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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: Fields Of Gold
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“Then why even go to church?” he shot back in anger. “Why pray if nobody hears?” His brows pulled together in an impatient line that again dared me to answer.
“Because I have to. There are some things you have to decide for yourself, Morgan, and you may choose to accept it or not, but I sincerely believe that God hears my prayers, even when He doesn't answer them the way I'd like. I have to believe. If I didn't, I'm not sure I'd be able to get up in the morning. That's just the best I can do.”
Morgan pushed a curl out of his eye to see me better and bit his lip thoughtfully, his expression a mixture of surprise at seeing my lack of confidence unmasked and gravity as he realized that adults don't have all the answers. He ground his fist into his hand and said, in voice that seemed wiser and deeper than it had a moment before, “It doesn't seem right, does it?”
“No,” I agreed, “it surely doesn't.”
 
That night, after everyone had gone to bed and Ruby's breathing sounded deep and regular on the other side of our room, I buried my head in my pillow and sobbed. I mourned that dead child as though he had been my own. In a way, he was. He was my family. I grieved for Baby Charles and for Slim and Anne and the people they would never be again. They were dead, too. The golden, untouchable couple had melted to dross, never to shine as brightly again, and the hope of the whole world was a bit dimmer than it had been the day before. We were all wiser and sadder.
I felt like Morgan. I wanted to run to the highest peak and stand on it, shake my fist to heaven, scream “Why?” and refuse to move until I got an answer, though I knew none would come.
I didn't hear Ruby creep across the cold wooden floor to perch on the edge of my bed. She patted my back and shushed me, told me it was all right, that everything would be all right. I choked back the tears and apologized for waking her.
“No need to be sorry,” she said, patting my arm. “No need at all. You feel better now?”
“Oh yes,” I muttered, wiping tears off my cheeks. “I shouldn't get myself so upset. I just can't get over that poor baby. And the parents. I'll be all right now.” I sniffed. “I can't think what's come over me.”
“You don't have to explain. Cry all you want to,” Ruby soothed. “Get it all out. I understand. You love him, Eva, and when he suffers, you suffer. It all comes too close to home, but you can thank God that Morgan's safe and you'll keep him that way. Nobody knows about him. Nobody even suspects, though I can't think why.”
Panic rose in my throat as I realized what she was saying. I made my voice flat and unemotional, not wanting to give anything away in case she knew less than she pretended to. “Ruby, I don't know what you're talking about.” I sniffed again and wiped my eyes on the sleeve of my nightdress.
Ruby pulled a cigarette out of the pack she kept on the nightstand, lit a match, and drew a deep breath through the filter. The tip glowed red in the darkness, and she blew smoke out through her mouth in a long, impatient sigh. “I am talking about Morgan Glennon, your son and Lindbergh's,” she said simply.
Words of denial bubbled up in my throat, but she interrupted before I could get them out.
“Oh, Eva!” Her eyes twinkled at me, like they used to when we were children and shared our whispered and terrible secrets. “Don't look at me that way! I won't tell a soul. I'm just so happy I finally put it all together.”
She grinned as wide as her mouth would allow and threw her arms around me. “Eva, you were in love. I'm glad for you!”
I pushed her away, then held her by the shoulders. “Listen to me, Ruby.” Glaring into her eyes, I spoke more sharply than I'd intended to, but it was important she realize I was serious. “You can't tell anyone about Morgan. Not ever.”
“Of course I won't,” she answered a little indignantly. “How could you even think such a thing? Look,” she said, crossing her heart solemnly with her index finger, the signal from our youth that meant we'd take each other's secrets to the grave, “I swear. Are you satisfied?”
I was. Ruby would never go back on her word. Still, if she could figure it out, who else would? “Do you think anyone else knows?” I asked in a worried voice.
“No.” She dismissed the thought along with another puff of her Lucky Strike. “They ought to, of course. Morgan looks so much like him, especially around the eyes, and has that same half-smile, like he's embarrassed to show his teeth, and he's so crazy about airplanes. But, shoot, every kid in town is nuts for fliers. They all think they're goin' to grow up and break records instead of grow wheat. “Still”—she shrugged—“You'd think they would have figured it out. Maybe if Lindbergh had already been famous when he came to town instead of after, they'd have paid more attention.”
“Of course,” I answered wryly, “it helps some that it's me. They might have put two and two together if we were talking about Mary Kay Munson or Edith Hopkins or one of the other local beauties, but nobody would expect the handsomest, most famous man in the world to take up with the town cripple.”
“Oh, Eva,” Ruby clucked in an offended voice. “I never said that.”
“I know you didn't,” I said, laughing. “I did. Believe me, I've thanked God a million times He made me so twisted and people so blind. How else would I have been able to keep Morgan to myself all these years? They'd be hunting him, too, if they knew. But what made you so smart? Did you figure it out, or did you always know?”
“I didn't realize it until the night of the kidnapping. The look on your face was like death, like it was your baby they'd taken. I knew then that you and Slim shared something more than you'd told me. The next day I watched Morgan, his gestures, his face, everything. It was like a map leading to treasure. All the clues were there, I'd just never looked for them before.”
A treasure. She was right, Morgan was my treasure and Slim's, too. Until Ruby mentioned it, I hadn't really thought about Morgan being in danger. If someone was crazy enough to steal one Lindbergh child, they might be crazy enough to try for two. I had to be more careful than ever, and not just to preserve Slim's reputation. I would keep Morgan hidden, safe here in Dillon, growing tall and strong and golden like wheat ripening to harvest, a promise that someday things would be better.
Morgan couldn't take his half-brother's place, I knew. Each child is irreplaceable. But I hoped it would comfort Slim to know that Morgan was protected, a small secret piece of himself that lived and thrived, untouched in the prairie. He would grow to be as we had been on that one perfect afternoon, lying on the warm earth, gazing upward at an incomparable piece of sky. He was the firstborn of the flock, flawless and without blemish. I would keep him that way for both of us and for what we had been on that day, as a matter of trust.
Ruby interrupted my thoughts. “Seems like Slim got everything in the world except what matters most. If you think about it, that's everybody's story, isn't it? Sometimes life seems almost too sad to live, but what else are you gonna do?”
“I don't feel sad,” I said sincerely, “Not anymore. I've got Morgan.”
“That's a better reason to get up in the morning than most people have,” she agreed.
Ruby took another long drag on her cigarette and held it out to me. I took it, and she lit up another for herself. We sat on my bed, our backs to the wall in the half-darkness, smoking, not thinking, not talking. We didn't need to say anything, just be together, inhaling deeply of the same acrid, widowed air, lighting the day to come with twin tips of ash glow.
Chapter 11
1935
“
E
vangeline!” Papa called, striding into the kitchen, tapping a clean white envelope against the palm of his hand. “Got a letter here. Looks like it's from that Mrs. Clemson in Houston.”
“Thank heaven,” Mama said with relief.
Ruby glanced up from the bowl of beans she was sorting for supper. “About time,” she grumbled. “Now maybe we can afford to buy some ham to go with these beans.”
My spirits were buoyed by the sight of the long awaited letter. “Ruby,” I said, grinning, “after we pay the taxes, we'll buy ham and some beefsteaks and ribbons for our hair.” I laughed with relief and took the letter from Papa's outstretched hand.
Thank God it got here in time,
I thought as I ripped open the envelope and searched for the check I'd been expecting for weeks, payment on five quilts that I'd made for Mrs. Clemson's daughters. It was eight months' work I'd compressed into five so we'd have the money we needed to pay the taxes. After that I didn't know what we'd do. There were no new orders coming in, but I'd been counting on the Clemson payment to get us through tax time. There was a check and a note written out in careful, copperplate script, but it wasn't the check or the letter I'd expected. My face must have told the story.
“What's wrong?” Mama asked. “Didn't she like the quilts? She doesn't want to send them back, does she?”
“She loves them,” I said quietly. “Says they are even more beautiful than she could have imagined.”
“Of course she does,” Papa said stoutly. “It's your work she's buying. It's art, not just something to throw on the bed. How could she not love them? What's the problem?”
“It's her husband. He's a banker, and his bank closed. She can't pay me, not all of it, anyway. She's sent me ten dollars now and says she will send me five dollars a month until she's paid up the whole amount.”
“That'll take years!” Papa bellowed. “And you're just supposed to sit by and let her pay on time without even a bit of interest attached? That check doesn't even come close to covering the cost of your material and the postage, let alone your time. Write her back, Evangeline! Write her back and demand she send back the quilts. You can sell them to someone else and get a good price for them with money you can put in your pocket.”
“No, she can't,” Ruby said flatly.
“And why not?” Papa blustered irritably. “It's beautiful work.”
“Ruby's right,” I said, rubbing my brow with my hand, trying to soothe the headache I could feel coming on. “It may be fine work, but no one can afford it. I use the best fabrics, and each quilt takes me hours and hours of handstitching. No one around here can pay enough to make it worth the time, or even the cost of materials. I'm better off to leave them with Mrs. Clemson. I might get the money back eventually, and we need every penny just now.”
Papa jammed his fists into the pockets of his overalls and frowned at the floor. I wished I hadn't said that last part. Even though he worked every day, as hard as he ever had, he couldn't coax a crop out the ground to save his soul. Time and time again, though it pained him terribly, he'd borrowed money from me for seed and sown it only to watch his work blow away in a cloud of dust and bitterness. He was ashamed, and nothing I could say would soothe his wounded pride. Papa worked as hard as he could, but it wasn't enough. He'd been reduced to living off his daughter. Now even that thin stream of sustenance was drying up.
“It's all right, Papa,” I said hopefully. “Maybe you're right. Maybe we should ask Mrs. Clemson to return the quilts and look for a buyer. If I cut the price in half I could still make a little money on them.”
“Nobody around here has twenty-five dollars for a quilt, Eva. Not even one of yours,” Ruby remarked practically. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Mama throwing an irritated glance in Ruby's direction, but she didn't correct her, probably because she'd been thinking the same thing herself.
We all thought about what to do for a long moment. Ruby broke the silence. “You've got enough for the taxes?” she asked seriously.
I hesitated a moment before answering. “Yes.” It wasn't a lie. I did have enough, if I dipped into Morgan's college fund. Something in me had always resisted spending that money. At first it was just a desire to hold on to it for Morgan, but then something deeper was involved. Pride, I suppose. After Slim married, I was more determined than ever to prove I could stand on my own two feet—not that he'd ever know about it, but it was important to me. I'd tried my best to release him, forgive him, and mostly I had, but there was still some resentment there. A tiny part of me felt that taking his money would somehow turn me into nothing more than his youthful indiscretion, a mistake bought and paid for and forgotten. That was my worst fear, that he'd forget us. Some debts can't ever be paid. I didn't want him to have the escape of thinking he'd “settled up” with me and Morgan.
Now it seemed there was no choice. Morgan needed a home, and everyone was depending on me, and it wasn't the first time. The money I'd saved from quilting before the crops started to fail had been winnowed away until only eighty-five dollars and sixty cents were left. “Yes,” I said. “I've got the money.”
Ruby thought for a moment more. “Have you got any extra?” she asked. “Because if you do, if you could scrape up even twenty or thirty dollars more, I think we might be able to come up with a plan that would save your quilting business. We'd just need a little seed money to get started.”
“What are you talking about, Ruby?” I asked in exasperation. “I can't see the sense in putting the last of my savings into a business that's losing money as it is.”
“Just hear me out for a moment,” she insisted, holding up her hand to interrupt my objections. “I saw a sign in Dwyer's store that somebody was wanting to sell an old sewing machine real cheap. If you could buy it, then invest in some inexpensive yard goods, nothing fancy, just the ends of the bolts that get marked down, and sew them into real simple, quickly made, nine-patch quilts, we could do it assembly-line style, like Ford makes cars. You could probably make them fast and cheap enough so you'd have something you could sell at a price people could afford. We could drive around and sell them, maybe go up into Kansas even. We could even trade them for food if people didn't have cash.” She paused and studied my face to see what I thought of the idea.
I was uncertain about the whole thing but had to admit I didn't have a better idea. “Do you really think it could work?” I asked.
“I think so.” Ruby nodded convincingly. “What do you think, Mr. and Mrs. Glennon?” Mama and Papa agreed it was worth a try. “Good!” Ruby said. “Eva, I've got an extra ten saved up that I can give you toward the price of the machine.”
“No,” I protested, “you need to save up so you can go out to Oregon and join Clarence.” She had insisted on paying three dollars a week for her board, though Papa had told her she should keep the money. Clarence had already been gone close to three years. His letters home still assured Ruby that they'd be together again as soon as it could be managed, but he no longer made predictions about when that might be. His paycheck was so small they were lucky to put away five dollars in a month. “You keep giving away your savings and you two will never be able to afford a place of your own,” I said.
“Well, seems like the Depression has already licked us,” Ruby said with resignation. “I won't stand by and watch it beat you down, too. Not after all you've done for us. Besides, you've got to do something.”
She was right. I had to try something. Even the money Slim had sent wouldn't last us forever, and I'd die before I'd write and ask him for more. I had to find a way out of this myself. Despite Papa's faith that he'd get a good crop any time now, day after day the winds kept blowing and the dust piled against the house as though it intended to bury us all alive. The Depression stretched out in front of me like a road to the top of a hill. You couldn't see what was on the other side, but you sensed it was simply more of the same.
I didn't like the idea of giving up my other quilts. Wielding needle and thread like a soft sable brush, I created the world as I wished it to be and wrapped it around myself and those I loved like truth. It seemed wrong to put aside something that mattered so much to me. Those quilts were my voice, my heart. How was I to still my voice and turn out piecework, just for money? But I had a son, and he had to be housed and clothed and fed. That would be voice enough.
“All right,” I said. “I'll give it a try. But I'm not taking your money, Ruby. You keep that for your trip.” She started arguing with me, reaching in her apron pocket to fish out a wad of dollar bills. I put my hand over hers. “No, I mean it. I have enough money on my own. If you want to help, you can do the cutting while I do the sewing. It'll go faster that way.”
Ruby agreed, and Mama piped in that she could help, too. Papa started to say something, thought better of it, and walked to the window. He stared out to see if the dust was still flying, as though he could still the winds if he just concentrated hard enough. He frowned in frustration at the sky, still brown and blowing with wasted soil.
Ruby and Mama actually seemed excited over the idea of the new project and began discussing patterns and color choices, but I was too worn out to join in the conversation.
We would survive, all of us, in some condition or other, yet I couldn't help but wonder what would be left of our souls when it was done. It was a decade of compromise.
I read in the paper that Slim and Anne and their new son, Jon, left the country to live in Europe, where the boy would be safe from kidnappers and the relentless pursuit of the press and public. The arrest and trial of Bruno Hauptmann, the alleged kidnapper of Baby Charles, had been an even bigger circus than the Paris flight. Day after day the newsprint beasts were fed a diet of Slim and Anne's anguish, anguish that would have been devastating enough in private; illuminated by the macabre glow of flashbulbs it seemed to be eating them alive. Every photo showed them older, sadder, more distant from the world and one another. I couldn't blame Slim for running away. Even so, I waited a week, then two, hoping for a letter from him or even just a note of farewell, though I wasn't really surprised when none appeared. I didn't expect good news on the doorstep anymore. Nobody did.
Not long after, a telegram came saying that Clarence had died. Ruby's reaction was surprisingly resigned, more angry than grieved, not really shocked. It was as if she'd been expecting this all along. I couldn't help but remember her premonition on the day he'd left. I tried my best to comfort her. She'd always known just what to say when I was grieving, but my efforts were clumsy, and only platitudes seemed to fall from my lips, heavy and false and tasteless as the cups of weak tea I urged her to drink.
The teacup was hot when I placed it in her empty hands; she didn't seem to notice. “At least he didn't suffer, Ruby. The telegram says the fall broke his neck and killed him instantly. He didn't feel any pain.”
“Don't be such a simpleton, Eva,” Ruby snapped, her voice sharp with irritation. “If he'd been in terrible pain and lingered for hours, you don't suppose they'd tell me that, do you? Not in a telegram. It would take too many words. Think how much something like that would cost to send!” I was flabbergasted. I couldn't think how to respond to her outburst. I shot a questioning look to Mama, thinking she would know what to say, but Ruby carried on with her tirade before anyone could get a word in.
“You don't suppose I believe anything they say, do you? They didn't even spend the money on a harness to secure him to the tree so he wouldn't fall in the first place. He wrote me that he'd told the foreman to get some harnesses or someone would get hurt, and the man said, ‘Mind your own business, Parker. Equipment costs money, but you Okies come a dime to the dozen.' You don't guess a cheap chiseler like that's gonna pay extra to tell me the truth about how my husband died, do you? “
For a moment I truly thought she'd lost her mind. It was such a crazy thing to say under the circumstances, and I'd never heard her use language like that. Mama shot me a look that said not to worry. She took the telegram from me and read it over herself, then spoke calmly to Ruby.
“You're right, Ruby. Probably they'd never tell you a thing like that in a telegram, but I'm sure money didn't enter into it. They'd want to spare you thinking of him in pain.” She pulled a chair up next to Ruby's and looked at her thoughtfully, as though they were having a serious but completely normal conversation. I stood watching in confusion, uncertain what to make of the entire scene.
Mama continued in a low, even voice, “From how Clarence described his work, I'm inclined to believe the telegram. He must have fallen at least forty or fifty feet, maybe more. A fall like that would have killed him instantly. You can be sure of it.” She nodded confidently.
“Do you think so?” Ruby eyes searched Mama's, and she hung on to every word as though they held a special importance only she and Mama could appreciate.

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