Emma's Gift (35 page)

“You haven't changed the place much. Where's the mantle clock?”

“It was broken accidentally,” Juli said quickly. “We'll replace it, if it was important to you.”

“If that one was important, some other one bought to replace it wouldn't quite fit the bill, now would it?”

Neither of us said a word. It was impossible to tell whether he was bothered about the clock or not.

“The preacher do a good funeral?”

“He tried,” Juli said timidly. “He did very well. It was just…so hard, Mrs. Hammond's being on the same day.”

Albert sighed. “Yes.” He was quiet, looking into his cup, and then drained the rest of it in one gulp. “You folks have any new plans?”

Julia looked at me almost nervously. It would be far easier for me to go, if it came to that. To do something else if we had to. But Juli loved this place. She'd connected with it, and with Emma, right from the start.

“No,” I told him. “We don't have any certain plans.”

He stood up. “You sure you're okay to walk?”

“Yes.”

“Get one of Aunt Emma's canes, will you?”

“I don't need—”

“It won't kill you now just to be a little cautious. You don't have to act a hundred percent if you're not there yet.”

So I took a cane. And it helped, just knowing it was in my hand when the world tilted a little.

We were out of the farmyard and well into the trees before he spoke again.

“What kind of shape is George's place in? Gone down pretty bad? I didn't even go over and have a look at it last time I was down.”

“Needs work. Quite a bit of work, to be honest. But so does this one. But we've tried to keep up, and I expect he has too.”

“You think so? He feeds his hogs. Milks the goats and such. But he's never been one to fix on a place. It was sturdy enough once, but I've heard it's not far from falling around his ears.”

“It's not that bad.”

“You've come to be a friend of his then?”

“Yes. I have.”

“No more than natural. Under the circumstances.”

He was unreadable, at least for the moment. Hard and soft at the same time. No telling which way the water would run.

I followed him up the little hill above the pond, where you could still see the place I'd gone under, a jagged hole glazed over with a fresh patch of too-thin ice.

He stopped in front of Willard's grave, but he was looking at Emma's. “I'll have a stone marker sent out,” he said. “But it might not be till spring.” He was so quiet then, for the longest time. “Did you understand her?” he finally asked me.

“I tried to. She was a good woman. But it was Julia that was closest to her. Seemed like they'd known each other for years.”

He laughed. “Two of a kind. Just as soon be barefoot in the garden or picking some kind of leaf to put in your teacup. Rather do that than go watch a picture show.”

“They're funny sometimes,” I agreed. “Practical, though.” Too late I realized I'd used the present tense.

“Seems like she's still here.”

“Yes. I guess it does.”

He sighed. “She wanted you to have her farm when she found out I wouldn't move back down from the city. She said you needed it. And you'd appreciate it.”

I didn't say anything. I couldn't say anything. He had his right, whatever he chose to do. And I had no right to influence him.

“She was strong-willed. Heart of gold. But no business sense at all. You know? Do you have any idea what this farm is worth?”

“No,” I answered honestly.

“Well, I don't either in today's market, but in 1928 it would've brought a fair price. She didn't care, though. She didn't care about stuff like that.”

He glanced down the hill toward Wilametta's grave in the birches but turned his head away again.

“How do you figure a person that'll throw away thousands of dollars over a lifetime? Giving all the time? Huh? What do you call that?”

Saintly, I was thinking. But I couldn't say it. I figured he didn't really want to hear it.

“I tried. Over and over I tried to explain to her the way financial matters are supposed to work in this world, and that it isn't a sin to look out for yourself. But she was too busy looking out for the likes of George Hammond to listen to me.”

“She listened,” I ventured. “She just had to follow her own heart. It beat a little different than most people's, I think.”

He turned and looked at me, making me wish I hadn't spoken. “She told me she used to be greedy when she was younger. Like the rest of us, I guess. But she couldn't be that way anymore. Tell me. You still want the place?”

“I can't tell you. I can't be swaying your decision one way or another.”

“Tarnation, Sam Wortham! Aunt Emma tried to give you the deed, and you wouldn't take it! Now you won't tell me. What is it with you? Does it go against your nature some way to get ahold of what's in front of you?”

“No. I just don't want to be taking what's yours.”

“Emma didn't count it mine. Not since I told her I meant to stay in the city.”

I bowed my head, looking down at Emma's grave.
Lord, please show me what to do, how to talk to this man.

“So if I straight-out offered you the deed, same as Emma did, would you take it now that she's gone?”

I wrestled with the question, though Julia's answer was sitting there on the tip of my tongue, tingling to get out. It was too easy. Sure, I'd worked. I'd have to keep working. But I wasn't like somebody who had struggled for years to keep a farm in the family or managed to save back wages to buy the ground with cold, hard cash. I hadn't had a steady job for almost two years. I didn't deserve this. Just like I'd told Emma. I didn't deserve this.

“Well…would you take the deed or not? Why's that such a difficult question?”

I swallowed hard, thinking of Julia, Robert, and Sarah, their happy voices floating across the farmyard and joining with Emma's. Oh, she'd loved them. They'd loved her. It was right. It was God-ordained.

“Yes,” I said, barely able to get the word out. “If you mean to give it, I'd take it.”

“Well, now. We have an answer.” He was looking at the sky and then the timber all around us. “I used to play with Warren out here. Emma's boy. Did she ever tell you about that?”

“She didn't talk about him very often.”

“I expect not. Hurt awful bad losing him.” He turned to me again. “We used to fish down there, and swim too, in that pond where you were almost lost, Wortham. Emma used to tell us to be careful. Be careful. Well, we weren't. But nothing ever happened out here. Not to anybody but you.” He shook his head. “Pretty spot in the spring. Used to picnic out here. I think I'll section off a square and keep it. You don't need it, anyway. You sure don't need the graves.”

“No,” I agreed. “I don't.”

“I've thought on this a lot. Can't see clear to buck against Aunt Emma's intent, though it doesn't make any real sense, you understand that? She only knew you, what, seven months?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, it seems mighty foolish, but it was Emma's place. It was her choice. And I'll fix you the deed before I go back north.”

I almost could've fallen over, knowing the relief Julia would feel. Of course, I didn't know if it was the news or being upright so long that was making my head feel like it was swimming.

“You all right?”

“Yes. Thank you. Yes.”

He grew quiet a minute. “What would you do about George?” he finally asked me.

“Well—”

“No. Wait a minute. I've got to say something about that. It's different. That farm was never Emma's home. It was just something Willard bought to make a profit. George was supposed to pay. Long time ago he agreed to pay. And as far as I see it, he hasn't put in a dime, not one dime, for at least eight years.”

“He's been struggling just to make ends meet. Emma told him to put feeding his family first. She didn't—”

“She made it easy for him to cheat her. It was different with you. You were supposed to keep up the place and take care of her so she could come home. You did that.”

“It's the only home his children have known.”

“That don't give George an excuse.”

“She loved them too.”

“She loved everybody. Fools as much as anybody else. That was Aunt Emma. I'm getting cold, how about you? Let's head back to the house.”

There was no stopping him, no persuading him, the way he looked just then. He marched away from me down the hill and straight back over the trail to the farmyard. And my heart pounded just thinking of George. Why should I gain a farm and him lose one? Why should I be spared and his precious wife go on to be with the Lord? Sure, he'd been slack about upkeep, but maybe he wouldn't stay that way.
Lord, give him another chance.

But Albert didn't give me another chance to talk to him before we got to the house. As soon as we came in, Lizbeth offered him cocoa and some of the Christmas cookies they'd made, but he paid her no attention at all.

I knew it bothered Julia to see us coming in looking so grim. I wanted to tell her he'd already decided to honor Emma's decision about us. But that wasn't the foremost thing on her mind. Something was working in her, I could see it, and it had her flustered some way. She dropped a dish, picked it up again, and then couldn't help but come at us looking as scared and as determined as I'd ever seen her.

“Mr. Graham…”

He looked at her in surprise, as if he didn't expect any of us to say much of anything unless he spoke first.

“Mr. Graham, I have to talk to you.”

“Well, go ahead.” He seated himself in a kitchen chair, looking almost amused.

“Mr. Graham,” Juli began, “I was with Emma when she died. I was the only one. And she told me I had to talk to you when you got here. I don't know what you've decided. But I have to tell you what she said.” She took a deep breath. This was hard for her, I could tell.

“She told me not to let you take George Hammond's farm—”

“It's not his farm.” Albert was definitely not amused now.

“Maybe not,” Juli persisted. “I guess I can understand that, to your mind. But it's his children's home. That's what she was thinking about. Wilametta is buried in that ground over there—”

“I didn't approve that.”

“Emma did! She told me the land shouldn't be sold to anybody else. Not ever. She wanted George and especially the children to have it, Mr. Graham, because their mother is buried here, and because she loved every single one of them like they were her own. Most people don't understand that, I know. But you were so far away. And her son was gone. They were family. She wanted them here. She wanted them around, whether they could pay anything or not. Just for love! Just because that's the way she was!”

Behind her, Lizbeth burst into tears, and I saw that Juli too was crying. Dear, strong Juli. When there was so much at stake for our own family, to be standing here presenting a case for the Hammonds. I was proud. I hoped she knew that.

“Oh, Mr. Graham,” she went on. “Forgive me, but it's not your decision. Not really. It was Emma's. And she made it.”

He leaned his head against one hand. “I can't say it's anything I haven't heard before.”

“We know,” Julia told him pointedly. “She asked you to draw up papers for her.”

“She didn't always know what was best for her own self,” he defended. “I wanted to be sure, before I did anything, that she wasn't going to be hurt by it. Or change her mind if she finally got tired of him using her so long.”

“She didn't change her mind.”

Juli looked as unmoveable as brick, and I smiled. “I can witness to that.”

He looked up at me, his face still unreadable. “Well…”

He didn't say anything else. He picked up one of the cookies that Lizbeth had set on the table and sat a long time not talking, just slowly breaking that cookie up into bits and not eating a crumb. Finally he looked up.

“You're Lizbeth, aren't you?”

The poor girl jumped, she was so startled that he would address her. She shifted her baby sister to the opposite hip and timidly nodded her head. “Yes, sir.”

He glanced up at her for a moment and then turned his eyes back to the table with a sigh. “Aunt Emma told me once you were the one that started it all. She didn't always feel so close with you, you know. She said once you were nothing particularly special and none of the other families she helped were either. She just midwifed and went about her business. That's what she said. But after helping your mother bring you into world, and then you being so sick that winter they didn't know if you'd make it—that's when she came to care. She took to praying. Took you to heart. And she kept right on caring all this time since. And not just for you. Like to drive me batty sometimes, not knowing what she'd do next. Give away a registered bull or a wagon or part of her corn crop. I couldn't keep up with her.”

Lizbeth nodded, though I didn't know if she'd ever heard all this before or not. She didn't say a word.

“I can't give your father that land,” Albert told her. “I don't even want to renew the contract and give him a chance to come up short on it like he did before.” He brushed the cookie crumbs away from him with one sweep of his hand. “He doesn't make much of an effort, so far as I can see. He's lazy, shiftless, not worth the paper we'd sign. Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I don't be seein' him to be all that bad,” Lizbeth said, calm as a breeze. And I was proud of her too.

“You wouldn't. And I guess that speaks well of him, of a sort. He's not been too ugly to you at least. Has he?”