Chapter 13
I used to believe that if I lived my life a certain way and didn’t make mistakes, I could make things come out the way I wanted. If I planted the right seed, it would grow; if I said the right thing, he would love me; if I ate the right food, I could ward off death. It’s all foolishness, of course, but you’ve got to hang hope on something. The older I get the more I see our struggles for what they are, but still I think our efforts have a certain brave, tender optimism that must touch the heart of God. We mean so well and we try so hard, and in the end, we are at the end.
I never asked to know what was coming. No one had ever read my palm or tried to see my future in the bottom of a teacup, and I wouldn’t have wanted them to. Yet, oftentimes, I knew more about Slim’s life than he did. I could almost smell the trials around the corner, though I was unable to change any of it. What good did it do, for me or for him? I never did understand it. How often I tried to wish away that strange gift, even to the point of closing my eyes and refusing to see. I didn’t seem to have the same sensitivity for anyone but Slim. It might have been of some use for someone else, but my sight failed me when it came to those who were near enough that I might actually have helped them. If I had known what was coming, the day and hour, I would have done something differently. Don’t ask me what, but something.
When Papa came in from work early that day in September, complaining of the heat and coughing more than usual, I didn’t know it was the last day. He said he wanted to lie down and rest awhile. Mama brought him a glass of cool water and dosed him with two tablespoons of amber-colored whiskey before he fell into a fitful, troubled sleep.
During the night his breathing got raspy and irregular. Mama came into my room to wake me, but I was already sitting up in bed, listening to Papa struggle for air. The rattling sound scared me so much I didn’t even stop to look at Papa before running out the door, my only thought to call for the doctor. I never said good-bye.
The nearest house with a phone was Thompson’s. I drove there as fast as I could and called Dr. Townsend to come right away, but it was too late. Papa died before he arrived.
When I returned Mama was stretched out across the bed, covering Papa’s feet like a blanket, screaming, just screaming, as though someone was tearing away parts of her flesh while she was still alive. That was more shocking than anything. I could never have imagined her losing herself that way. Ruby tried to comfort her, but it didn’t do any good. Morgan stood holding on to the doorjamb of Mama and Papa’s room with both hands, tears running down his face at the sight of the only father he’d ever really known lying so still and white on the bed, a stillness that can’t be mistaken for anything but death. I didn’t know what to do, so I just waited, paralyzed, until the doctor came and brushed past us all, ordering Ruby to take Mama out. Ruby half-walked, half-carried Mama into the next room, but I could still hear Mama’s sobs coming from behind the closed door. Dr. Townsend examined Papa quickly, listening to his chest and lifting up each eyelid perfunctorily before he spoke.
“It’s dust-bowl pneumonia,” he said with finality. “This isn’t the first time I’ve seen it, Eva. Your father’s swallowed so much dust it gradually clogged up his lungs, probably his stomach, too. One of my own hogs up and died last week. When we butchered it there was over two inches of dirt blocking the stomach.”
I could not put Dr. Townsend’s words into a picture that made sense. I wanted him to keep quiet while I figured things out. Talking about butchered hogs and blocked entrails and my papa all in the same breath. I didn’t understand what he was saying. What did any of that have to do with Papa lying still, looking pale and small in the big bed and Mama in the next room sobbing like she’d lost her mind. When was he going to shut up and do something?
“Eva ... Miz Eva? Did you hear me?” I looked up to see the doctor’s face, tired and patient, peering into mine.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered. “What did you say?”
“Had he been eating well lately?” he said each word slowly, as though talking to a child.
“No. He said he wasn’t hungry. Said it made his stomach hurt to eat too much. He put most of his food on Morgan’s plate. I thought he was worried about Morgan getting enough to eat.”
“Well, it was likely some of both. Glennon doted on that boy and you.” The doctor patted me on the arm awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Eva. I’m real sorry. He was a good man. Don’t go blaming yourself, now. Even if I’d gotten here earlier, I probably couldn’t have done anything. He was too far gone. You’d best pull yourself together and help your mama. Be better if you left the room while I finish my examination and fill out the death certificate.” I stood still as a statue, trying to believe what the doctor said.
“G’on now, Eva,” he prompted. “Tend to your mama. She needs you.”
“Yes,” I started as though waking from a bad dream, “I have to take care of Mama now.”
As quick as saying the words, I was head of the family. I’d never thought about Papa dying. He was young, years from sixty. If I had thought about a time when he wouldn’t be there, I would have supposed that Mama would rise up, strong and straight-necked, practical as always, and taken over, pushing me and Morgan, getting us through it all somehow. I never realized, until Papa was gone, that any strength Mama had she drew from him. It was like she had said, death changes the balance of things somehow, the weak become strong and the strong become weak. Maybe they were never all that strong to begin with. Whatever the reason, Mama was overcome by grief, and the funeral arrangements were left up to me. It was just as well—having something to do saved me from thinking too much.
Pastor Wilder, who had spent thirty years in the pulpit, had retired only the month before, so I called the new minister, the Reverend Paul Van Dyver, to say the service. I had never even met him until the morning of the funeral. His face was serious and not especially handsome, though it had some interesting angles, as if it were composed entirely of triangles. He was well over six feet tall and very, very thin, reminding me of an illustration of Ichabod Crane I’d seen as a child. He wasn’t quite thirty at the time, but the expression of a much older man was written upon his face. His manner was sincere; even in my grief, I felt there was something about him I liked. Maybe it was the way he looked at me straight on, in a manner that was so frank and plain it might have been mistaken for rudeness if his blue eyes had not been so kind. He spoke with an accent, enunciating each word carefully to make sure he was understood properly.
“I did not know your father, Miss Glennon. Normally, as his pastor, I would want to say a few words about him. However, in this case, I feel it would be improper and, coming from a stranger, insincere. It is clear that your father was very much loved by his family. It would do him more honor and be more meaningful if one of you would speak of him.”
I appreciated him stepping aside. Many a new minister trying to make an impression on the community wouldn’t have wanted to miss the opportunity to give a sermon. On the other hand, maybe he wasn’t much of a speaker and was merely afraid he’d embarrass himself. Either way, Pastor Van Dyver was right. It wouldn’t do to have a stranger eulogizing Papa. But who would speak? Mama certainly was in no condition to do so, and I wasn’t sure I could carry it off without dissolving into tears.
“I can do it.” Morgan stepped into the conversation. “I’d like to,” he told the young minister. “That is, if it’s all right with you, Mama.”
“Oh, Morgan. It’s going to be such a hard day for all of us. Are you sure you want to? I could ask Mr. Dwyer. He liked Papa, and he’s a good speaker. “
“He’s too good,” Morgan said seriously. “You’ve heard him give the announcements at church, haven’t you, Mama? Hooks his thumbs in his vest and booms on and on as though he were giving the Gettysburg Address instead of letting people know the time of the deacons’ meeting had been changed.” The minister’s eyes twinkled, and he suppressed a chuckle by suddenly needing to clear his throat.
“I’m sorry, Pastor,” Morgan apologized sheepishly. “Guess I shouldn’t say something like that about one of the deacons. Don’t get me wrong. I like Mr. Dwyer; he’s a nice man and a real good deacon; it’s just that ... Well, I think someone from the family should talk about Grandpa. That’s all.”
Van Dyver nodded to Morgan and assured him he understood entirely, then he turned to me with a trace of a smile still on his lips. “Miss Glennon, I hope you will forgive me for interjecting myself into family business, but I think young Morgan is right. For a boy his age he shows not only intelligence, but remarkable insight.” He smiled at Morgan and then turned to me again. “Though I did not have the privilege of knowing your father personally, I am sure he would be honored to have Morgan say his eulogy.”
I had to agree. Papa would have been proud to have Morgan speak of him and pleased that doing so obviously meant so much to the boy.
“It’s decided then,” the minister said. “I will return at one o’clock tomorrow, an hour before the service.” He said good-bye and shook my hand, locking my eyes again with his compassionate, concerned gaze. “If there is anything I can do to help you, I want you to feel certain you may call on me at any time.”
As many times and as many people as had said those exact words in the previous forty-eight hours, it was the first time I felt that they were spoken with utter sincerity.
Mama cried and cried, but not at the funeral. Just before the service she pulled me and Morgan aside and said, “If you have any crying to do, do it now. I won’t have us shame your papa by blubbering in front of the neighbors, do you hear?”
For one wonderful moment, I thought the old Mama was back, ordering us around like always, but guarding her grief from outsiders was as far as it went. That was the last reserve of her force. She took my arm as we walked out to the front porch to greet the arriving mourners, leaning on me for balance, suddenly becoming ancient.
The day was hot. The house was filled to bursting with sweating, sober-faced neighbors. Farmers and merchants Papa knew from town twisted their hat brims nervously in their hands and looked pitifully at their shoes as they told me of a hundred little kindnesses Papa had done them, secret loans of money or tools, and well remembered words of encouragement given in moments of despair.
Women who would not have spoken to me on the street before suddenly called me by my first name, all my past sins apparently paid for by my loss, at least for this one day. They wrung my hand and told me how sorry they were and asked me to tell Mama to let them know if there was anything they could do, though she was standing right next to me and they could easily have told her themselves. Somehow they sensed that I was in charge now, the conveyor of condolences and maker of plans.
Mr. Ashton, from the bank, tipped his hat to Mama as he came in and shook my hand more firmly than I expected. He murmured his sympathies and asked in a soft, discreet voice, “Miss Glennon, would it be convenient for you to meet me at the bank tomorrow afternoon? If you’re feeling up to it, that is.” I just had time to answer yes before Morgan came up and whispered in my ear that it was time to start.
Everyone filed into the parlor where Papa was laid out in his best suit in front of rows of straight-backed chairs, some ours, some borrowed from neighbors. If I had not known it really was Papa, had not helped wash him and dress him with my own hands, I would not have recognized him, so small, so shrunken, so still he was. Strangely, that was a comfort to me. It seemed the part of him that I knew, the part that was truly Papa, was simply gone, leaving behind a shell that had nothing to do with him or where he was now. I squeezed Mama’s hand as she sat next to me, a black veil shading eyes that seemed to see but not understand what was happening around her.
Pastor Van Dyver gave a short, simple sermon about hope and eternal life. There was nothing fancy to it, but I liked it because it affirmed my belief that Papa was in heaven and past his pain. At the same time, I couldn’t help but wonder and worry about our pain and how we were going to manage without him—and what Mr. Ashton wanted to see me about.
After the hymn was sung, Morgan stepped up to the front of the room. He stood tall and gangly in last year’s suit, his wrists showing a good two inches of white shirt cuff. I had not noticed how tall he had become, almost overnight. His voice was firm and steady, stronger and more grown up than that of the little boy he’d been just three days before.
Morgan had chosen to read from Psalm 112, “A good man sheweth favor and lendeth; he will guide his affairs with discretion. Surely he shall not be moved for ever: the righteous shall be in everlasting remembrance.” He stood a long moment before he spoke again, looking into the eyes of everyone present, his face at once innocent and wise.
“Just about every Saturday, my grandpa gave me a nickel for the picture show. I like the serials best. When I’d get home, I’d always tell Grandpa about what happened, how the hero had saved the day, and the girl, and how I couldn’t wait to see what happened next week. Grandpa always sat and listened to whatever I had to say, like it was something important. Then when I’d finished he’d whistle and wink his eye and say something like, ‘That Tarzan, he’s a brave fellow, all right.’ Then we’d go back to feeding the chickens or cleaning the barn just like we did every day.
“Sometimes I’d wonder to myself if I’d ever have the chance to do something brave, but somehow, when you’re doing chores it’s hard to imagine you’ll ever be a hero or even meet one face to face. Mucking out the stable on a Saturday afternoon, all I wished was that time would go more quickly so I could get back to the pictures and see what happened to my heros. A week felt like a million years, and our farm felt like the end of the earth.
“But now my grandpa is gone, and the time I had with him seems like a minute. I’d give up every Saturday picture show for the rest of my life to have one more talk with him. See, I know something about heroes that I didn’t know before, something I wish I’d realized when he was still alive so I could have told him about it to his face.
“Grandpa was the real hero in my life. He didn’t rescue the girl or sink the pirate fleet, but he was a hero just the same. These last years on the farm haven’t been easy, as all of you know. Year after year the crops dry up and blow away, and some days it seems like things will never get better. Sometimes it’s enough to make a fellow want to give up. A lot of people have. But not Grandpa. He kept working, even when there was no work to be had. He kept hoping, even when things seemed hopeless. He kept trying, even when there was no reason to think he’d win.
“If you think about it, that’s what heros are: people who try to save the day, though the odds are against them. At the picture show, the hero always wins. In real life, it doesn’t always work that way, but it doesn’t mean my grandpa was any less courageous than Tom Mix. I think Grandpa was more courageous. Serial heros only have to be brave for twenty minutes every Saturday. Grandpa did it every day of his life.
“I’ll always remember him. I hope you will too.”
Despite mama’s warning, a tear rolled down my cheek. I wiped it away quickly before anyone could see.
The strangest part of Papa’s funeral was the day after. My eyes opened just before dawn. I pulled myself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed, my leg feeling even stiffer and heavier than usual, and combed through my hair with my fingers. Already the hens were scratching around in the yard and a young cockerel was cock-a-doodling a pitiful imitation of a full-fledged rooster. The floorboards were cold on my feet as always, and the sounds of morning on the farm ticked off dully and reliably like minutes on a clock—and, yet, I thought, Papa isn’t here. Suddenly, I was too sad to get dressed. I sat for a long time thinking nothing until Ruby cracked open the door and said it was time for breakfast.
Sitting at the sewing machine later that morning, I found myself adding up bills for coffin and headstone and labor to dig the grave, trying to figure how many more quilts I would have to make and sell that month to see us through, and wondering what Mr. Ashton wanted to see me about.
While I was picking out a bad seam, the needle pierced my finger deeply. Three perfect drops of blood fell onto the quilt like tears that wouldn’t wash out. I finished the sewing and found myself wondering who would buy that quilt and lie under it nights. Would they notice the bloodstains and be curious as to how they got there, or would their eyes be drawn to the overblown roses and silly daisies instead, completely overlooking the signature I’d left for someone to find?
Mr. Ashton stood up as I entered his office and motioned me the chair nearest his desk. After reiterating his sorrow at our untimely loss, completing the proper inquiries after myself and my mother, and offering me a glass of water, he cleared his throat. Briefly, a flicker of uncertainty in his eyes made me think that despite his appearance of infallibility, Mr. Ashton might be human after all. I liked him better for it.
He cleared his throat a second time before squaring his shoulders and plunging ahead with the assurance that I was more accustomed to hearing in his voice, as though all of his nouns started with capital letters.
“Miss Glennon, as you will remember, some years ago I informed you of the existence of an Account which was opened in your name and to which you were entitled to request Annual Deposits, though you have never availed yourself of the Opportunity. Over the years I have received instructions, through the law firm of the Anonymous Party, to keep an eye on your Financial Situation so they might inform their client of any needs you might have, but might be, shall we say ... hesitant to inform me of directly.”
His face was so implacable that I didn’t know if he had wanted to use “proud” or “ashamed” in place of “hesitant,” but as he took off his perfectly clean glasses and rubbed them with his spotless handkerchief, I saw a whisper of a smile crinkle his eyes and felt he’d meant the former.
“I have been pleased to report to the Anonymous Party”—he said it with such emphasis that I was sure the party wasn’t anonymous to him, but felt just as certain my secret was safe with Mr. Ashton—“of your industriousness and ingenuity and that you have not only refrained from spending the funds in your account, you have added to it from time to time. Of course, in these last few years, you have drawn down the account to meet your expenses, but still, in spite of your difficulties, you have never withdrawn the principle.”
“It’s not mine to spend,” I explained. “I promised myself I never would. That money is for Morgan. For his future.”
“I ascertained as much,” said the banker, balancing his glasses on the end of his nose and peering at me over the shining clean lenses. “You should be congratulated, Miss Glennon. Very few young women would have been able to live up to such a principle in such challenging times.”
“Thank you, Mr. Ashton, but any mother would have tried to do the same in my situation,” I demurred.
“I very much doubt that, Miss Glennon.” He shook his head gravely and raised his eyebrows so his forehead wrinkled, revealing just how many layers there were to his doubts. I couldn’t help but wonder that a man as skinny as Mr. Ashton had enough spare skin on his frame to leave room for wrinkles. “Most women in your situation would have been in my office every year, asking for more and larger deposits.” (Mr. Ashton never seemed to use the word “money,” as though it would have been coarse and not quite polite to do so.) “Some would have had good intentions of saving the funds, but there are none that I can think of by name who would have been able to follow through with their resolution in the face of this terrible economic crisis. Your endurance has won my sincere admiration. I say again, Miss Glennon, you are to be congratulated.” Then, to my surprise, he actually stood up, leaned across the desk, and shook my hand with all the vigor of an aspiring politician.
Smiling politely to mask my confusion, I thanked him again before retrieving my hand. “But, surely, Mr. Ashton, that’s not why you asked me to come see you?”
The expression of cheer fled from his face. “No, Miss Glennon, I’m afraid not.” He cleared his throat again, as though to give himself time to formulate his next sentence. “You have done well, with your finances, very well indeed. Your father, however, was not as fortunate. Two years ago, he took out a second mortgage on your farm to pay back taxes as well as meet living expenses and purchase seed to plant crops, which, as you know, failed.”
My stomach dropped. How much did we owe? Would the bank foreclose and leave us without a home if I couldn’t find the money? A thousand questions assailed my mind, and then I thought of Papa. Poor Papa had carried this load all alone. It broke my heart to think how desperate and alone he must have felt.
“In these economic conditions, Miss Glennon, it’s doubtful I would have made that loan to another man, but I felt your father would do whatever it took to meet his obligations. When he fell behind on the payments I gave him more time, still believing him to be a good risk. Indeed, since beginning his new job he’d made good progress toward bringing his loan up to date. Had he lived, I believe he would have done just that, but given the circumstances ...”
“How much do we owe?” I asked weakly.
“In addition to the loan itself there are back taxes and penalties for the last two years, amounting to well over three thousand dollars,” he said softly, almost apologetically.
Three thousand dollars! The figure rang in my mind like a bell. Even if I emptied out Morgan’s account it wouldn’t be enough. I couldn’t even begin to think how many quilts that added up to, but somehow I had to try. I had to buy some time first, and then I had to find a way to hold on to the farm. After that, I’d figure out how to earn Morgan’s money back.
My hands were shaking, but I willed my voice to sound strong, “Mr. Ashton, if I could give you the money in Morgan’s account now, surely a system of monthly payments could be worked out. I don’t earn much with my quilts, but I’m sure there is a way to make good on the loan over time. You can’t take the farm.” I tried to keep my voice firm and emphatic, but it was impossible to keep out the note of pleading. “At least not without giving me a chance to pay the money back.”
For a moment the banker looked a bit startled, “Miss Glennon, I didn’t bring you here to threaten foreclosure! I merely wanted you to know—that is, I felt you had the right to know ... Miss Glennon, I took the liberty of cabling the Attorneys of the Anonymous Party on the day of your father’s death and informing them of the situation.” He cleared his throat again.
“It has all been paid, Miss Glennon. All of it, and next year’s taxes in addition.”
Suddenly the reason for Mr. Ashton’s discomfort was clear. He had called Slim’s lawyers without my permission because he knew if he had asked I would have said no. I would have told him we would manage without the help of the Anonymous Party. My feelings of warmth toward the banker gave way to irritation mixed with an underlying sense of relief.
Mr. Ashton removed his glasses again and leaned toward me urgently. “There simply was no other way, my dear, or I would never have done it,” he said gently. “You want to fulfill your obligations to your son, I know, and you have done so, very ably. But you must consider, you are not the only one with a duty to the boy, are you?” He raised his eyebrows questioningly, and the layers of wrinkles creased his forehead again. “Sometimes our responsibilities to our children extend even to admitting the need for help. For you I suspect that may be the most difficult debt to pay. It certainly was for your father.”
The thought of Papa all alone with that terrible burden threatened to bring me to tears. If he had told me, wouldn’t I have done anything I could to help? Wouldn’t we have found a way, together? And, if there was no other way, wouldn’t I have gone out and plowed those barren, blowing fields by his side, swallowed half the dust that was meant for him? Yes. I’d have done anything if it had meant we might be together. If only he had let me help him.
“All right, Mr. Ashton,” I conceded. “I understand. It’s hard for me to admit, but you did the right thing. Thank you for your help. I truly appreciate all you have done for my family.” I swallowed hard, and Mr. Ashton reached into his pocket to offer me his handkerchief.
“No, that won’t be necessary,” I said. As I got up to leave, Mr. Ashton rose from his chair.
“Oh, Miss Glennon, there is one more thing.” He picked up a plain white envelope from his desk. “Your father asked me to give this to you in case anything ever happened to him.” He put the envelope in my outstretched hand, then patted me gently on my shoulder. “It is a delivery I am genuinely sorry to make.”
I held the envelope for a moment before opening it. The letter inside was written in Papa’s bold sloped handwriting, each word leaning forward as though anxious for the one that came after. It was hard to believe that the hand that wrote them—the hand that had always been so warm and vibrant and alive—was now cold and still forever. Blinking back the threat of tears, I began to read.
My darling Evangeline,
If you are reading this it is because I have gone and, I am afraid, left you with a terrible burden to carry. It is my hope you never will see this letter, that the rains will come again and the wheat will sprout and thrive and I will be able to pay off the loans I have been forced to take out. When that happens, I’ll ask Ashton to give me back this letter, I’ll burn it, and we’ll all live to a ripe old age with you none the wiser about this whole thing. That is my hope, but I’ve lived too long on this earth to think that things always turn out as we hope.
So, if I’ve left you and you do read this, I’m sorry. I have tried my best to protect you and Morgan and your mother. I hope you’ll not be too hard on me, or on yourself, if my best turns out not to be enough.
I know I don’t have to tell you to work hard and be a good girl. I know I don’t have to tell you to take care of your mother for me and do your best for Morgan. But there is one thing I must tell you. Be happy, my girl. Enjoy life and I don’t just mean in your life with Morgan. He is a wonderful son, but he can’t be your whole life. That’s too big a pair of shoes for one boy to fill. If you are willing to risk being hurt, you’ll find love in all kinds of places. Look at me, broken-down old Irish lobsterman that I am, if I hadn’t taken the risk of getting hurt and asked your mother to marry me and moved halfway across the country to get her to do it, I would have missed nearly thirty years of wonderful times with her and the best daughter and grandson a man could hope for. It was all worth it.
I know I don’t have to tell you that I want the world for you, and I know I don’t have to tell you how much I love you, but I will.
I love you with all my heart.
Papa