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Descending her steps, Berthea came within shouting distance. “What time shall we leave for the Farm Bureau barbeque?”
Harold kicked at stones in the driveway while Addie attacked some stubborn weeds by the windmill.
“I can’t afford to leave. The mare could foal any minute.”
Berthea’s face fell. “But the speaker’s from Iowa State, an expert on hybrid seed corn. I know your father hated hybrids, but now—”
“I can watch Daisy, Harold.”
“Oh, yeah—right.” His tone matched his eye roll, but Berthea jumped to Addie’s defense.
“She can ride the bike into town if she needs you or run over to Alfred’s. He won’t go to the meeting—far too set in his ways for the new farm science.”
“Well, all right, if you insist, Ma.”
“Good—let’s go at 5:30.”
Harold went about his business, but Berthea paused. “You’re so good at weeding, Addie. You never give up. Beside my back door, there’s a jar with a Borax solution that’ll kill these—makes them a whole lot easier to pull a couple of days later.”
“Thanks—I need all the help I can get.”
Addie went for the bottle and was spraying the unruly growth beside the corncrib when Harold came out of the barn on his way to clean up. He stood near her with his arms crossed.
“Be sure you don’t forget. Can’t watch mares too closely at times like this.”
Twenty minutes later, Berthea got in the car and Harold joined her. Addie waved them off, and though he’d checked Daisy five minutes earlier, she went out again, just to be sure.
Then she raced to the house for some paper and leaned against the barn wall to write Kate about today’s experience with Norman. She barely looked up, and four pages later, an uneasy feeling plagued her.
Better not keep this in her apron pocket overnight—Norman said to listen to our intuition. Harold had no inkling about her correspondence with Kate, and she had to keep it that way. With the thick letter and some egg money in her pocket, she pedaled to Jane’s, who worked outside, as usual.
“Hello, did you come to help me weed?”
“I would, but Daisy’s about to foal, and Harold left me in charge.”
Jane found her bench and sat down. “Nothing like a baby foal—I’d like to take a peek when it’s born.”
“I’ll let you know, and would you please mail this for me tomorrow?” Addie handed over the letter and a quarter.
“It won’t be that much unless you’re sending it four times.”
“I want to be sure you have enough—it would never do for George to bring this back.”
Jane flicked away a black picnic bug. “Pesky things showed up early this year. How’s Kate getting along?”
“Alexandre’s flying again, and Kate’s new friend helped her find a job.”
“That girl needs to keep busy. Never saw such a wiggly little thing. Turned out pretty well though, don’t you think?”
“Oh, yes. She can manage whatever comes her way.”
“Um. How about some tea?”
“I’d love to, but I’d better watch Daisy. Next time?”
“I’ll hold you to it. Say, I’m out of yarn again.”
“Me, too—it went so fast.”
“Want to drive into town for more tomorrow? One o’clock?”
“Okay. Harold should be out in the field by then.”
•
“MORNIN’, GLORY!” BERTHEA’S smile lighted her face as she exited the Chevy.
“You look chipper today.”
“Going into town for coffee energizes me. Today, your old teacher, Mrs. Morfordson, told a tale on Harold.”
She sat down on a stump near the garden, so Addie rested her trowel and waited.
“That woman can hold an audience better than anyone I know. This story would embarrass Harold, she said, but she had to tell it since I was there. Brought back a good time when Bill had just graduated high school and Harold was in the sixth grade.”
Berthea folded her hands over her knee and grinned.
“Mrs. Morfordson assigned a poem to Harold’s class and gave them three days to compare two objects, use rhyme and rhythm, and focus on a down-to-earth topic. They had to read the poem and write a paragraph describing the connection between the two objects.”
Sun warmed the backs of Addie’s arms, and Berthea giggled. Such a lively light shone in her eyes.
“Reading his paragraph, Harold was dead serious.
Roses are red.
Grass is green.
My teacher’s built
Like a B-17.”
Berthea laughed again. “Can you imagine how that poor teacher controlled herself?”
“Mrs. Morfordson always maintained her dignity, and knew how to handle boys. But she’s tall and thin—how did Harold justify his comparison?”
“She said she’s thought about his logic for years. He described the plane as purposeful, useful, and necessary for the USAAC’s defense. And he said Mrs. Morfordson was purposeful, useful, and absolutely necessary to the school. He never referred to size.
“When she asked him to tell the class more about the Air Corps, he said the world’s best military aviation organization held the keys to the future, just like their teacher. Without her grammar instruction, how would they fare in their high school classes?”
Berthea hee-hawed and slapped her knee. “We laughed till we cried. Fern even came over from another table when she saw how much fun we were having.”
“You tell a pretty good story yourself.”
“I don’t hold a candle to Myrtle Morfordson. One of the women asked what grade she gave Harold. She said with his accelerated vocabulary and adult descriptions, how could she give him less than an A?”
“Will you tell Harold about this?”
Berthea eyed the wooden silo where Harold was wetting down alfalfa and leavings from the oat field.
“I don’t know. The time would have to be just right.”
v
Harold’s hair, normally parted and slicked down with Wildroot crème, showed bits of bedding straw as Addie placed before him three perfect over-easy eggs on a chipped white china plate. Four sausage patties sided a stack of toast, sliced down the middle and arranged so the halves formed M’s.
She touched his shoulder. “How did it go with Daisy last night?”
“This birthing will be a tough one.”
How do you know? She swallowed her question. Just yesterday, she read, “Set a watch before my mouth” somewhere in the Psalms.
He balanced a piece of toast and scanned the table before resting his eyes on her. What had she forgotten?
Then she noticed—the jam jar. She reached for the cupboard, but the jar sat a little too high, so she slid back her chair. When she set it down near Harold’s plate, the jar slipped and plunked down. His fingers tightened around his knife.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to set it down so hard.”
There, she’d said sorry again. One of Kate’s recent stories catapulted through her head. Kate’s new boss, Mr. Tenney, started her working the very day of the interview. In the afternoon, he sent her on an errand to his favorite bookshop.
The other day, I visited Mr. Firth, the bookseller. He fought in the Great War with Mr. Tenney’s father. The recent defeats have disheartened him, but he focused on past victories. He recalled the anniversary of the Blitzkrieg’s worst and final bombing. Bombs fell in batches, hitting Westminster Hall, the Abbey, and the Houses of Parliament. Fires raged out of control and the whole city spent all night in terror. But the British survived, and Mr. Firth said W.C. taught them to refrain from apologizing and celebrate their tenacity. Otherwise, they would look down on themselves forever.
With refrain from apologizing swimming through her mind, Addie quieted her nerves and spooned a little scrambled egg onto her toast. The other day, Berthea mentioned how often she apologized. “You’re a good worker. Do you realize how often you say you’re sorry?”
She had no answer, and now she’d said it again.
Weariness showed in the puffy shadows beneath Harold’s eyes. But with him getting up three times to check on the mare, she lost sleep last night, too. Still, she’d finished the chicken chores, checked on Norman, and cooked a good breakfast.
Why did forgetting one inconsequential jar of jam count more than all the things she did right this morning? She’d cleaned the chicken house, carried extra water for the pigs since Harold got up later than normal, and checked on Daisy.
With this world’s life-and-death struggles, why concentrate on such trivial things? Time lapsed as Harold finished his breakfast, but she could tell he waited for something. Normally, she repeated her sorry if she could see he was still irritated.
Harold looked away before she did, and silence dogged them until he left with a terse order. “Keep watch on that mare.”
The chair ridge hit her back in exactly the right place and eastern light played on the tabletop. This room would be beautiful if the old wainscoting weren’t so dark.
Mr. Firth’s quote about all the British military failures echoed as she pictured Kate sipping that precious rationed cup of tea in the bookstore. Leave it to her to find what she needed despite the war. Even from across the Atlantic, she was still making a difference here.
