Julia's Hope (16 page)

The evening was hot, which didn’t help matters. After awhile, I stopped to pull my handkerchief out and wipe away the irritating little band of sweat that had formed across the bridge of my nose.

Just then Emma took a deep breath and looked up at me. “She’s been blessed as much, Samuel.”

I stopped for a moment. It had been a long time since I’d dared to consider Julia blessed, about me at least. I gave Emma a halfhearted nod. “I’m sure Julia would have the decency to agree with you.”

“Now you listen here, Sam Wortham.”

I turned in surprise at the sudden touch of fire in her voice.

“Of course she’s blessed! I can plain see it’s just how she said! You’ve a mind to work when you get the chance, and the good Lord can’t ask for better than that! You can’t be blamin’ yourself for the hard times! He’ll bless the work of your hands, he will!”

I shook my head. “Then he’ll be blessing your garden tonight.”

“That’s all right by me,” she said. “An’ it oughta be all right by you too.” Her smile was timeless. She was one who knew what she was talking about. And I should listen. I should listen and learn. “One thing at a time,” she continued. “You’re faithful here, and he’ll give you more. You just trust him.”

“That’s not easy sometimes,” I admitted.

“Well, if it was, I don’t reckon it would be worth much.”

We were silent again, and I plowed on, stopping only to set a rock at the garden’s edge. Of course she was trying to encourage me. I understood, but I wasn’t sure it was helping me. Emma had blessed us, but I couldn’t help but think that if we’d never met her, we’d probably be at Dewey’s now, overstaying our welcome and trying to decide where else to go. That meant it was Emma’s faithfulness, or possibly Julia’s, that had us where we were. Certainly not mine.

Emma was pondering again, and when she finally spoke, it seemed to come clear out of the blue. “You got a brother in prison. What’d he do?”

That took me by surprise. Julia must have told her, though I couldn’t imagine why. “He robbed a house while some people were gone away.”

She was studying me now with real question in her eyes. “You ever steal things?”

I couldn’t help but smile. I couldn’t blame her for wanting to be sure about me. And she was entitled to an answer. “No, ma’am,” I explained. “I guess I saw my big brother caught enough to be afraid it would happen to me. There wasn’t anything else stopping me back then, though. Till I knew the Lord enough to care.”

She sat there, nodding, and I suddenly felt like a child. “When is it you come to know him?” she asked.

“I was almost twenty. And I’d just met Julia. I wanted to marry her right away.”

“Then you b’come Christian so she’d a’cept you?”

“So I’d accept myself, maybe. Thinking I could touch such a sweet little thing.” Such an admission made me stop and shake my head. “I shouldn’t talk like that. There was more to it. Julia wanted me to love the Lord, sure. But it came alive to me, you know what I mean? I’d heard about Jesus before, but it was just a story.”

Emma was nodding and smiling, clearly enjoying at least this part of our conversation. “I know just what you mean. When I was a little girl, Mama would tell me stories all the time, and that’s just what they was—nothin’ but stories. Till old Herman Taft pointed his finger and said Jesus shed his blood for
me.
Oh, it just made me tingle inside, it come so real.”

I smiled, wondering if Herman Taft had been the preacher. And that made me wonder what Emma’s church would be like. And the people. They must be either very dedicated or else half crazy to let themselves get dunked in a muddy old farm pond. Emma was a sensible woman, and I couldn’t quite picture her stepping down into a gooey mess like that. Did they wear their church clothes right into the muck?

“Are you comin’ to church on Sund’y?” Emma asked, as if she knew my line of thinking. “They’ll just love ya, I know it.”

I wasn’t at all anxious to go to church and meet Emma’s friends. Not because they might be so different in their ways, but because of what they might think of me. I shook my head.

“They’ll love the kids,” I told her. “They’ll like Julia fine too. But they won’t take to me so well. There’ll be some who’ll say I’m worthless. And taking what’s yours, besides.”

“Oh, fooh! I’ll set ’em straight if I hafta! And don’t you sell ’em short ’fore you ever meet ’em! There ain’t many that’s as much to bicker and carry on as Hazel Sharpe is, God love her! Most of ’em is the nicest folks you’d ever care to meet.”

“Like the Hammonds?” I asked with one eyebrow raised.

“They’s just themselves. Like Charlie Hunter. Now that’s a fine boy.”

I went back to my plowing, and before long helped Emma and her two canes back into the house. Julia had made what she called “root coffee” from some chicory she’d dug down by the road. Emma drank it up while I sat and watched the two of them talk like they’d been best friends for years. I finished my root coffee, told the kids a story, and then went back outside.

It was dark already, but with a shining full moon. I walked down to the barn, asking the Lord why I still felt so out of place. A hoot owl was calling somewhere nearby, and I thought I saw something small and quick run into the barn for safety. Not a mouse this time; it was at least three times that size. I followed the thing in, even though I didn’t know what I’d do if I found it.
Do they have groundhogs
around here? Or skunks?

With the moonlight pouring through the door, I could still see in the old barn, but I didn’t see anything sitting there waiting for me. I could hear it somewhere, shuffling in the hay, but it wasn’t showing itself.
Oh, well,
I thought.
There must be a thousand little critters running around the countryside
that no one pays attention to. This one isn’t hurting anything.

I walked through the barn, wondering again how I’d ever approach the job of fixing it. Leave up the west side, Emma had said, and rebuild the rest. I went walking through that end and stopped in front of the old farm wagon. It wasn’t near as big as George Hammond’s wagon; the wheels only came up to the middle of my thigh. The wheels were metal, lightweight but sturdy as the dickens. How two of them could have gotten broken, I’d never know.

I was just about to leave the barn when a thought hit me so sudden it gave me a tingling inside. I turned around slowly, almost afraid of what I was thinking. Robert was a good kid, but I’d expected to have to tell him there was just no practical way to do what he wanted. But there was a way. Staring me in the face.

I got down in the hay to take a look at the wheel axle, but, of course, I couldn’t see it good, as dark as it was.

That got me thinking. I didn’t want to work in the daytime on such a project. Better for the others not to know about it yet. At least not Emma. Or Robert, even though he wanted to help. Better to be sure I could do it before getting his hopes up.

I’d have to bring one of the kerosene lamps out sometime. I’d have to draw the whole thing out on paper first. And I might have to tell Julia. She’d be the one to follow me if I went to the barn night after night.

God help me,
I began to pray.
Put the know-how in my head
and steady my hands for the job.
A wheelchair. A way to bless Emma. A way to give something back. Thank God for Robert. Thank God for this old busted wagon. And thank God for Rita McPiery’s porch swing or whatever got the thought started.

NINETEEN

Julia

Emma had said they were good laying hens, and she was right. There were two eggs first thing in the morning, and she said some mornings we could expect four. But we’d leave one hen setting for chicks soon enough. I could hardly wait for that. Eight or ten peeping chicks would be a decent start on plenty of eggs, and fryers later.

I gave the chickens some of the feed Rita had sent along and chatted at them fondly for a few minutes before I went back to the house. I’d have to ask Emma if she’d given them names. Seemed like such important things ought to have names.

I carried our two eggs in like a prize and showed Emma. She’d been up with the sunlight, asking if I’d found any of Willard’s old trousers. “I’m fixin’ to work in m’ garden again,” she said, “and they’d be easier than m’ dress to crawl ’round in.”

She put on a pair of blue dungarees I’d brought from upstairs and then sat at the table, enjoying some more of my root coffee. She nodded with approval at the eggs.

“Let the kids have ’em,” she told me. “Been awhile since they had good eggs, ain’t it?”

I nodded to her.

“You know how to make a shortbread?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Emma smiled at me. “It’d be fine for breakfast under some more of Rita’s peaches. You bring me the bowl, and I’ll stir if you want. Won’t be long, you know, ’fore we have fresh strawberries. Can’t you just taste ’em?”

I turned to put a couple of chunks of wood in the cook-stove. I thought of the many things I couldn’t fix because we had no syrup, no grease, no milk, and very little of anything else. “Emma, doesn’t it bother you at all?” I dared to ask. “Us having next to nothing?”

“You got nothin’ to worry about, child. The good Lord’ll provide, that’s all. We’ll be reapin’ ’fore long. You’ll see.”

I reached for the flour and baking powder and a mixing bowl. “It’d be a good day to send Robert fishing.”

“Not yet,” she determined. “We gotta plant first. That’s a job for the whole family, you know. Makes the garden belong to ever’body. Then he can go fishin’. I’d like to go m’self sometime.”

I turned to look at her, thinking of the solitary grave out on the hill. “We can get you there today, Emma, if you want to go.”

She quickly shook her head. “No. Not today. Got me aplenty a’ things to do now, up here with you. Don’t trouble yourself.”

I was quiet, probably too much, getting back to cooking. Behind me Emma sighed.

“It’s just I ain’t ready yet to go see Willard out there,” she said with sadness in her voice. “I wanna know you all a little better ’fore I start to bawl in front of ya again.”

“Oh, Emma!” I spun around and took her hand. “Don’t worry about that! It’s the most natural thing in the world! We’ll take you today!”

“No.” She squared her shoulders and sat up straighter. “Not today. Got me the garden to think about. And plenty of other things, gettin’ this place in order. Where’s your husband?”

“He went out to the barn.”

“Gotta have him look at that back fence for me. But first we’ll have t’ fix us a pen ’round the chicken coop today, so we can turn them hens out. I’d let ’em roam like I used to, but it’s hard t’ find the eggs thataway. You gotta put somethin’ ’tween them and the foxes at night too.”

I measured flour into a bowl and added a pinch of salt and a spoon of baking powder.
Sure would be nice to have
some cooking grease,
I thought.
And a milk cow.

“You know what we need ’round here?” Emma suddenly asked. “Milk for your youngsters, that’s what. I’ll have to have me a talkin’ to that George Hammond! He plain knows we’re here by now! He oughta have been right over yesterday, knowin’ he’s bound.”

I looked over at her in surprise. “Bound? To give us some milk? Why would he think so?”

“He better more than think so, child! I give him m’ guernseys when I left, though he couldn’t pay a nickel for ’em. I told him we’d square up later and ’till then, they’s still mine.”

I set my spoon down, trying to remember if Hammond had said anything about having cows. “Maybe he sold them.”

“He owes me cash money either way, now don’t he?”

“Yes. I guess he does.”

“Can’t be too hard on the fella, though. He’s got him a family to support.”

“But if he told you he’d pay—”

“Then he oughta at least spare us some milk, if he’s still got ’em,” Emma concluded.

I turned back to my cooking without saying another word. That was between Emma and the Hammonds. But it sure seemed like George Hammond should have made some kind of effort to give Emma something before now, if only an explanation. Sam had said he wasn’t too happy to give up the plow. Did he have more of Emma’s things? Was that why he didn’t like us around? Because he’d be called to account? Surely that was what Emma had meant yesterday when she said he might be scared.

I set the bowl in front of Emma and scooped some water out of the bucket to boil the eggs in. Emma stirred the shortbread and then dumped it into the baking pan.

“It’ll stick like burrs on a dog’s back, won’t it?” she chuckled. “We can scrape it out today, but we gotta get us some lard. Maybe Samuel wouldn’t mind fetchin’ a few things from the store come Mond’y. I got a few more dollars.”

“Oh, Emma. We owe you too much already.”

“I never said you owed me nothin’. ’Sides, when you’re cookin’ for me, I’m fair obligated to keep ’round what I want, now ain’t I?”

I turned toward her and shook my head. “You’re too kind, doing such nice things for us. And letting Mr. Hammond by without paying you all this time. It’s no wonder people think we’re taking advantage. You’d give away your coat, wouldn’t you?”

“Best get this in the oven,” Emma said, handing me the pan. “Would you mind makin’ up some more root coffee?”

An hour later, we were all outside. Sam and I each had a hoe and made furrows in the plowed ground. Emma and the kids put seeds in the rows, starting with the lettuce.

“Don’t want them too deep now,” she told us. “And when you come to the far end, that’s where we’ll put down the punkins. Don’t need no rows for ’em, though. Just six or seven good little hills.” She looked up at Sarah and smiled. “It’s the finest thing in the world, havin’ all your help.”

I watched her showing Sarah just how close she wanted the seeds spaced. Robert was moving ahead of them, anxious to get his seeds in the ground, but she called him to her side.

“Ain’t no hurryin’ these things,” she admonished him. “What you’re doin’s worth doin’ right. Come here, son.”

Robert squatted down beside her. “Good Book says there’s a time to ever’thin’,” she told the kids. “A time to be born. A time to die. A time to plant. And a time to pluck up what’s planted.”