When the engine soared again, it had turned in Minerva’s direction. She stepped onto the porch, sweat springing into her palms.
The truck was big, larger even than the one that had brought the twin-tub washing machine that Ernie had packed up before Minerva could wash a single load. The brakes whistled again, a sound Ernie would never tolerate in his machinery, and the truck jolted to a stop yards from the house. As soon as the engine cut, two men emerged.
“Good morning,” the driver said. “Just tell us where you want the crates.”
“I’m not expecting any crates.” Minerva’s pulse throbbed in her neck. She paced into the yard.
He looked at the paperwork. “Mrs. Swain?”
She nodded. If she had overlooked ordering a dress or a tablecloth from Sears, Roebuck, it certainly would not come in a crate. The second man strode around to the rear of the vehicle and rolled the door open.
“Then we’re in the right place,” the driver said. “Maybe your husband ordered something and didn’t mention it—although it does say Mrs. Ernie Swain.”
Ernie never ordered anything from a catalog. He bought everything he needed through the local hardware or supplies stores.
“It must be a mistake,” Minerva said. “Someone confused the order.”
“I don’t think so. It’s not a common item and not a common name.”
Not something the warehouse would mix up. That’s what the driver meant to say.
The second man climbed into the truck and let down a ramp.
“What warehouse did this come from?” Minerva paced toward the truck.
“Sears.”
“Your truck doesn’t say Sears.”
“They sometimes hire us for the larger items.”
Larger items?
“This is a mistake,” Minerva said again.
“Not on our end.” The driver handed Minerva the papers and hoisted himself into the back of the truck.
Letters swirled and collided. By the time the words fell into place for Minerva, the men had carried a long, flat crate out of the truck.
The kit. How could she have forgotten she ordered a kit? Worse, how could she have forgotten the method she used for payment?
The men scrambled back into the truck and pushed a second crate to the edge of the rolling cavern.
“Do you know people buy kits to build entire houses from Sears?” the second man said. “Your husband should have no trouble putting together a small shed.”
Fresh panic welled.
“You can’t leave these things here.” Minerva kicked at the first crate, her foot meeting solid weight.
The driver grunted as he leaned into the second crate to ease it down the ramp.
“It’s paid for,” he said. “Our job is to deliver. We can’t take it back or promise a refund without authorization from Sears.”
“Listen to me,” Minerva said. “You cannot leave these crates here.” Ernie would have a conniption fit.
“Call Sears,” the driver said. “I’m sure they will be glad to sort it out.”
A third crate appeared at the top of the ramp.
“I most certainly will call Sears,” Minerva said.
“I hope you didn’t buy it from one of their clearance advertisements.”
The ad floated before her eyes now. Easy to assemble. Versatile function. Complete kit with clear instructions. Fifty percent reduction in price.
And no returns or refunds.
Working in the barn had never been wise, even with doors at both ends propped open, someone else’s baby in her lap, and the possibility that any one of a dozen people might walk past the half wall of Henry’s stall at any moment. Somehow Henry still got the wrong idea. Polly should have set the boundaries herself. Henry was supposed to notice Rose.
When they resumed the work on Henry’s shredded project, it was in the kitchen where no one—not even Henry—could think she was trying to be alone with him. It took Henry six trips between the barn and the kitchen to transfer the boxes and jars, and a seventh to move the typewriter to the porch. Polly had to clear off space at the end of one counter to store the piles during meals. It would take longer with all the interruptions, but Henry would have to accept the new terms or be on his own.
They started in again in earnest before the table was even cleared after the midday dinner. Sylvia and Alice loitered to wash and dry the mound of dishes required for a Grabill meal. For Polly their chatter faded to background murmur, but each time she flicked her eyes at Henry, he seemed to be looking at one distraction or another.
“Pay attention, Henry,” Polly said, pushing a jar of paste toward him. “I can’t do this all by myself.”
In truth she could. It might even have gone faster. But their agreement was that she would help, not be responsible for the entirety of the work. He should be grateful that she hadn’t refused to help him further.
Henry dropped his eyes to the page right in front of him. Not all of it was there, but probably as much as they were going to manage. All he had to do was glue the pieces to a clean sheet of paper.
Sylvia and Alice finished the dishes.
Polly finished piecing together another page of Henry’s report. So far her sorting system had been effective. They still had hours of work ahead of them, but the more Polly studied the jagged shapes, the more she remembered where she had seen the ones that matched up. She hadn’t been paying attention to when her sisters left the kitchen, but she kept an ear cocked to Lillian’s movements around the house.
“I’m sorry about this morning,” Henry said.
“Work, please.”
“I can work and be sorry at the same time.”
Polly slid together four pieces from Mrs. Rupp’s food diary. Henry was not going to draw her into a conversation for which she had no intention and no interest.
“Didn’t we already find Mrs. Rupp’s productivity interview?” Polly glanced at the row of jars at one end of the table holding in place pages that had already seen the paste brush.
“I think so.”
Polly sifted through the pieces of a pile immediately in front of her. The horse must have stomped on the stacked pages of the food diary in one step. Many of the pieces were torn at similar angles. In a few minutes she would have the report reassembled.
Lillian’s voice rose from the front room in a singsong chirp of inquiry, and Eleanor’s soft responses trailed across the space until she arrived at the kitchen threshold.
Polly looked up. “Would you like something to eat?”
“I didn’t realize it was so late.” Eleanor jiggled the baby. “I just wanted to lie down for a few minutes after I fed him. I must have drifted off.”
Eleanor had been asleep most of the day. Polly could not imagine how tired she must be after her weeks alone in late pregnancy and early motherhood. When it was time for dinner and both mother and child were sleeping, Polly couldn’t bring herself to wake Eleanor.
“I saved you a chicken leg and some potato salad.” Polly pushed back from the table. “We have plenty of tomatoes and peaches.”
Polly limped—with less pain than even a day earlier—to the icebox and pulled out the plate she had set aside for Eleanor. The young woman could not be much older than Polly. When she set the plate in front of Eleanor, she took the baby. In less than twenty-four hours, Polly had cared for little Toddy enough to know a hand on his tummy would soothe him and he would start to fuss twenty minutes before his hunger reached its peak.
“What is all this?” Eleanor nudged a stack of papers away from her plate.
“Henry had a mishap,” Polly said, settling Toddy in her lap. “We’re trying to put his work back together.”
“I’m pretty good with puzzles.” Eleanor picked up two random pieces from the clump nearest her plate, rotated one of them, and placed it below Polly’s collection of Mrs. Rupp’s food diary.
“How did you do that?” Henry said. “We have hundreds of pieces and you found one as soon as you
came in the room.”
“I used to work in my uncle’s office.” Eleanor slipped a fork into the potato salad on her plate. “He couldn’t pay me much, but I got used to looking at papers. It was good experience.”
“I don’t suppose you learned to type in your uncle’s office.”
Eleanor’s eyes brightened. “I’m quite fast.”
Polly and Henry exchanged grins.
When she finished eating, Eleanor put her plate in the sink and started assembling another form at the far end of the table. How did a young woman with office skills find herself alone with a newborn? Polly hoped there really was a cousin in Indiana offering her a home.
The best Minerva could hope for was not being in sight when Ernie discovered the crates. On her own, she couldn’t move them, and where would she put them if she could? As much thought as she allotted the challenge, she came up with no way to disguise them. It would have been like trying to put a tablecloth over a mountain.
Ernie had the truck, but Minerva still owned her two good feet. People walked into town all the time. She had done it herself just the other day. She would even wear sturdy shoes, and she wouldn’t buy more than a half dozen eggs. Minerva was arranging her broad-brimmed straw hat—there was no point in getting sunburned—when Ernie’s truck rumbled in from the field.
The ferociousness with which he slammed the driver’s door behind him provoked a surge of adrenaline Minerva was unprepared to contain. Frozen at the bedroom window, she watched his progress across the yard and up the front steps.
Ernie never used the front door. He wiped muddy boots on the mat on the back porch and washed his hands in the kitchen before he proceeded through the house. This time he was inside so fast she had no chance to scramble out the back door.
Minerva took off her hat, closed her eyes, and waited. Ernie’s easy chair creaked. It faced toward the hallway. There was no getting past him.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
“You may as well face the music,” Ernie bellowed.
Minerva put both hands to her face. In all their years of marriage, Ernie had raised his voice at her no more than half a dozen times. Two of them had been in the last two weeks. Regardless of his typical volume restraint, his tenor of incipient unwavering patience was beyond dispute. It threaded through his voice now. She crept into the hallway.
“I think perhaps you neglected to tell me about something,” Ernie said.
“Not on purpose,” Minerva countered. “I promise. Not on purpose.”
“You promised to stop spending money we can’t afford.”
“I canceled everything, Ernie.”
“Not everything.”
He stood, his feet braced, and Minerva may as well have been eight years old trying to scale a wall.
“This is where my tractor money went?” Ernie’s pitch heightened.
Minerva nodded. It was on sale. If she hadn’t paid for it, she would have had no guarantee of receiving one of the last ones the manufacturer had available.
“A shed, Min? What in the world do you need a shed for? The barn is half empty as it is.”
Minerva pushed the air out of her chest.
“Don’t huff at me,” Ernie said. “You get a refund and put the money back in the bank where it belongs.”
“I can’t do that,” she said.
“You don’t have a choice. Figure it out.”
CHAPTER 40
Sleep fled Minerva that night. Beside her, Ernie gave himself to slumber as he always did, but Minerva battled first the vestiges of heat the house had absorbed during the day and later the chill of night breeze through the open window.
And fear.
She had gone too far. It would cost her too much.
Coffee perked before dawn while Minerva surrendered to the sensibility of asking for help. And the consternation that one person was the most likely place to begin.
A few hours later, after Rose made awkward conversation and Ernie nodded and chewed his breakfast without speaking, Minerva stood at the top of the Grabill lane. She would have to go down to the house. Knock. Smile.
Lillian let her in. Gloria came from the kitchen. Minerva longed for Richard. Even as a child, he was the one who steadied her. That boy could win over anyone with his impish, lopsided smile. No letters had come for weeks. If she had any money to send him, she would not know where to address the envelope.
After inviting Minerva to take a seat, Gloria withdrew to the kitchen. When she returned, she carried a tray of coffee cups and apple cake. Minerva swallowed three polite bites, more than she managed at her own breakfast table. She made no pretense of interest in Lillian’s chatter, instead trying to judge Gloria’s mood.
“Gloria, you were so kind to have us for supper,” Minerva said when Lillian paused to sip coffee. “I hope you and Marlin will allow us to reciprocate one evening soon.”
Gloria blinked several times. Minerva recognized the sensation. She had felt it herself when Gloria extended an invitation for a meal. Their husbands had always owned the hospitality the wives grudgingly exchanged.
“I understand it might be difficult,” Minerva said. “Many people depend on your delicious cooking.”
Gloria nodded. If she declined, Minerva would be relieved. It was enough that she had offered.
Lillian set down her coffee cup. “The girls are quite capable of organizing a meal. I would be on hand to supervise, of course. There’s no reason Gloria and Marlin should not enjoy your neighborly invitation.”
That Gloria’s countenance transformed to a glare aimed at Lillian did not escape Minerva. Perhaps she would still decline. The invitation was only meant to fill time while Minerva mustered courage—although if the Grabills came to supper, Ernie would defer his silent ire for a couple of hours.
“Mother!”
Minerva had supposed her daughter would be in one of the Grabill fields or orchards, but Rose now crossed the spacious front room and stood with a hand on Gloria’s chair.
“Your mother has invited Gloria to supper.” Lillian’s voice lifted in cheer.
Minerva met her daughter’s eyes. If Richard was the child who steadied her, Rose was the one whose perspicacity seldom failed. She would not easily overlook the breakfast table rigidity.
“I’m sure that would be lovely,” Rose said, caution lacing her voice. “Perhaps you could discuss what is really on your mind.”
Gloria rotated so she could look up at Rose. Minerva had braced to speak with Gloria. Instead, Lillian filled the room with inane details in which Minerva had no interest, and now Rose’s presence complicated the encounter.
“Minerva,” Gloria finally said, “is Rose right? Is there something else on your mind?”
“It’s about those crates in the yard, isn’t it?” Rose said.
“Why, yes,” Minerva said, “I do have a bit of a situation, and I thought Gloria might have some helpful insight.”
Gloria set down her plate of coffee cake but said nothing.
Minerva sipped coffee again, a gesture of normalcy and a moment of restoring strength of composure. Coming with her plea was humiliating enough. Now she would have to do it in front of a busybody and her own daughter.
“I have an item to sell,” Minerva said. “It’s brand new—still in the crates, as Rose pointed out—so its value is indisputable. But I find I have no use for it after all and hoped you might direct me to someone who would be interested in purchasing it. I’m sure Ernie would be happy to offer his truck for transporting it.”
Gloria ought to have said that of course she would help.
And she might have if Minerva had shown repentance when Gloria apologized for her part in the canning fiasco. But neither during Gloria’s apology nor during the meal they shared had Minerva intimated that she contributed to the conflict.
Or any conflict in the last forty years. Minerva was not one for apologies.
And Gloria might have agreed to help if Minerva had accepted the gift of vegetab
les with even a hint of grace rather than surrendering to her husband’s insistence that the produce would be welcome on the Swain table. But Minerva had not managed that simple social interaction either. Minerva didn’t truly want the Grabills to come for supper, and she wouldn’t be drinking coffee in Gloria’s front room if she didn’t need something.
And maybe Gloria might have offered to help if she were able to forgive Minerva even without hearing apologies. But on that matter Gloria was the one who failed, and she was not inclined to overcome mulishness in the present circumstance. Minerva could squirm a while longer, Gloria would politely say she didn’t see how she could help, and the supper invitation would be forgotten.
“What is the item?” Lillian asked.
Gloria sighed, raking her mind for a task she could ask Lillian to accomplish that would require her departure from the room, or even the house.
“A shed,” Minerva said. “A complete kit that one might easily put together in a few hours.”
“What size?” Rose said.
If Gloria had to send Rose out of the room as well, she would.
“Modest but serviceable,” Minerva said. “Nearly twelve by fifteen.”
“So you are looking for someone who might be interested in buying the shed,” Lillian said.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“At a discount, I presume.” Lillian raised her eyebrows.
One side of Gloria’s mouth stretched a half inch toward a smile at the way Minerva squirmed.
“Of course,” Minerva said, “though as I mentioned, it is brand new and still in the crates, and there would be no transportation cost.”
No one was sipping coffee or nibbling cake now. The turn toward serious negotiations unsettled Gloria.
“I know the Amish use many small outbuildings,” Minerva said. “And I know you visit one another often and know each other well. Surely you can think of someone who might be looking for additional storage space.”
Hope in the Land Page 27
