Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  Gloria turned around to hide her face from Rose. The smile that tugged one side of Gloria’s mouth held too much pleasure in Minerva’s strained relationship with her only daughter.

  “You all know how she can be,” Rose said. “As if no one else in the world has half a brain.”

  With her back still to Rose, Gloria poured the girl a cup of coffee.

  Forty years. Gloria knew very well what Rose spoke of, and she felt a measure of satisfaction in hearing someone else be bluntly accurate.

  But she would not speak ill to a daughter about her mother.

  She turned and put the coffee cup on the table. “Enjoy your breakfast. Polly can keep you company. I’ll be in the sheds.”

  Polly folded the Budget closed and pushed it toward the center of the table.

  “There’s more bread if you want it,” she said to Rose.

  “I came to work.” Rose swallowed the last of her coffee. “The tomato field is waiting for me.”

  A horn honked, and they both turned their heads.

  “That sounds like Pop’s horn,” Rose said.

  Polly hopped to the window and watched Ernie Swain come around the side of the house. She pushed open the back door.

  “I didn’t know you were coming over here,” Rose said when her father stood in the doorframe.

  “I had a thought about Henry’s car.” Ernie glanced at Polly. “Is he around?”

  Polly hadn’t seen Henry since breakfast.

  “In the barn getting ready to go see Mrs. Rupp, I suppose,” she said. When she decided to pass the time waiting for Henry by rereading the Budget, Polly had expected he would have returned to the kitchen by now.

  “I’ll find him,” Ernie said.

  Rose took her plate and cup to the sink. Polly’s eyes followed Ernie’s energetic steps toward the barn, and moments later Henry strode beside the older man toward his car.

  “Let’s go see what this is about.” Polly grabbed her crutches and went outside. Rose followed her down the steps and into the yard, where Henry’s lifeless car had been a weeklong reminder of his presence at the Grabill farm. Polly knew nothing of the workings of an engine, but curiosity propelled her to look over Ernie’s shoulder.

  Ernie poked and examined and grunted. Finally he stood up and wiped grease off his hands with a rag hanging out of his back pocket.

  “I think I’m onto something,” he said.

  Looking at Henry and Rose with their heads bent side by side over the engine, Polly blurted the thought waving through her mind.

  “Rose, maybe you’d like to drive Henry out to the Rupp place while your father works on his car.”

  Rose and Henry glanced at each other.

  “I promised to help with the tomatoes.” Rose stepped back from the car. “I’m late enough.”

  “You’d still have all afternoon in the field,” Polly countered.

  Rose hesitated.

  Ernie shook his head. “I can’t spare the truck. I only meant to drop by for half an hour to test my theory. An hour at most.”

  “I’m going to go find the rest of your family,” Rose said. She kissed her father’s cheek and paced over to where her bicycle was propped against a porch post.

  “I’m afraid I have to go as well,” Henry said. “I don’t want to keep Mrs. Rupp waiting.”

  “No reason you should,” Ernie said. He stuck his head under the hood again.

  “You could take the cart on your own,” Polly said to Henry.

  He winced. “I learned my lesson yesterday.”

  “You’d do better today.” If she hadn’t grabbed the reins back from him, he might have taken them both into the ditch. But all he had to do was slow down and not use such jerky motions. Polly considered expanding on her argument until she saw her mother crossing the yard, shaking her head. She had that look in her eye that warned Polly not to pursue one of her cockamamy ideas.

  “All right, then,” Polly said. “I’ll take you, but we’ll have a driving lesson on the way home.” If Ernie didn’t get Henry’s car running soon, Henry was going to have to either learn to handle a horse or get himself a bicycle. Surely he knew how to ride one of those.

  Minerva’s feet swung off the coffee table and into the shoes lined up against the davenport. The sound of the approaching truck was distinctly not Ernie’s truck. It was larger, heavier.

  Like a large delivery truck.

  She hadn’t thought it would come until at least tomorrow.

  Minerva shoved the catalogs in her lap back under the cushion, where Ernie would never find them both because he never did housework and because he preferred the easy chair across the room. For good measure, she pushed them a couple of inches deeper into obscurity before pacing across the room to meet the driver at the door.

  “Delivery for Mrs. Ernie Swain.” The young man looked at a paper in his hand. At the back of the truck, another man opened the rear door of the truck’s cavernous cargo area.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Minerva said.

  “You’re expecting a washing machine?”

  “Yes.” A double tub that would let Maude get the Swain laundry done in half the time. For now it would run on gasoline, but it was only a matter of time before the electrical lines would reach the Lancaster farms. When they did, Minerva would be ready.

  “Where do you want it?”

  “Around back,” Minerva said. She had insisted Ernie enclose the laundry area last winter, transforming it from an exposed corner of the back porch to its own room off the kitchen.

  “My notes say you want it installed,” the driver said.

  Of course she wanted it installed. Did he think she planned to do it herself? Ernie was far too busy at this time of year. He never paid attention to the washer as long as his shirts were washed and ironed once a week.

  “It’s a lot of parts.” The man handed Minerva a form and a pen.

  She scrawled her name to indicate receipt. “How long will it take?”

  “Not long. We do this every day.”

  The second deliveryman lowered a wide dolly out of the back of the truck. Minerva’s heart rate sped. At last she would have a washing machine that did not look like a vestige from the last century.

  The new machine came off the truck in several crates. Twin square containers held the identical tubs. A narrower and longer one seemed the right shape for the pipes and hoses and wheels. The fourth would be the stand that supported everything at an ideal working height just as the catalog had promised. Maude was not as tall as many women, but she could stand on a stool if she found the level cumbersome.

  Minerva busied herself in the kitchen, where it was easy to casually walk past the opening to the laundry room and watch the modern marvel take shape. It was a tighter fit than the older machine because of the dual tubs, but any lost working space would be more than worth the sacrifice. In the end, Maude could work more quickly and have more time for additional tasks without adding to the number of hours she worked at the Swains’ each week. One might even argue that the machine would bring increased economy to the household.

  “We’re finished.” The driver stuck his head in the kitchen. “Do you want us to haul the old one away?”

  “Certainly.” What did he suppose she would want with that old thing?

  “Some people like to keep them for parts or scrap,” the driver said.

  “I shall have no such need,” Minerva said.

  The man nodded at his partner, and the two of them cleared away the slats from the crates and loaded the old machine into the truck. By the time they started the truck’s engine, Minerva was stroking the smooth, shiny parts of her latest essential household purchase. A printed instruction booklet lay at the bottom of one tub, and Minerva lifted it out and began reading.

  The sound of the delivery truck was exchanged for a more familiar one. Minerva crossed to a window.

  What was Ernie doing here? He should have been out in the field with Collins and Jonesy long ago.

>   CHAPTER 18

  It’s going back.”

  In twenty-five years of marriage, Minerva had never seen that shade of red in Ernie’s face.

  “We need a washing machine, Ernie.” She turned the page of the instruction booklet.

  “I hadn’t noticed the old one missing any of the dirt.”

  Where had he learned to put that edge in his voice? She would not stand for it.

  “Ernest Swain, don’t speak to me that way.”

  “I’m not kidding, Min. We cannot afford this. It’s going back.”

  “Of course we can afford it. I’ve already paid for it.”

  “With what?” Ernie’s face flushed an even deeper shade of red. “We’re not keeping it on credit.”

  “You have always trusted me to steward the household account.”

  Ernie put a hand over his eyes and pushed his eyelids shut. Minerva held her pose.

  “I’ve always wanted to give you the most comfortable life I could manage,” Ernie finally said. “But we both know the honest truth is that you make a habit of spending more money than necessary.”

  “If you need a new machine for the farm, I don’t argue with you over the expense.”

  “It’s hardly the same thing.”

  “Isn’t it?” Minerva glared. “How am I to run the household without the equipment I require?”

  “You and your catalogs,” Henry said, his irritation unabated. “They put ideas in your head.”

  “You sound as if you don’t believe I have any imagination of my own.”

  “Perhaps you can try imagining a balanced budget.”

  “Ernie!”

  “Minerva!”

  “You’re picking a fight with me.”

  Ernie stepped to the spigot over the machine and began unscrewing the connecting pipe. “I’m not going to fight, Min. But I am going to take this apart before something happens and they won’t take it back. Where are the crates?”

  “I sent them off on the truck. I didn’t see any reason to keep them.”

  “Fine,” Ernie said. “I’ll build new ones from scrap. I want you to get on the telephone and arrange for someone to pick this up as soon as possible.”

  “And what do you propose to do about a washing machine?”

  “We’ll put the old one back in, obviously.” Ernie unfastened a hose.

  Minerva shuffled her steps. “I sent it away as well.”

  “Then get it back.”

  “How do you expect me to do that?”

  “Use your imagination.”

  His utter lack of sympathy appalled Minerva. She stepped toward him and pushed his hand off its task.

  “It’s here. We may as well keep it,” she said.

  “Is it a floor model that cannot be returned?”

  “Don’t be silly.” He knew her well enough to know she never bought floor models. One could never be sure what condition they would be in.

  “Was it a ‘no refund’ sale?”

  “No, it was not.” Minerva spoke through a clenched jaw.

  “Then it’s going back.” The pitch of Ernie’s voice had receded, but it was no less resolute. “There’s a depression going on, Min. The whole country is seven years in. The whole world, probably. Pay attention.”

  “I read the newspapers,” she snapped. Was he next going to forbid her to buy a paper?

  “You can’t go around spending money we don’t have. Do you have any idea how many farms are failing every year?” Ernie carefully wound a hose and set it aside while he loosened the fasteners around one gleaming tub. “Do you want to be one of them?”

  Unspeaking, Minerva watched her husband’s hands move from one task to another as a pile of small parts amassed on the floor beside the door.

  “I may as well tell you what else is on my mind,” Ernie said. “I was hoping to avoid this, but I don’t see how I can put it off any longer.” “Put off what?” Minerva’s heart pounded.

  “I know you’ve always liked having a girl come in to help, and it used to be lots of the farms did.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “We can’t afford Maude. At least not as often as she comes in. I’m surprised you’ve been able to find enough in the household account to pay her at all.”

  “Did she speak to you?” Minerva’s eyes widened.

  Ernie cocked his head and considered the question. “Do you owe her money?”

  “Some.” Minerva pressed her lips together.

  “I know she comes several days a week, but you’ll have to think what you truly need her for—no more than half a day.”

  “Half a day three times a week will be difficult.”

  “Half a day each week, Min.”

  “That’s impossible.”

  “When things get better, we’ll take someone on again. I promise.” Ernie laid another length of pipe by the door. “The hands will be wondering what became of me. If you help me, we’ll get this taken apart faster and I can get back to my own work.”

  “I will do no such thing.” Minerva pivoted and left the room.

  Henry now had the first of his data from Mrs. Grabill—or Polly, anyway—as well as Mrs. Swain and Mrs. Rupp. Saturday, Monday, and Tuesday had yielded useful experience. Facing Wednesday and the rest of his appointments this week, he had a sense of which questions would be most difficult for his interview subjects to answer with certainty, likely matters to interrupt the conversation, and how much time the wives would feel they could devote to an interview session before excusing themselves to attend to activities they believed more needful. He also knew he would have to observe certain farm operations for himself. Gloria Grabill’s activities had been the first to impress on Henry that he would gain considerable information if he followed her movements. A research project designed to measure productivity, and compare it to consumption, required knowing what was involved in every daily task in order to assign value to it.

  On the streets of Philadelphia, Henry gave no thought to the sound of an automobile engine arriving, passing, or departing. Here on the farm, though, where the intonations of animals became more distinct to him each day, a car engine made heads turn. Perhaps Ernie was back. On the previous morning, Henry had left Ernie working on the broken-down car. When he returned from interviewing Mrs. Rupp, warning himself off of hope, he tried to start the engine but was met by the silence he had come to expect from the effort. If Ernie had returned with a part or a theory, Henry would put on the oldest of his three shirts and station himself at Ernie’s side.

  Henry stacked his papers on the small desk, left his sparse quarters, and began to walk through the barn.

  A split second before he stepped out into full sunlight, Henry halted.

  It wasn’t Ernie.

  It wasn’t anyone Henry ever expected to set foot on Grabill land.

  Not that car. Not here.

  For the second day in a row, Sylvia had not come downstairs for breakfast, though her fever had broken. Once Polly managed the steep stairs, either coming down in the morning or going up at night, she did not make another trip unless it was essential. And her mother firmly defined the parameters of essential. Polly hovered in the kitchen on Wednesday morning as long as she could before her mother shooed her outside.

  Polly’s days passed sitting in the kitchen, sitting in the little wagon driving Henry around, or sitting on the front porch. Those were the options her mamm allowed.

  This morning, her mother had carried a chair off the porch and out into the yard, as if ready for Polly to be too far from the house to insist on trying to help with anything. The chair was positioned under the shade of the rambling maple tree, under the same branch that still bore the rope swing of Polly’s childhood. With strict instructions not to attempt to get in the swing, Polly sat in the chair with her arms crossed over her chest when the gleaming beige car with red-brown wheel covers rolled down the lane. Polly had seen enough English cars to know that this one was remarkably new and that it was not one of
Mr. Ford’s models built for affordability.

  No one the Grabills knew had an automobile like this one. The English farmers of Lancaster County drove practical pickup trucks like Ernie’s, vehicles made for functional transportation and convenient hauling. Even one of the families who lived in town would not have anything so new.

  Yet this was no mistake. The driver had turned down the lane with enough certainty of intention to make clear this was not a misdirected visitor. This car had arrived because the Grabill farm was the desired destination.

  The driver’s door opened. Polly would have no choice but to greet the visitor, who could only be here for Henry. Even that was hard to believe. He was from Philadelphia and no doubt knew a lot of people, but it seemed unlikely a man with one suit and three shirts would be acquainted with anyone who drove a car like this one.

  And not just anyone.

  A woman.

  The driver’s door opened, and a pair of legs swung out. Minerva Swain would have been pleased. Shoes with three-inch heels echoed a delicate hue in the floral print of the woman’s skirt and the necklace arranged at her collarbone.

  Was this why Henry worked so hard to impress?

  Polly sighed and reached for her crutches. At least her dress was fresh and her hair tidy and tucked under her prayer kapp.

  The car’s door fell closed, and the woman leaned on it with both hands behind her hips, as if she were posing for one of those magazines Rose’s mother liked to buy from the racks at the drugstore.

  “Hello,” Polly said, standing straight up and allowing the crutches to help her balance.

  “Good morning.” The woman flashed an ingratiating smile. “I’m Miss Coralie Kimball, and I’m looking for my friend, Mr. Henry Edison.”

  “Then you’ve come to the right place,” Polly said. “I’m Polly. Henry’s in the barn.”

  “The barn?” Miss Kimball laughed. “He wrote to me that he was boarding with a local family for convenience, but I hadn’t thought you’d put him to work.”

  Convenience? Apparently Henry had conveniently forgotten to mention the matter of necessity in his letter. As a gesture of common hospitality, even on crutches Polly ought to have walked to the barn to let Henry know he had a guest, but in the moment she suspected Henry had already spotted Miss Coralie Kimball and now lurked in the shadows of the barn door.