Glamorous Illusions (3 page)

CHAPTER 4

~Cora~

We watered. We weeded. We prayed. But in the end, we knew there wouldn't be anything to harvest. Papa retreated inward, replying to Mama and me in monosyllabic words, blaming himself, even if every other farmer on the eastern slope had suffered the same outcome.

And our fear grew. We had not plowed the north forty. Each morning, he made no move to hook up Sugarbeet to the plow, nor did he head to town for the sacks of seed I knew we needed. He took to walking the east forty for hours, treading the paths where the winter wheat had so utterly failed. Mama baked bread, taking loaves and the extra milk to sell to the mercantile every morning, returning with meager supplies. I fed the horse and chickens and pigs, mucked the stalls, milked, and helped Mama with the garden. But we were each waiting, really, in mute helplessness, unable to do more.

One morning, Mama stood beside me at the east window, and we watched Papa. Dragging his left foot along, bending to pick up a handful of dirt, and then crumbling the clod, watching the dust fly away.

“It's like he's visiting a grave,” I muttered. “We have to get the north forty planted, or the bank will be coming to throw us out of the house.” I was guessing, but by the look on Mama's face, I knew I was right.

“We can't, Cora.”

“Why not?”

She turned to me, so pretty, even in middle age. So strong. “There's no money for the seed. My bread and the extra milk are bringing in enough to buy the necessities, but no extra. Thank God we have a garden and animals to keep us fed.”

I paced away from her, thinking. Then it came to me, the solution. “I have to go to town.”

“For what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

I ignored her question and just went to my part of the house, through the drawn curtain, and sat on my bed. Next to my bed was a nightstand with a deep drawer. After a moment's hesitation, I reached in and pulled out the elegant box, running my fingers over the lid. J
ASPER'S
, the logo read in a fine script. N
EW
Y
ORK
, N
EW
Y
ORK.

I flipped open the lid and wondered anew over the triple-strand pearl choker with the rhinestone clasp. Out of all the fine birthday gifts I'd received over the years from a nameless benefactor, this one that had arrived on my sixteenth birthday was undoubtedly the finest. Papa had teased me about a secret admirer. But I'd caught the worried glance he and Mama shared, the one they shared every year. I knew they knew something about it, but they wouldn't tell me, no matter how much I pestered them. And I pestered them plenty that year. They simply gestured toward the crumpled packaging. “No return address, Cora. How are we to know who would send you such a thing?”

It was extravagant. And beautiful. I'd tried it on so many times, lifting my hair, fantasizing about my hair in elaborate curls and a gown to match the necklace. Wondering and wondering about who had sent it to me and never coming to any suitable answers. Most of Mama and Papa's relatives were dead or distant. And none of them were well-to-do.

It was a treasure. My treasure. But really, where on earth would I wear such a thing? Once I had my teaching credential, I'd likely be out in the country. Even if I managed to find a position in one of Montana's cities, there would be no ball or society function fancy enough where I could wear a necklace such as this.

“Cora?” Mama asked, hesitating outside my curtain.

“Please, Mama,” I said. “I can't talk right now.” She'd only try to talk me out of it. But I was inexplicably sad to let it go. I shook the necklace in frustration. It felt foolish to be so attached to a thing. But it'd been such a sweet surprise, such a fun mystery… I'd spent nights dreaming that there was some wealthy, distant relative, and we would be his beneficiaries when he passed on, bestowed with a fine house, fine clothes, fine carriage…

I took a long, deep breath. I was no longer a mindless adolescent, dreaming of escape. I was an adult. Life was good, but harsh and demanding, too. I snapped the hinged box shut and rose. Quickly, I wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it under my arm, flinging aside my curtain. Mama was back at the east window, watching Papa. “I'll be back soon,” I said.

She didn't turn. She didn't respond at all. Even though I assumed she knew exactly what I was about to do.

The bell on the mercantile door tinkled as I walked in, and Mr. Donnelly looked over his spectacles at me from across the counter. “Well, if it isn't the other lovely Diehl. To what pleasure do I owe having both of you come to call in one day?”

I grinned and pretended ignorance. “Papa's been in already too?”

Mr. Donnelly chuckled. “Now Alan's a handsome man, but…” He lifted a brow, and then the merriment left his face. “How is he today, Cora?”

“Stubborn as an ox.” I glanced around, making sure we were alone in the store. “But he seems to be stuck in a corral he can't escape.”

“Oh?”

“We need to get our spring wheat in the ground. I'm guessing we can't do that because Papa hasn't been able to pay his bill to you.”

The man's eyes held a weary mix of regret and guilt and frustration. “You know it wouldn't be right to discuss that with you, Cora,” he said.

“I understand. Then I wondered if I might pay down his bill with this.” I pulled the box from under my arm and unwrapped it on the sleek, shiny wooden counter.

He whistled lowly. “Jasper's, huh?” He pulled it closer and flipped open the lid. He cocked his head and then turned so the necklace sparkled in the light from the front windows. “My, my,” he mumbled, lifting the pearls to his teeth to test if they were real. “My, my.” He turned back to me. “Where did this beauty come from?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Jasper's, New York, just as it says on the box. I know nothing more than that. It showed up on my sixteenth birthday, with no return address. I never found out more.”

“Well, it's a treasure, to be sure. If we lived in Butte or Billings, I'd gladly take it off your hands but—”

“Please, Mr. Donnelly,” I pleaded, desperate now. “It's our only hope. If we don't get this crop in the ground, if there's not another harvest, we'll lose the farm. I won't be able to get back to school and finish my credential, to say nothing of Mama and Papa's struggle. Please.”

He was staring at the necklace, thinking. I knew I'd pushed him into an uncomfortable corner. But I had no choice.

“Please,” I whispered.

He turned miserable eyes up to me. “Cora, honey, there's not a farmer on this side of the mountains who will turn in a cash crop this year. It's just been too dry. They'll all be busting their backs, trying to break even. But your folks…”

He couldn't say more, but I understood what he meant. They were so behind with the new mortgage on the farm, they didn't have a prayer of breaking even. It was the farmer's cycle—go into debt all year, pay it off come fall harvest, begin again. But Papa was in deeper. Because of me and my schooling. Which explained my father's morose behavior.

“Take it, then,” I begged. “Apply its value to his debt.”

“I can't.” He lifted the box. “You think I could sell this here? Or even the next county over?” He cocked his head again. “Not likely.”

My eyes went over this meager jewelry case, filled with lockets of fake gold and silver, along with a few hair clips and broaches. “Then hold it for me. Use it as collateral against my own credit line. If we can't pay you, come harvest, you can sell it for whatever you can get, the next time you go to Billings.”

He raised his eyebrows. “It's worth far more than the seed you're after, Cora. Far more.” He lifted the box in my direction, offering it to me.

I paused. “Then sell it, keep twenty percent, and give me the remainder after you take out your costs,” I said. “Or…or lend me the money for the train and I'll head there tomorrow and come back with the cash to pay you.”

He stared at me in surprise.

My face burned with embarrassment. So forward! So demanding! What had come over me?

Desperation. Desperation to save us all.

“No,” he said resignedly. “If I take it as collateral, you at least have the chance to get it back if this cursed dry streak eases.” He flipped the lid closed and wearily pulled out a ledger. I held my breath. But then he began to write my name at the top. He was going to do it. Coming through for the Diehls yet again.

“Oh, thank you, Mr. Donnelly,” I breathed, sinking into relief.

“Don't thank me, Cora,” he said grimly, looking at me again as if he wanted to say more and then shaking his head. “Don't thank me.”

CHAPTER 5

~Cora~

We never discussed the particulars of how I'd obtained the best-quality seed—Mr. Donnelly insisted I take it if I wanted “the crop to have half a chance.”

Papa greeted me at the barn. He ran his hand over the sacks in the back of the wagon and then gave me a sidelong glance. “You really are a woman grown, Cora. Thank you.”

“It's because of me that we're in this mess. If you hadn't sent me off to Normal School—”

“No,” he said, laying a gentle hand—his good hand—on my forearm. “That was not a mistake. That was a stake in your future. We'll get you back there, Cora, come fall.”

“God has my future,” I said, and Papa met my eye and smiled in approval.

We immediately set to work that afternoon. Papa and I even plowed into the night, working with a lantern. Within a week, the north forty was plowed, the seed scattered.

We paused at the corner as we finished. I was filthy and exhausted. But it was done. “Let the prayers begin,” Papa said, casting a searching glance to the dry, cloudless skies.

I studied his face. One side still sagged. I couldn't bear the hope I saw in his eyes, despite the grim
Farmer's Almanac
predictions, despite the talk at the Grange Hall. Because it made me fearful for him. He was so infernally optimistic. He never held back, never tried to protect a portion of his heart.

He saw me staring at him, read the question in my eyes. “Love believes all things, hopes for all things, Cora. God loves us. Sees us. He'll see us through.”

“Yes,” I said numbly.

But I knew, deep down, that I was protecting a portion of my heart, even if he refused to do so.

We were blessed with a decent rain three days later, and we knew every farmer across the valley was cheering as we were. It took only a week for us to find the tiny bright-green sprouts beginning to unfurl beneath the dry soil, looking stubbornly healthy, hopeful, despite their harsh environment. Papa took to circling the north forty twice a day, dragging his bad foot along, but he stood straighter, with barely a stoop to his shoulders. Whatever became of the farm and of us, it heartened me, as it did Mama, to see him doing so well.

I'd finished my chores and helped Mama prepare noon dinner, but Papa had not returned to the house to wash up and eat. “Go see what he's up to,” Mama said.

I checked the north forty first. Not seeing him there, I moved toward the barn. He was probably working on some equipment, or soaping his saddle. “Papa!” I called. “You passing up dinner?”

There was no answer. A shiver of apprehension ran down my back. I forced myself to slide open the barn door and peer into the relative darkness.

He wasn't in the central area of the barn. “Papa?”

Sugarbeet was nervously prancing back and forth. I swallowed hard and peeked around the wall.

Papa was sitting, leaning against the stall wall, his hand to his chest. He was pale and sweating profusely, his eyes wide.

Oh, no! No, no, no…

“It's okay, Papa,” I said, kneeling beside him and placing my hand over his.

But the look on his face made my heart break.

The doctor emerged from Mama and Papa's room, slowly closing the curtain behind him. He looked with sad eyes at me and Mama sitting at the kitchen table, our tea long cold. Slowly, he pulled out a chair and sat down with us. “He's resting now. But it's bad. He needs more care than you can give him. Even more than I can give him in town.”

“Where? Where does he need to go?” I asked dully. As if we had the means to take him anywhere!

“Seattle. Or better yet, Minneapolis. After he's stable enough to travel.”

I eyed my mother, a flicker of hope in my heart. Her parents lived in Minnesota. I returned my gaze to the doctor. “Would he survive the trip?” I asked in a ragged whisper.

He nodded. “I think so. Again, if he makes it through the night…”

The room grew quiet.

“What about the farm?” Mama said distantly.

The doctor shifted uncomfortably. “His farming days are over, Alma. He needs to leave here for good, so those fields out there don't torment him.”

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. I stared at the surface of my cold tea like a circus conjurer trying to catch a glimpse of the future. “When's the soonest we could get him on a train?” I said.

“If he makes gains half as fast as he did last time—within a few days, a week.”

“Would you travel with him and Mama? Or should we hire a nurse?”

He nodded, hesitated, then, “It'll be expensive. I don't suppose you have any savings…”

He knew the answer already. We'd already paid for his services in bread, eggs, and our lone fat piglet. I put my head in my hands.

“We have no savings,” my mother said lowly. “I could stay with my folks in the Twin Cities. Would the hospital take him? Out of charity?”

“Possibly. Maybe Swedish Hospital. I'll telephone them and see.”

“Thank you, Doctor,” she said.

“I'll stay here,” I said, looking at Mama, “look after the farm.”

They both cast doubtful eyes toward me. But there was resignation in them too. If the crop was doomed to fail anyway, why not leave it to a woman to try and save it?

I settled into a routine in the days as we prepared to send them off. Papa made strides, but his thinking wasn't clear and his speech was garbled, leaving me wanting to focus only on the next step of every day.

Rise with the sun. Wash my face. Take off my nightgown. Pull on my stockings and brown work dress. Lace up my boots. Mumble good morning to Mama. Dump Papa's bedpan. Stumble to the barn as the dawn slowly lit the sky. I tried to appreciate the nuances of color, the hope of a new day, but try as I might, the summer and my future beyond it spread out in a dismal gray. I wasn't ever going to return to the Normal School. It was as likely as me reaching the moon now. And the death of that dream left me moving like a train on its track, rolling across one foot of ground after another, making headway but feeling nothing.

The sound of the buggy on the gravel road almost didn't raise me from my milking stool. I couldn't cope with another nosy lady from church, nor find another task for one of the men to make them feel useful. I just wanted to be left alone. My cheek rested against the warm hide of the cow, my hands on her teats, squeezing her dry with a rhythmic
swish swish swish
into the clean, dented bucket. I paused once, twice, and resumed each time, thinking
I don't care I don't care I don't care
, but then I paused again as I heard the buggy pull up before the door of our old farmhouse.

I could tell from the clean, well-oiled sound of the wheels, the spirited step of the horse that drew the buggy, that a stranger had come to our small farm. A stranger of means. Not even the doc's buggy made such a quiet approach, little more than gravel dividing and a gentle clop of a horse's hoof. I spoke lowly to the cow, stroking her girth, promising I'd be back, then went to the barn door to peer out toward the house.

Mama was on the porch, wiping her hands on her apron as two men disembarked from the finest buggy I'd ever seen, its black lacquer coated with road dust. Approaching my mother, one took off his hat as he rounded the back, revealing thick, wavy gray hair that matched his silver beard and mustache. He was a man of perhaps sixty-five years, but his movements were those of a younger man, still vital, strong. His shoulders were straight, even rigid, as he paused at the bottom of the stairs.

My mother sagged to the side, wrapping an arm around the post as if for strength, and covered her mouth.

I stepped forward, frowning in concern.

Mama caught sight of me then. Dropped her hand from her mouth to clench the fabric at her breast, straightened. The stranger, hat in hand, followed her gaze toward me, then turned to say something to Mama, too quietly for me to hear.

Mama protested, but the man shook his head and looked back at me. They were arguing about something. Over me?

The other man, younger and clutching a doctor's kit in hand, shifted from one foot to the other, clearly uneasy. The older man said something, Mama nodded, and the other one climbed the porch steps and went inside.

I forced myself to begin walking across the dry, dusty expanse between barn and house, the incessant wind driving clouds of dust, waist-high, across my path. I placed one foot in front of the other, half drawn in curiosity, half afraid of what I would learn. Where had this other doctor come from? Who had called him?

The older man's eyes were a light blue, I saw when I reached the house. And although his face was heavily lined, what I noticed most were the laugh lines around his eyes. I glanced at Mama, wondering why she was so pale, why she wasn't speaking, but then I saw that she was trying. Her mouth opened and closed, but no words came out.

“You are Cora,” said the gentleman.

“I am,” I said warily.

“I am Wallace Kensington,” he said, his hand against the fine lapel of his jacket.

I blinked twice, swallowed hard.

There was only one Wallace Kensington in the whole wide state of Montana. Copper king. Ruthless senator. Owner of banks and newspapers and much more.

“Pleased to make your acquaintance,” I said with a slight nod.

“Mr. Kensington has brought his physician to see to Papa,” Mama mumbled. “Would you like to take a seat?” she said to him. She gestured up toward the porch swing.

“You are most kind,” Mr. Kensington said with a polite nod. Was it my imagination, or did his eyes linger overly long upon my mother?

Why? Why would Wallace Kensington, of all people, know about my papa? Bring a physician?

Mr. Kensington gestured for me to follow my mother up to the porch, and he went to retrieve a rocker from the corner and bring it near, every movement distinguished, refined. I sat down, still trying to figure out what had brought him here, while Mama went after some tea. Had they discovered copper beneath our soil, here in the foothills? Was he after our water rights, meager though they might be? Did Papa owe his bank, as well as Mr. Donnelly at the mercantile? Whatever it might be, surely there was someone else of less consequence in his company who could've come to call…

Mama emerged through the swinging porch door, chipped china cups rattling on a tray. She looked gray, as if she were about to faint, and I jumped up to take the tray from her and nod toward the swing. She almost fell into it, avoiding looking at our guest.

But he was staring intently at me anyway. A prickle of warning ran down my neck. “Tea, Mr. Kensington?” I asked, feigning calm.

“Please. One sugar.”

I poured and placed one sugar cube on the saucer with a spoon and handed it to him.

“Thank you,” he said, searching my face, not the tea in his hands.

I handed Mama a cup, then sat down next to her. Mr. Kensington was sitting back in his chair, rocking slightly. Mama was sitting as straight as a poker, gripping the handle of her teacup so tightly that her knuckles were turning white.