Where Willows Grow (28 page)
This evening he had read portions from the third chapter of Colossians. So many of the verses held deep meaning for him. He needed to set aside anger, he needed to build his knowledge of God, he needed to forgive those who had hurt him. Including Nelson. He swallowed, realizing how difficult it would be. Yet he was sure he could do it, with God’s help. He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer.
‘‘Lord, let your peace rule my heart. Let me please you with my thoughts.’’
A shuffle sounded from the doorway, and he opened his eyes, expecting to see the night nurse. It was time for lights-out. But instead, Mr. Peterson’s head and shoulders poked through the doorway.
‘‘Did I wake you?’’
Harley shook his head and gestured with one hand. ‘‘No. Come on in. But aren’t visiting hours over?’’
The man entered the room, crossing to stand beside Harley’s bed. A bulky burlap bag dangled from his hand. ‘‘Yes, but the nurse said I could come up if I only stayed a minute. I wanted to bring you something.’’
Harley smiled. ‘‘You’ve brought me enough. The food was great, but . . .’’ He lifted the Bible. ‘‘This is the best. Thank you. Never had a book of my own before.’’
Peterson’s face lit up. ‘‘I’m pleased to see you’re reading it.’’
‘‘Every day. Learnin’ a lot, too.’’ Harley frowned, regret striking. ‘‘Don’t know why it took me so long to start listening to God. My wife—she preached it at me for years, but I just couldn’t see it. Not until Dirk . . .’’ The picture of Dirk’s still form sprawled in the dirt flashed through his mind. He pushed the image aside, replacing it with one of Jesus with outstretched arms. The minister who had come at the nurse’s call last week had given him the suggestion of replacing unpleasant images with a picture of Christ. It helped.
Peterson gave Harley’s shoulder a pat. ‘‘I know your wife will be thrilled to hear of your conversion. My wife and I celebrate it with you, too.’’
Harley managed a wobbly smile. He’d had no idea how many people had prayed for him: Dirk and his parents, Annie, the Petersons. God had used so many people to bring his heart around. The knowledge of God’s love washed over him again, bringing the sting of tears to his eyes.
‘‘Have you written to your wife to let her know what happened?’’
Mr. Peterson’s question sent a stab of guilt through Harley’s chest.
‘‘No, sir. I . . .’’ He shook his head. ‘‘I wrote to her lots of times, but she’s never written back. Not once. I . . . I don’t rightly know where I stand with Annie anymore. I’m afraid . . . Well, I’m thinkin’ she might’ve decided to carve out a life without me.’’
Mr. Peterson frowned. ‘‘That doesn’t make much sense.’’
Harley shrugged. ‘‘I don’t know what else to think. Why wouldn’t she ever send me any word? We . . . we’d been strugglin’ for quite a while before I left. Might be she’s just decided things’re a lot easier without me.’’ He forced a light chuckle. ‘‘Might be she doesn’t want me back.’’
Mr. Peterson hefted the bag to the edge of the mattress, propping it next to Harley’s hip. Peeling back the top flap, he revealed several books. ‘‘Remember we talked about you learning to draw blueprints?’’
Harley nodded, his eyes on the books.
‘‘I gathered up a few used textbooks. They aren’t new ones, but I think you’ll still get some benefit from them. According to the doctor, it will be at least another week before they let you try out your leg.’’ The man’s gaze flitted to Harley’s cast for a moment. ‘‘Just in case you aren’t able to farm again, I thought you might want to explore an alternate way to take care of your family.’’
Harley’s heart picked up its tempo. He reached for the books. ‘‘Do you really think I could learn all this?’’ He flopped one book open, and his eyes widened at the columns of words and complicated diagrams. ‘‘I’m just a stupid farmer who never got much schoolin’.’’
Mr. Peterson gave a snort. ‘‘Now, don’t defeat yourself before you begin. A stupid person can’t be a successful farmer. And schooling has nothing to do with intelligence. Believe me, son—from what I’ve observed, you’ve got the intelligence; now you need the training.’’
Harley fingered the books, his eyes scanning the blue cover of the top book. Peterson’s words of praise made Harley’s chest fill with pride. No one had ever told him he was smart before. He didn’t know what to say.
‘‘Well . . .’’ Peterson glanced toward the door. ‘‘I better leave before the nurse throws me out.’’ He smiled down at Harley. ‘‘Enjoy that reading.’’
Harley met the man’s gaze and held out his hand. He found his voice. ‘‘Thank you, sir, for everything you’ve done for me.’’
Harley spent a few minutes after Mr. Peterson left just looking at the stack of books. Then, with some difficulty, he rolled slightly to his side and turned the little snap on the bedside lamp. He pulled out one of the textbooks, propped it on his belly, and turned to the first chapter: ‘‘Drawing to Scale.’’
Ern Berkley lay with his hands behind his head, staring at the ceiling. He needed to repair that one long crack that ran from the center of the room to the northeast corner. He’d cracked the plaster when installing the electric light two years before Ginny’s death. Turned the screw on the ceramic plate too tight on one side. It took a whole year for the crack to wiggle its way clear to the corner. Funny—it had happened so slow he hardly noticed it until it was too long to ignore.
Kind of like sin.
Ern grimaced. Jack . . . When had his son started changing? The crack probably began the day Anna Mae said ‘‘I do’’ to Harley. That was the day Jack developed a veneer. Ern had ignored it, thinking Jack would come back around when the pain lessened, and return to being the lighthearted, happy-go-lucky boy he’d always been.
But instead, Jack had nursed the pain—never looked elsewhere for a wife, stayed in his childhood home where he’d be close to Anna Mae, kept an eye on Harley. Watching, always watching. It hadn’t been healthy, but Ern hadn’t realized how wide the crack had grown until the day Harley headed down the road, trusting Jack to check in on his family.
Ern brought down his hands, thumping his fists against the mattress. Jack’s choices in the past months had created a barrier between father and son, but more than that, they’d created a chasm between Jack and the God of his childhood faith. The relationship needed to be repaired. Jack needed to be convicted.
But how? Ern wasn’t even sure where Jack was right now, at ten o’clock on a Saturday night. He should be in bed, sleeping, resting up for services tomorrow. But Jack probably wouldn’t go. He’d avoided church for the past four weeks, giving some excuse about a cow that needed attention or a pump that needed adjusting or something. Always something.
Ern knew the truth. Jack was avoiding God. He was avoiding his conscience. He’d been raised to know right from wrong; he knew he was walking in the wrong, but he wanted to keep doing it.
Instead of anger, only sorrow pressed against Ern’s chest. ‘‘Oh, Lord, I want to help my son.’’ The depth of his sadness pushed him from the mattress to his knees at the side of the bed. He prayed, pouring out his concern for Jack and his concern for Anna Mae. When he finished, he felt better, but he was still restless.
He padded to the quiet hallway. Across from his own room, Jack’s bedroom door faced him. Closed. Another change. Jack had never closed the door to the room before Harley left. Ern’s heart beat a rapid tattoo. He knew what Jack was hiding, and he also knew Anna Mae had a right to know.
Jack could return at any minute and catch him, but Ern decided it was worth the risk. Eventually Jack would need to be confronted anyway. If he came in and found his father rustling through his things, it would give Ern an opportunity to tell him it was time to ’fess up. Ern could no longer carry the burden of guilt. It was past time to set things to right.
Moving forward on bare feet, he stretched out his hand and curled his fingers around the doorknob. He needed to retrieve the letters Jack had been hiding and show them to Anna Mae. ‘‘Lord,’’ he prayed, ‘‘please forgive my son.’’
M
R
. B
ERKLEY HELPED
A
NNA
M
AE
down from the wagon seat and then reached into the back to lift Marjorie and Dorothy from the bed. He swung the girls high in the air before plunking them on the ground, making them both giggle.
Dorothy took hold of Marjorie’s hand and guided her toward the porch. ‘‘Bye, Papa Berkley!’’ Dorothy waved with her free hand.
A fond smile lined Mr. Berkley’s face as he watched the children climb the single step and enter the porch. When he turned to face Anna Mae, his expression sobered.
Anna Mae puckered her brow. ‘‘Is everything okay? You were so quiet on the ride home.’’
The older man lowered his head for a moment. ‘‘Honey, I’m bothered about something. Jack—’’
‘‘Where is Jack?’’ Anna Mae hugged her Bible against her chest. ‘‘He’s missed church now . . . what? Three Sundays?’’
‘‘Four.’’ Mr. Berkley’s mouth formed a grim line. ‘‘I—’’ He shook his head, his eyes sorrowful. ‘‘I don’t know what’s going on with my son these days, Anna Mae.’’
The sadness in his eyes pierced Anna Mae’s heart. She touched his arm. ‘‘I’m sure he’s okay. Just busy. He’s responsible for your dairy farm, his oil wells, and my chores, too. He’s carrying a heavy load.’’
He frowned. ‘‘Yes . . . a heavy load.’’
Worry about Jack pressed at Anna Mae, too. He’d said he would wait for her to approach him, and he’d kept his word. He came each day to do the milking, but he didn’t come to the house for conversation like he used to; he just performed the chores and headed out. It hurt Dorothy’s feelings, and it bothered Anna Mae more than she cared to admit. She felt as though something else of importance was slipping away from her. She’d lost her crops, her house, and Harley. Jack’s friendship took on a greater meaning in light of those other losses. Did she want to forfeit that, too?
She forced her lips into a bright smile even though her heart ached. ‘‘Don’t worry, Mr. Berkley. I’m sure things will settle down soon.’’ Her words sounded lame even to her ears.
Mr. Berkley released a deep sigh, his eyes closing for a moment. When he opened them again, he offered her a weak smile. ‘‘Honey, there is something I need to talk to you about. Do you suppose—?’’
‘‘Mama!’’ Dorothy stood inside the porch, her nose and both palms pressed to the screen.
‘‘Dorothy, don’t push on the screen,’’ Anna Mae said. ‘‘You’ll loosen it up.’’ Harley knew how to reset the screen; Anna Mae didn’t.
Dorothy took an obedient step backward, but her face crunched into a scowl. ‘‘Marjorie an’ me are hungry.’’
Anna Mae sent Mr. Berkley an apologetic look. ‘‘Could we talk later? I do need to get lunch on the table.’’
He nodded, smoothing his hand over his balding head. ‘‘Yeah. Yeah, that’d be okay. I’ll maybe come by this evening?’’
‘‘Yes, that would be fine. Come at suppertime and you can have some stew with us. Jack is welcome, as well.’’
‘‘No.’’ The word burst out forcefully, startling Anna Mae. Mr. Berkley appeared surprised, too. He took a backward step, his eyes widening. Then, drawing his hand down his face, he cleared his expression. ‘‘I . . . I’m sure Jack will be choring. Cows need to be milked, you know. It’ll just be me.’’
Trepidation struck. Mr. Berkley was hiding something, but from Anna Mae or Jack? She couldn’t be sure. She forced another quavering smile. ‘‘All right, then. Just you. I’ll bake some of Mama’s buttery baking soda biscuits. I know you like those.’’
The smile made him appear much more relaxed. ‘‘Oh yeah, your mama was a good cook.’’
Anna Mae nodded, a longing for her mother washing over her. Growing up, she’d had her parents plus Ern and Ginny Berkley in her life. Now all that was left was Mr. Berkley. The thought made her want to give the man a hug. Instead, she clutched her Bible tighter. ‘‘I’ll see you this evening.’’
After another quick smile, he pulled himself into the wagon and slapped the reins down. The horses obeyed, and the wagon turned a neat circle and rolled out the gate. Anna Mae stood for a moment, watching after him. Heat that had nothing to do with the noonday sun filled her chest.
‘‘Mama?’’ Dorothy’s voice sounded more curious than fretful now. ‘‘You comin’?’’
‘‘Yes, darlin’.’’ Anna Mae turned toward the house, but her gaze followed the wagon and Mr. Berkley’s slope-shouldered position on the seat. Something worried the man. She hoped there wasn’t something wrong with Jack. She couldn’t face one more piece of bad news.
Ern entered the house through the back service porch. He found Jack at the kitchen table with a sandwich in his hands. Stopping in the doorway, he watched his son lift the sandwich to his mouth and take a bite. He shook his head, disappointment striking.
Jack raised his head to look toward the doorway. Around the bite, he said, ‘‘What?’’
‘‘Did you pray before you ate?’’
Jack dropped the sandwich and slumped back in the chair. He swallowed. ‘‘It’s just a sandwich, Pop. Not that big of a deal.’’
Ern pushed himself forward, tiredness making him move slowly. He stopped at the table and shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. ‘‘Just like it’s not a big deal that you’ve missed church these past Sundays?’’
Jack screeched the chair backward and rose, stomping to the icebox, where he pulled out a pitcher of milk. He splashed milk into a cup and took a long swig before answering. ‘‘Look, Pop, I’ve been busy. Lots to do here now with those oil pumps. Gotta keep ’em primed and running at full throttle to meet the demands. You like the money coming in, don’t you?’’
Ern couldn’t deny they were blessed. Many in these troubled times didn’t have a steady source of income. He felt good dropping that tithe into the offering plate each Sunday. ‘‘ ’Course I’m pleased we don’t have money worries, son, but—’’
‘‘But what?’’ Jack returned to the table, sat, and snatched up his sandwich. ‘‘With everything I got going, something’s got to be sacrificed. Missing a few church services is a small price to pay for everything we’re gaining.’’
‘‘And what exactly are we gaining?’’
Jack scowled, shooting his father an impatient look. ‘‘That’s a dumb question.’’