Hope in the Land

by Olivia Newport

  “We all measure productivity differently,” he said, parking his pencil above his ear.

  “So you say,” Rose countered. “We’ll see if you can write as fast as I can pick.”

  Rose sashayed away, glancing over her shoulder at Henry one last time and giving them both a sweeping wave. Polly smiled. They liked each other. All they needed was a little encouragement and opportunity. If she were mobile, she would have brought them lemonade or pastries or something to tempt them to linger. She was going to have to be more creative.

  “How many acres?” Henry asked.

  “Hmm?” Polly pulled her gaze back to the immediate moment.

  “How many acres of tomatoes did you plant?”

  Polly did a quick calculation and gave Henry the answer and a tight range for the number of bushels the acres would yield. He was back to business already.

  The late-morning sun dried the sheets and cotton dresses quickly. Ernie’s denim would take longer. Minerva pulled the lines in and took down what she could. There was nothing to gain from leaving clean items on the line, where the wind might gust and spatter dirt into the cotton weaving.

  Ernie rumbled in from the field in his truck. Minerva ignored his movements until he was standing beside her.

  “Looks like the washing went well,” he said.

  “Well enough.” Minerva dropped three clothespins into the bag and unpinned another sheet. “There’s a plate of sandwiches in the icebox.”

  “Good. I told the hands I’d bring lunch out to them.”

  Minerva snapped the sheet into a settling billow and caught it in half before it touched the ground, then folded it in quarters. She had seen Maude do it often enough.

  “Why didn’t they come in with you?” If it hadn’t been for her obligation to feed Collins and Jonesy, Minerva was not sure she would have bothered to make Ernie any lunch at all.

  “They’ll do what they can while I go.”

  “Go where?”

  “Into town.”

  “Town?”

  Ernie drummed his fingers against one thigh. “Not sure I can solve the problem, but I should at least try.”

  “What problem is that?” Minerva chastised herself. She had meant to spend the entire day impressing her displeasure upon Ernie. But a problem on the farm affected all of them.

  “Even I can’t keep a tractor engine running forever on spit and chewing gum.”

  Minerva took down another sheet but this time slung it limp over her shoulder. “What happened?”

  “Same as always.”

  They had bought additional acres in the spring of 1929, expecting the additional yield to improve their cash flow. In another year or two they would update the equipment Ernie used at harvesttime. They’d had a plan. It was hardly her fault the economy soured. Still, Minerva didn’t think that the price of her new washing machine would have solved the equipment challenges.

  “I’m going now,” he said.

  “I’d like to go into town,” Minerva said, grabbing the last dress off the line. But she couldn’t go into town looking like she did at that moment. “Just give me fifteen minutes.”

  “Not this time, Min.” He turned toward the door. “I’ll get the sandwiches and be out of your way.”

  Minerva dropped the dress and the unfolded sheet into the basket and followed Ernie into the house.

  “Ten minutes,” she said. She would change her dress, leave her hair alone, and apply lipstick in the truck.

  “I said not this time.” Ernie took the plate of sandwiches from the icebox. “Did you fill water bottles?”

  “Bottom shelf.”

  He found them, grabbing them by the knuckles of one hand.

  “It will save gas if I go with you now instead of making a separate trip,” Minerva said.

  “Tell me what you need and I’ll see if we can manage it.”

  If. She steeled her gaze. Now he didn’t trust her to do the household shopping. “Never mind.”

  CHAPTER 25

  Three hundred eggs in the back of the buggy made Gloria take the turns into town with care on Tuesday. In her mind she was writing the umpteenth letter to a brother or a cousin or a niece suggesting that it might be time for Cousin Lillian to “visit” another branch of the family. She wasn’t sure who tried her patience more, Minerva or Lillian. She couldn’t coerce Minerva to move out of state, but Lillian might be gently urged. Her interference on Sunday afternoon still coursed irritation through Gloria’s veins.

  Gloria never mailed the letters. She never even put them down on paper. But for a few minutes, while she cast her thoughts in polite but persuasive phrases, even the imagination of relief was a balm.

  Lillian was beside her on the bench now. Gloria did not make this trip as often as she used to. Polly was the one who always knew the current price for a dozen eggs. She kept track of how much the grocer who ran the general store would want to discount his own purchase to leave room for a profit when he sold the eggs in turn. Gloria was content to let Polly do the haggling.

  But Polly, whose injury did not prove an obstacle to driving, would insist she didn’t need help getting the crates of eggs into the store. Dropping a bowl of eggs in the kitchen was one thing, but Gloria wouldn’t risk the cash value of twenty-five dozen eggs gathered in the last few days.

  Before the general store would come the German Lutheran Church. Henry had mentioned that the congregation had opened a soup kitchen to aid the transients and poor of Lancaster County, and all contributions were welcome. Gloria pulled the buggy up in front of the church and climbed between the benches for the baskets of vegetables.

  “Are you sure about this?” Lillian hesitated before lifting the first basket out of the buggy.

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “You have quite a few mouths to feed yourself,” Lillian said.

  “I have land,” Gloria said, shoving the second basket toward Lillian. “There will always be more vegetables.”

  Some residents in town kept gardens, but many did not, or didn’t have a grasp on how much to plant to see them through hard times. The thought of not having even a small plot of land on which to grow vegetables to feed the children of a household disturbed Gloria’s spirit. Vegetables were more than food. They were hope in what the land would yield, a confidence of the possibilities the future held. She might have fewer jars to stack in the cellar this year, but her vegetables would nourish longings for another day.

  Lillian set the third of three baskets on the sidewalk in front of the church. Gloria began climbing out.

  “There’s Minerva,” Lillian said, “just down the street.”

  Gloria flinched. Was it too late to climb back into the cavernous interior of the buggy?

  “Guder mariye, Minerva.” Lillian’s hand lifted to a wave.

  Gloria’s feet hit the pavement, but she turned away from Minerva and raised a basket. She had never been inside the German Lutheran Church. The front doors were only a few yards away.

  Only a few yards away from Minerva Swain.

  Minerva turned a corner before reaching the church property. Relief and guilt mingled as Gloria blew out her breath.

  “Don’t buy more than we need. I mean it, Min.”

  That’s what Ernie said that morning when Minerva asked if it would be convenient for her to use the truck to go into town. It was only five miles. She could be there and back before Ernie missed the vehicle.

  Minerva took her purse from its hook near the back door and said nothing. When she returned with no more than thread, she would set the spool heavily on the table and let him regret his doubt over lunch.

  What Ernie had not said was that he planned to go into town himself for an appointment directly after lunch. He left Minerva doing the lunch dishes and fuming that he should criticize her waste while indulging in his own.

  Minerva went out to pick through Rose’s vegetable garden and satisfy herself there were no surprises that she might serve for supper. Regardless of w
hat Ernie thought, she was not entirely beyond thrift.

  The truck tore through the dirt in the lane and came to such a violent halt that it frightened Minerva. She dropped the lone squash in her hand and spun toward the vehicle.

  Ernie emerged and slammed the door. “Now you’ve done it, Minerva.”

  She jumped. “I bought only a spool of darning thread this morning.” If it had been up to her, she would have bought him new socks. Instead, she would darn his worn ones.

  “I think you know that’s not what I mean.” He marched toward her.

  Minerva backed out of the garden as her husband tramped into it from the other end.

  “Ernie Swain,” she said, “what in the world got hold of you?”

  “Louis,” Ernie thundered. “He may be your cousin, but he is supposed to be my banker. I have half a mind to open an account in Philadelphia if that’s what it takes to control you.”

  Minerva bristled. “This is a free country.” She was his wife, not something that needed to be controlled. Still, she sidestepped out of his path.

  When he got within three feet, he stopped and plunged his hands into his pockets.

  “I’ve done all my investigating,” he said, “and it’s going to take eighty-seven dollars to fix the tractor. Guess how much is available on the line of credit at the bank.”

  Minerva swallowed.

  “Twenty-three dollars.” He kicked a rock. “How could you do this, Min?”

  “It costs more to run a household than you realize,” Minerva said.

  “Maybe,” he said, “but I suspect far less than you claim.”

  “You deserve to come in from the fields and find enjoyable meals and a well-kept house. Isn’t that what every farmer wants?”

  Ernie spoke through gritted teeth. “What every farmer wants is a tractor that runs. There is no farm without equipment to get the crop in.”

  Minerva had no words.

  “Rose’s experience working for the Grabills will come in handy,” Ernie said, “when we are reduced to taking our harvest in by hand. Is that what you want?”

  He knew it wasn’t.

  Ernie kicked a clod of dirt. “I’ve always been willing to be a modern husband. I even put you on the bank accounts. How many husbands do you know who would do that? I can’t think of a single one. But no more.”

  No more what? Minerva steeled herself to meet Ernie’s eyes.

  “I’ve cut you off at the bank, and I told the general store and the department stores not to sell you anything on account.”

  “Have you decided you don’t want to eat?” Minerva snapped.

  Ernie wagged a finger at her. “It’s done, Min. You can forget about your hats, too. You can’t spend a penny I don’t know about. I spoke to the bank president, and he marked the account. Appealing to your cousin will get you nothing.”

  He rotated toward the barn before looking at her over his shoulder. “And don’t think I don’t know about Richard. He won’t get another penny from you either.”

  Yost grabbed an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table.

  “If Thomas comes,” he said to Polly, “tell him I’ll be right back.”

  “Thomas is coming?” The needle between Polly’s fingers stilled above the mending.

  “We both promised our mothers fish, so we’d better go catch it.”

  “What about the tomatoes?” It was the middle of the afternoon.

  “Sylvia is back to full steam, and I’ve never seen a faster picker than Rose. We’ll be fine.”

  Thomas and Yost would never catch enough fish in one afternoon to feed both their households. They’d been promising their mothers since they were little boys. Everyone knew the ruse. But Polly did not begrudge her brother a few hours away from the fields. He worked hard all day and was an attentive husband and father. The back door swung closed behind Yost.

  The thought of Thomas’s impending arrival prodded Polly to select a different garment to mend—a man’s. She had mended enough of her father’s shirts that she was certain she could construct one. Thomas might like the reassurance.

  Thomas knocked on the back doorframe a few minutes later.

  Polly looked up from the white fabric spread across her lap. “Come in. Yost will be here in a minute.”

  “I can wait out here,” Thomas said.

  “Don’t be silly. I’m only mending.”

  Thomas stepped into the kitchen. Would he have entered with more enthusiasm if it had been Lena sitting there sewing?

  “I hope you catch a lot of fish,” she said.

  “Our mothers might have to share one fish.” Thomas gave a crooked smile. “I’m not much better at fishing than I am at … other things.”

  “You’re wonderful at everything you put your hand to,” Polly said.

  “Not everything,” he muttered.

  “Perhaps a cheese pie would help to stretch the one-fish meal. I’ll make one while you’re fishing.” Polly didn’t regret the sentiment, but the promise was ill-advised.

  “I do like a good cheese pie.” Another crooked smile.

  “Then you shall have one.” She met his smile with one of her own.

  Yost stuck his head in the back door. “Come on. Let’s go before something else comes up.”

  The two men bounded down the back steps like little boys escaping the reach of a mother’s voice. Her daed’s shirt would have to wait. Polly folded the fabric and fastened the mending basket closed before limping to the bins to scoop out flour, salt, and sugar. Cold butter was on a plate in the icebox. Before she mixed everything, she lit the oven.

  Polly measured enough for two crusts and cut the butter into the dry ingredients with a fork the way her mother had shown her dozens of times. She tossed extra flour onto the counter, divided the dough, and attacked half with a rolling pin. Not too much pressure. She’d made that mistake too many times. She rolled evenly, first in one direction then another, looking for the perfect round to emerge from her movements.

  Instead, dough stuck to the rolling pin. What stayed on the counter did not resemble the shape of a pie tin. Polly dragged a chair against the counter and rested one knee on it. If it was going to take this long to roll a piecrust, she had to acknowledge the protest of her sore foot. Scraping everything into a ball again, she tossed more flour on the counter and started over.

  The dough still stretched irregularly. Lifting it into a pie tin in one piece would be impossible, no matter how gentle her approach. Flour spattered Polly’s apron.

  “What are you up to? It’s a mess in here.”

  Lena. If anyone else had walked into the room, Polly could have admitted she needed help. Lena would see for herself and take over.

  “Henry’s looking for you,” Lena said. “Something about Mrs. Coblentz.”

  Henry followed Lena into the kitchen and chose to pretend he hadn’t noticed Polly’s mess. This seemed the most judicious approach.

  “Did you forget about Mrs. Coblentz?” he said, keeping his distance from swirling flour.

  “I thought you would just go on the bike.” Polly snatched up a dish towel and brushed at the flour on her apron.

  “When we were there last week, she seemed keen to have you come again.”

  Polly’s shoulders sagged. “I got involved with something.”

  Henry could see that.

  “What about your car?” Lena plopped a ball of something in a bowl—Henry couldn’t tell what it was—and took a rag to the rolling pin.

  “No luck,” Henry said.

  “Nothing is luck,” Lena said. “If it happens, is it not Gottes wille?”

  Henry shrugged, not sure he wanted to enter that theological quagmire just now.

  “Ernie has an idea,” he said, “but he’s busy, and the parts are not easy to come by.” Especially with no money.

  “Is it too late to bicycle?” Polly asked.

  Her reluctance surprised Henry. He rather thought Mrs. Coblentz had enjoyed having Polly present during th
e first interview. Maybe he had jumped to the wrong conclusion about how Polly felt about Thomas.

  “If you think it’s too warm to bike,” Polly said, “you could just take the cart. I’ll show you how to hitch it up.”

  “I don’t … it’s … the horse … the responsibility,” Henry stammered. She couldn’t be serious about giving him charge over a valuable farm animal, not even the docile mare.

  Lena handed Polly her crutch. “Go. I’ll take care of the pie. A cheese filling, right?”

  Polly nodded, wishing she could wipe away the blush that warmed her neck.

  “That’s what I thought,” Lena said. “Thomas’s favorite. The pie will be ready when he and Yost get back. You help Henry.”

  Polly’s slow exhale filled the empty space between the sisters.

  “All right.” Polly threw the dish towel on the table. “But Henry will do the driving. He’s got to learn.”

  CHAPTER 26

  Henry made a poor imitation of the sound Polly used to signal the mare into motion. The horse was gentle and cooperative, but she still deserved clear instructions. They would have to practice. Polly did not intend to miss the entire harvest looking after Henry. Her foot improved every day. One morning she would wake up feeling fine, and Henry would be on his own, whether or not his car was running. If it wasn’t, he would have to get by on Rose’s bicycle or in a Grabill buggy.

  Sounds aside, Henry was doing a fair job of driving. He likely wouldn’t have any use for his new skill in Philadelphia, where Coralie Kimball awaited in that ridiculous car.

  Coralie Kimball. Polly had only a few weeks to make Henry see sense and turn his attention to Rose Swain.

  “Do you mind if I read while you drive?” Polly picked up a folder of reports between them on the bench.

  “I’d rather you keep your eyes on the road.” Henry did not turn his head even to glance at what Polly was doing. He parked his tongue in one corner of his mouth, poking it out between his lips.

  “You’re doing fine.” Polly opened the folders. Numbers and check marks rose from the pages. She recognized some of the information because she had been present during the interviews. Others Henry had done on his own, and the data, as Henry called it, now dropped into slots in Polly’s memory. Though she would never need to recall this information, it would be there anyway. Polly couldn’t not remember something once she’d read it.