “The back door to the barn is right here,” she said, “so you won’t have to walk past the cows if you don’t want to. There’s even a window if it gets stuffy. And I’ll make sure the lantern works properly.”

  “Thank you.”

  His cautious tone suggested that Polly also would have to make sure that he knew how to operate the lantern. If he looked for an electrical light switch, he would not find one.

  She grabbed a broom leaning against a wall and began sweeping. “There’s no point in trying to keep the straw out of this area when no one is staying. It has a way of turning up everywhere.”

  “I can see that.” Agent Edison lifted his eyes again to the loft.

  Polly gave a half smile. “Most of what’s baled up there is hay, not straw.”