A Part of the Sky (4 page)

For some reason, all four of us laughed.

“At last,” said Mama, slipping her scissors to an apron pocket, “you’re neat and tidy as President Hoover. I think you are final ready.”

“Better be. Becky and Mr. Tate are coming to fetch me in their Ford. So I best not keep ’em waiting.”

“Rob,” asked Aunt Matty, “do you remember what I taught you, about dancing?”

“Show me again.”

“Take my right hand in your left and place your right around my waist. Not so stiff. Becky is not a disease. Dancing with her won’t poison you. Stop gritting your teeth.”

“My teeth aren’t the problem. It’s my feet that are fixing to wander off and worry me.”

“All right.” Aunt Matty sighed. “While I step aside and watch, try it again with the chair.”

“Okay.”

Holding a kitchen chair in my arms, one that Papa had made, I whirled a turn or two, tripping only seven or eight times per step.

“Rob,” said Aunt Matty, “you don’t have to lift up your legs so high, like you’re jumping a furrow. Slide your feet. Step, glide, step … the way I showed you. That’s some better. But do try not to work your left arm up and down. You’re dancing, not pumping water. And stop looking at your feet. Pretend you’re on a dance floor. Not dodging pasture manure.”

“Is that all?” I quit. “Anything else?”

“Smile,” said our dancing expert. “With a handsome grin on your face, Miss Becky Lee Tate won’t be able to wink at another thing. In your arms, she’ll be floating on a star.”

I smiled at the chair.

“Slide, slide,” said Aunt Matty. “Step, glide, step. No! You’re dragging a shoe. You and Becky won’t be waltzing so rapid that you’ll need to brake. It isn’t downhill, and you’re not a runaway wagon.”

“Step, glide, step,” I whispered to the chair. “Gee, I hope I’ll be able to follow her.”

“She’ll be following you,” Aunt Matty corrected. “You don’t follow her. A girl isn’t a plow.” I tried again. “Smoother. Don’t hustle it. You’re not in a footrace. Keep time to the music.”

“There isn’t any.”

“Perhaps,” said Aunt Matty, “we ought to sing.”

That’s when Aunt Carrie busted out into
Onward Christian Soldiers
, until Aunt Matty suggested something other than a hymn and crooned up one of her favorites:

It wasn’t easy to pick which was worse, my dancing or Aunt Matty’s wavering soprano. As I practiced, I prayed my chair would feel like Becky Lee, tried not to look down to avoid a cow flop, and turned up my toes whenever I planted a heel. Also making certain that I kept Mr. Tanner’s good church shoes, at all times, at least seven feet apart.

My legs straddled wider and wider, and then … I heard a nag of a noise.

Rip-p-p-p-p.

It sounded like my trouser seat, or rather, Will’s. Holding my ladder-back partner by one hand, I made an exploratory search with the other, feeling, finding, and almost fainting. I could touch my underwear.

Mama inspected me.

OOOGA.

It was a Ford car horn.

“They’re here,” I said weakly.

“Hurry,” said Mama to Carrie, “and fetch me a needle and black thread. Rob,” she snapped at me, “sprawl yourself to my lap, face down, and don’t twitch a hair.”

“Yes’m.” I stretched across Mama’s knees.

“Let go of the chair,” she said.

As I dropped my pine partner to the floor, Aunt Carrie returned at full gallop. Mama started to sew.

OOOGA. OOOOOGA.

“If anyone comes to the door,” I pleaded, “please don’t answer it. Just say there’s nobody to home. Or that I broke both my legs.”

While my mother sewed, Aunt Matty peeked out our only kitchen window, I sweated, and Aunt Carrie gave another go at
Onward Christian Soldiers
. On the floor, my chair became a sad, motionless wallflower.

“Here she comes!” Aunt Matty trilled. “Your sweetheart’s coming toward the door.”

“She is
not
my sweetheart,” I protested, wishing, sort of, that she was. Then I heard her voice. And my name.

“Rob?”

KNOCK. KNOCK.

“Tell her I died,” I whispered. “Say I got a rash all over me. No. Make it boils.”

KNOCK.

“Hurry,” said Becky, “or we might be so late that we’ll miss parading in the Grand March.”

Grand March? Well, at least I’d had a chance to rehearse
Onward Christian Soldiers
. If it was any other tune, I’d have to step-glide-trip-it all the way to first base. Or a dugout.

KNOCK. KNOCK. KNOCK.

“All done, Rob,” said Mama.

Leaping up, hoping the thread would hold, I opened the door … to behold the prettiest princess in Learning, Vermont, in a pinky-white dress and a blue sash the color of my (Will Henry’s) suit. Four women were all gushering at once while Mr. Tate beeped the horn. Grabbing my trembling hand, Becky hauled me toward the car, nearly dislocating my shoulder.

I tried to thank everyone.

Heading to the Grange Hall, I couldn’t help worrying about the suit, my rip, and ballroom limitations.

Yet I didn’t have to.

Sitting close beside me in the Ford sedan’s roomy backseat (as her father was grinding the gears), Becky Lee squeezed my hand and smiled. Just for me. It made me feel taller than the King of England.

Miss Becky Lee Tate could certain turn a fellow grateful that he wouldn’t be dancing a chair.

5

June first arrived, a Saturday.

After breakfast, Mama and I spilled our teapot money on the kitchen table. Then counted it. We’d put by more than the twelve dollars that I’d carry to town.

The bills were all wrinkled up, so Mama heated an iron on the stove and pressed each one flat and tidy.

“Now don’t lose it,” Mama said.

Answering not a word, I stared at her real steady, to let her know I’d be toting our farm mortgage payment direct to the Learning Bank. Next to that, little mattered. The five acres would eventual become Peck property. Free and clear in four years. All ours.

Weeks ago, two days before he died, my father
had walked a May trip to Learning, to the bank. This would mark my first time.

It was a mile walk. But, seeing as I left our place after seven o’clock, and chores, I made Learning a minute or so before eight. In fact, I had to tarry outside before the bank opened its doors. I was the first person inside. As a lady approached, I took off my hat. Saying nothing, she eyed me and my clothes as though I’d come to rob the place. Before she could arrest me, I told her my business.

“My name is Robert Peck. You folks hold a mortgage on our farm. But we settle up proper. That’s why I come. To pay.”

“You’re just a boy.”

Touching my shirt pocket where the money hid, I said, “Please let me see the person who takes a mortgage payment. I got cash.”

“Most people pay by check.”

“I don’t have one. All I brung is dollars.”

“This way,” she said coldly. “The cashier and the mortgage manager aren’t here today, so I guess it will be all right if you deal with one of the bank’s officers. The president is in. Come this way.”

As she turned, I followed, chasing her along a row of doors with names on them in brass. At the
end of the hall, she stopped to knock on the largest door.

“Yes?” a voice answered.

“Sorry to disturb you. There’s a … a someone here to settle a mortgage payment.” She asked me, “What was your name again?”

“Robert Peck.”

“His name is Peck,” she said to the door. “Something about a farm. He doesn’t have a check.”

The male voice said, “Henshaw handles that.”

“Mr. Henshaw isn’t in. Neither is Mr. Blake.” She paused. “He’s a boy, with cash. And Mr. Giblin isn’t in yet. There’s really no one else authorized to …”

“Very well. Show him in.”

Opening the heavy wooden door, the lady turned to me. “You may enter.” Closing the door behind me, she left, her shoes clicking down the hardwood hall.

As I walked in, hat in hand, the man’s office was poorly lit. It smelled musty. Sort of like old clothes.

Before me, a gentleman in a dark suit sat with his back to me and to his boxy brown desk. He appeared to be sorting some papers on the windowsill.
The bank president took his time before wheeling his high-backed chair around to face me. And what a surprise.

He was Mr. Haskell Gamp.

Seeing him made me drop my hat. And I didn’t know whether to fetch it or run. My feet felt glued to his carpet.

“Morning,” he said, with little appreciation of a new day.

I nodded.

There didn’t seem to be any reason to tell him that only a few days ago, I’d been working at Mr. Tanner’s when he’d arrived there, in a sorry state, with his mare. Well, I’d willing forget if he would. His face was granite. Perhaps, because I’d combed my hair (a rare ritual) this morning, he’d failed to recognize me.

“My name’s Gamp. How may I serve you?”

Although respectful, his tone hinted that he probable had a pile of important matters to care for, and that I’d sprouted into his day as welcome as a weed in a flower bed. Behind his glasses, his eyes noticed my muddy boots as if concerned for his rug. He didn’t stand or offer me a chair.

“We work a farm, sir,” I said. “Uproad. My father always come to town to pay up, once
a month. He’s dead. So now it’ll be my duty.”

With only one word, Mr. Gamp slid open a desk drawer, his fingers walking along a stack of cream-colored folders. “Name?”

“Peck.”

As I waited, he closed the drawer, opening another. “Ah,” he said, “here it is, under the small accounts. But you aren’t Haven Peck.”

“No, sir. Mr. Haven Peck was my father. He died recent.”

“I see. Regretful.” He paused for a thinking. “And you, I now suppose, are here to make only partial payment and beg an extension. You can’t afford to meet the full obligation. Is that it?”

I shook my head. “No, sir. I come to pay in full.”

“You owe the bank … twelve dollars.”

“Yes, sir.”

Pulling the twelve ironed bills from my pocket, I showed Mr. Gamp the money, imagining that it meant little to him. It meant a lot to us.

“Now,” he said, “seeing that your departed father is no longer, how do you expect to scrape up your monthly payment? Or, if you default, do you anticipate our bank to carry you?”

“We’ll pay regular.”

“On time? Every month for four years?”

“Yes, sir. On time, and in full.”

“Tell me your age.”

“Thirteen.”

Checking the file, Mr. Gamp’s face seemed to freeze. “These,” he said, “are tight times. Several farms have been forced into insolvency. That means penniless. Broke. And no bank can risk capital on doubt.”

Stepping forward, I placed our twelve dollar bills on the edge of his desk. “Sir, it’s all there. Every cent. And next month I’ll be here again with another twelve. We’ll pay our due.”

“Who else resides on your property?”

“My mother and my aunt.”

“They’re both women.” His clean, unworked hand counted our cash. “A lot of these uproader farms go under. Bad risks for a bank. That goes double with no adult male to work the land.” Looking up, his eyes narrowed behind rimless glasses. “Your ox died.”

His remark startled me.

“How did you know that, sir?”

“An alert bank keeps tabs on almost everyone in town, especially families with mortgages. It’s my position to predict disaster before it occurs, thereby
saving the bank money by avoiding any defaulted payment. Be my guess that, with no ox, you’ll be unable to glean much profit from the place. Little or none.”

Opening another drawer, Mr. Gamp produced a map, unfolded it, then studied it for over a minute.

“Here it is.” His fingertip tapped the paper. “Peck, five acres. It’s hilly property. Class D. You’re located, however, south of some Class AB, the Tanner parcel. Is that so?”

“Yes, sir.” I held my breath.

“When he was alive, what else besides farming did your father do? Mill work?”

“No, sir. Papa killed hogs for Mr. Clay Sander.”

“I see. But now, without such income, your family could become destitute and financially delinquent. In debt. Other than house and real property, that means land, what other assets can you claim? What’s your livestock?”

“Chickens, about twenty or so. And a cow.” I didn’t bother to mention that Daisy was dry.

“Any saleable machinery?”

“No, sir. We run our farm mostly by hand.”

Refolding the map, Mr. Gamp tucked it back inside his desk.

“Seems to me, you Peck people ought to consider selling out.”

“But it’s our home. Sir, we live there. I never lived a day nowhere else, and don’t aim.”

Mr. Gamp snorted. “The country’s in hard times. A possible depression. If the bank decides to propose an offer for your place, my advice to you, sonny, is to consider it serious. Grab whatever you can get.”

I stood straighter.

“Our farm is not for sale.” I took a breath. “We Pecks aren’t in debt. Not a penny.”