“I’m sorry,” Polly said.
“No need to apologize for your pain.”
“I’m sure Mamm would be happy to have you come to a simple supper instead,” Polly said.
“I’ll see.”
Polly looked away from his noncommittal response. He could go to the Singing even if she did not. He loved the music, and tonight’s event would be held in his own family’s barn. He should be there.
It was the thought that another girl would seize the opportunity to catch his eye and wordlessly suggest Thomas should drive her home that made Polly shift her weight.
“I suppose you’ll want to be up early to work the harvest,” Polly said.
“You know what a farm is like,” he said. “There’s always something to do.”
“Is your harvest going well?”
He hesitated. “Zephram always has a plan. I just …”
“You just what?”
“Nothing. The work gets done. That’s the important thing.”
Something caught Polly’s gaze, and she leaned forward. “What was that?”
“I didn’t see anything,” Thomas said.
“On the other side of the volleyball pit,” she said, “behind the lilac bushes.”
Thomas stared. “I still don’t see anything.”
“I think you should go look.”
“What will I be looking for?”
“I saw … I don’t know … something, or someone.”
Thomas swept his hand around the property. “There are more than a hundred people here.”
“Not one of our people,” Polly said. The snatch of color she had glimpsed was not an Amish hue, but neither was it the shade of an animal. “Please. Humor me and go look.”
Thomas shrugged and stood up. His long legs took him quickly through the volleyball area, past the bushes, and into the orchard beyond. For a few seconds he was out of Polly’s sight, emerging a few yards to the left.
“It was probably just someone looking for apples,” Thomas said, sitting beside her on the ground once again.
“Who?”
“Our orchard is close to the road,” Thomas pointed out. “Vagrants. Townspeople. My daed doesn’t try too hard to keep people away. Times are hard for many people right now. If a few apples keep them from being hungry, he is glad to give them.”
“He’s a generous man.” And Thomas was like his father. Polly had seen that truth years ago. “My daed promised Betsy we would make ice cream tomorrow after supper. Why don’t you come?”
Thomas chuckled. “Somehow I always end up with Yost’s turn to crank.”
This was a game they had played since they were boys. Yost pretended he had to convince Thomas to crank the ice cream, and Thomas pretended he didn’t want to.
“If you crank, I’ll keep you company,” Polly said. After yesterday’s disaster with the bowl of eggs, her mother was sure to ban her from the kitchen anyway.
“I do like ice cream,” Thomas said.
“Then I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Yost loped by and slapped the back of Thomas’s head. “Back to the game.”
Thomas was on his feet in an instant. Teams began forming on both sides of the net. At the sight of Betsy coming down the hill, Polly reached for her crutches. It was time to go home.
Even if Ernie Swain was willing to work on Henry’s car, was it realistic to think he would have time?
This question lodged itself in Henry’s brain, challenging his grasp on hope.
And what if Ernie diagnosed the problem but needed a new part in order to fix it? Henry had no money. Even when he received his first pay, it wouldn’t stretch far. He owed money in Philadelphia, and Coralie wouldn’t understand if he said he couldn’t afford to visit her when she was only sixty-five miles away.
Sixty-five miles. It may as well be a thousand.
The evening light was fading, but Henry wasn’t ready to surrender the day. Learning to light the lantern reliably had required three lessons from Polly, but Henry finally captured the sequence of movements and the swiftness with which they must be accomplished. He took a match from the box on the desk and lit the light.
Tomorrow he would begin his interviews with Minerva Swain, and the day after that with Mrs. Rupp. The more he observed around the Grabill farm and compared what he learned with the kinds of questions on his forms, the more he realized the possibility for misinterpretation on both ends. There could be no question of misinterpretation of the data he gathered. Henry opened a notebook and began to jot down the ways he would clarify his questions if necessary.
How would food be measured?
How would the value of clothing be established?
What might be the hidden costs of keeping animals healthy?
Did everyone receive the same value in trade when they bartered goods?
What factors might influence the value of livestock?
The research instruments asked specific questions, but Henry would not be caught asking a question he himself did not understand. The Grabills had been warmly welcoming, but others might be less patient. And Gloria had passed the task of answering his questions to her eldest daughter, but not every female head of household would be able to do so—at least not with the same assurance of accuracy.
Henry opened the handbook to study once again the techniques for coaxing unbiased answers out of busy farmwives.
Henry had always wished he were taller than he was, but even his smaller stature took his eyes above the lantern on the desk. Every evening he moved it from one corner to another in search of the arrangement that would allow him to see without making him look through glare into shadow. He pulled the lamp closer and then pushed it farther away before trying to adjust the brightness with the knob on its base to more steadily illumine the pages he was reading.
What he needed was a taller lamp, or one that was hung higher. He was used to an electric lightbulb above his head or situated in a floor lamp that could be aimed at his task. Henry looked around his spare room, which offered little to work with. When the window glass was raised—as it had been since his arrival—the sill should be wide enough to hold the lamp. His best option seemed to be to move the desk beneath the window. He balanced the lantern in the window and began to drag the furniture around.
“What are you doing?”
Henry spun to meet the voice. Polly leaned on her crutches.
“I can’t find the right position for the lamp so I can see what I’m doing.”
“I guarantee you that putting it up there is not the answer.” Polly swung the half door open. “What do you see on the floor?”
Henry shrugged. “Nothing but stray straw.” He swept every day, but the straw accrued incessantly.
“And there’s plenty more where that came from. This is a barn, Henry. A good wind could blow that lantern out of the window. Get that thing down from there before you set the whole place on fire.”
Henry grabbed the lantern. He’d never even been camping and now he was living in a barn. But he should have known better.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
“I’ll talk to one of my brothers in the morning,” Polly said. “I’m sure we can put in some kind of a hook so you can hang the lantern where you want it.”
“I’m sorry,” Henry repeated. He set the lamp back on the desk.
Polly blew out her breath. “I am, too. I shouldn’t have spoken like that. I saw the lamp moving around from the back porch and was afraid I wouldn’t get out here in time.”
“I think I’ll just turn in now,” Henry said. “It’s late anyway.”
Polly nodded and withdrew, her crutch, step, crutch, step rhythm taking her out the rear door of the barn.
Henry’s heart pounded for an hour. He never should have agreed to this assignment—or at least not to living on a farm.
CHAPTER 15
Minerva worked the clutch in the truck, wishing Ernie would let her get a smaller car for her jaunts into town or to see her f
riends. She was lucky the women’s clothing store had a decent milliner’s counter where she could have someone make her hats just the way she liked them, but turning up to place an order or collect it in Ernie’s old pickup truck was hardly the image she wished to convey. And surely a smaller automobile, something with taste, would be easier to drive.
Minerva timed her trip to town to avoid the fuss of the morning Labor Day parade. Her boys had always liked to go, especially Richard. Without them it wasn’t worth the effort. But some of the stores would be open for a few hours on the holiday, and this was her purpose. She parked down the street from the clothing store because it was the only place she could find that did not involve nudging the truck into a narrow space. Adjusting the angle of her close-fitting brown hat across her forehead, she opened the door to step out onto the pavement. With her beige leather gauntlets pulled over her wrists and her floral bag hanging from one bent arm, she clipped down the sidewalk toward her destination.
It was the faded yellow color outside the general store that made her turn her head to focus on the figure across the street.
What was Rose doing in town, and why on earth would she wear that washed-out frock in public?
Minerva crossed the street. “Rose, dear.”
The girl turned. “Mother. I didn’t know you were coming into town today.”
“Nor I you.”
“Sally wanted to come to the parade, and she had her father’s car. She just stepped around the corner to pick up something from her mother’s friend.”
“Surely you would have worn a different dress if you had known you would be coming to town.”
“What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“It’s a perfectly good work dress,” Minerva said. The next time Rose left the house, Minerva would remove the dress from her daughter’s closet.
“There are more important things to think about.” Rose tapped the store window and pointed at the notice taped to the glass. “Another auction. Someone else is losing their farm.”
“You don’t have to worry about that,” Minerva said. “Come with me to order a new hat. We can get you one, too.”
“I’m not worried about Pop,” Rose said. “But I don’t want a new hat. Did you see the newspaper headline today? People are desperate, Mother. A new hat won’t help.”
“You live too much in the moment, Rose. This will all pass. Think of the future.”
Rose sighed. “I thought you had your interview with Henry Edison today.”
“I have ample time to be home.”
Sally appeared with a dress draped over her arm. “Hello, Mrs. Swain.”
“Hello, Sally. I trust you’re having a pleasant morning.”
“It’s been lovely. And now I’m going to make over this dress.”
Minerva eyed the garment. The fabric seemed sturdy enough.
“Let’s go, Sally,” Rose said. “I’ll help you cut the new skirt.”
Rose kissed her mother’s cheek—perfunctorily, it seemed to Minerva—and the girls wandered down the street. Minerva missed the days when Rose would have been content with her mother’s company. This was a phase that was sure to pass.
The milliner’s counter would only be open a few more minutes. Once Minerva completed her errands, she could go home and clear up the space where the new washing machine would go. It was sure to be delivered this week.
Minerva had a magazine sketch of the style of hat she wanted. Finalizing the order was as simple as specifying fabric, choosing ribbon, and reiterating the width of the brim. The milliner would have to special order the ribbon to get the precise color Minerva required, but Minerva was in no hurry. She would have all fall and winter to enjoy how well the hat would complement the colors of her seasonal wardrobe. Three of the dresses had not arrived yet anyway.
With the order settled, Minerva stood for a moment outside the store and surveyed Main Street. Those who had come for the parade were scattered now. The café might stay open, but other businesses would close soon.
She could hardly believe her good luck when she turned toward the bank and saw Louis Dillard slipping out.
“Yoo-hoo, Louis!” she called, marching toward him.
“Hello, Minerva.”
“I’m glad to catch you,” she said. “I have a question about our accounts.”
“It’s a federal holiday,” Louis said. “The bank is closed.”
“But you were just in there.”
“I had a bit of paperwork to attend to, that’s all.”
“But you have a key.”
He still held it in his hand, so he could hardly deny possession.
“I cannot conduct any business,” he said. “The tills are empty and the vault is locked.”
“I simply need a small piece of information.” He was her mother’s cousin, and Minerva preferred to deal with relatives whenever possible. She clutched her purse against her waist and made her request.
“Does Ernie know you’re asking me?” Louis said, one eyebrow lifted above his wire spectacles.
“It’s a simple question, Louis,” Minerva said. “I would think it would be simple enough for a loan officer to answer.”
“It’s not meant to be a personal loan,” Louis said. “It’s Ernie’s line of credit for operating the farm, limited by his equity from the value of the land and buildings. And farms around here are not worth what they were a few years ago.”
“I only want to know the available balance.”
“I would feel better if Ernie came in. Tell him I’ll see him anytime the bank is open.”
“I’m beginning to think you don’t know how to find the answer to the question,” Minerva said. “Ernie has always trusted me to handle emergencies in the household budget. These are hard times, as you well know. I merely want to understand the availability of solutions in the event that I should face difficulty.”
Louis leaned forward and lowered his voice. “Are you facing difficulty?”
“Of course not,” Minerva snapped.
“Everything is all right on the farm?”
“Really, Louis, I thought you would be above this. A simple question, a simple answer.”
“But Ernie is the one who usually inquires about the line of credit.”
“And I am his wife. And you are my cousin.”
Louis pushed his glasses off the bridge of his nose with one finger and scratched in the vacated space. “You would tell me if you and Ernie were in trouble, wouldn’t you?”
“We are not in trouble.”
“All right, then.” Louis inserted the key in the lock, turned it, and stepped aside so Minerva could enter. He disappeared into a side room and returned with a number written on a slip of paper.
“Thank you.” Minerva deposited the paper in her purse without looking at it and marched out of the bank. Only when she was halfway into the next block did she open the latch on her purse and examine the paper.
The number was not what she had hoped, but it was sufficient.
“I could teach you to drive.” Polly looked out of the side of her eye at Henry beside her. The mare pulling the cart was aging and temperamentally inclined to simply stop rather than do anything dangerous. If Henry got lost, the horse would find her way home. And the cart they were using had little financial value. Someone from the family could hitch and unhitch. It didn’t seem like Henry could do much harm.
“I’ll get the car running,” Henry said. “Ernie’s going to help.”
But how long would that take? Even if she couldn’t work in the field, Polly could peel potatoes or cut quilt squares or mend hems. Five days on crutches had made her considerably more mobile than when her injury was fresh. If Henry would accept a simple driving lesson, she could be more help around the farm.
“This is the perfect stretch of road to learn to drive,” Polly said. “Hardly anyone comes through here.”
“I know how to drive,” Henry said.
Just not a horse and buggy. Polly thou
ght better about pushing the point.
“Think about it.” Polly took the turn that would lead to the Swains’.
“Why don’t your mother and Mrs. Swain get along?” Henry asked.
“It’s a long story.” Forty years long.
“What started it?”
“They were in school together, and right from the start they were competitors for top marks.”
“Don’t children outgrow that sort of thing?”
“You might think so.” Polly could tell Henry that Minerva had resorted to humiliating Gloria in the schoolyard when they were seven, but to do so would be perilously close to gossiping. Henry had seen for himself what Minerva could be like.
“And you and Rose?” Henry said.
“Fast friends all through school. We all like Rose.”
“And your father seems to like Ernie.”
“My father believes in being a good neighbor, and so does Ernie. They’ve never found anything to quarrel about.”
“Too bad about your mother and Mrs. Swain, then.”
In front of the Swain house, Polly reined in the horse and nudged the rig into the shade of an oak tree. Henry picked up his satchel from its place between his feet.
“I’ll wait here,” Polly said. “I can put my foot up.”
“I don’t know how long it will take.” Henry stepped down from the cart.
Polly smirked. “I’m sure Minerva will let you know when she’s had enough for today.”
Polly could have gone inside. She was not disinterested in the research process, and she’d scanned enough of Henry’s agent handbook to know the proper procedure.
And that was her dilemma. Already she was too interested in an English undertaking, and the details her neighbors would reveal were none of her business. Henry might not get his car running anytime soon. Even if she drove him to more appointments, this was his job to do, not hers. As fascinated as she might be with the process, she could not afford the mental distraction. Her attention belonged on the farm.
Minerva met Henry at the door, and once the house swallowed his shape, Polly turned sideways on the bench and cautiously arranged her foot. If she’d had a place to lean her head, she would have given in to a nap. Even sitting up, she closed her eyes.
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