Hidden Places (10 page)

‘‘And what does that nasty-looking scar on your chest remind you of?’’

The words flew out of my mouth before I even thought about them. His smile faded as he slipped his hand inside his shirt and fingered the spot as if surprised to still find it there. He stared at me without answering.

‘‘I...I’msorry,’’ I said when I saw the pained look in his eyes. ‘‘I shouldn’t have—’’

‘‘It’s all right,’’ he said softly. ‘‘That scar reminds me of a good friend.’’

I pulled my gaze away from his and quickly gathered up all my things. I was almost through the door when he stopped me with his words. ‘‘I’m going to pay you back, ma’am. Just as soon as I’m able to climb out of this bed, I promise I’ll pay you back. I may not have much, but I always pay my debts.’’

I slowly turned to face him. ‘‘I know you will. I thought we already talked about you fixing Aunt Batty’s roof.’’

‘‘That’s the very least I can do. But it’s you I owe a debt to, not Aunt Batty.’’

‘‘She’s kin. If you help her out, you’ll be helping me.’’

‘‘I know, I know...but you’re the one who’s been feeding me and changing my bandages and...and staying up with me for half the night, worrying. You don’t even know me. I’m a stranger to you—one that smells pretty bad, too—yet you brought me into your house...and you cared.’’

I looked away, embarrassed. ‘‘I’m just doing my Christian duty, same as anyone else would have done.’’

‘‘No, ma’am. Most folks would have left a worthless tramp like me out there to die all alone.’’

I didn’t know about most folks, but I did know that Frank Wyatt would have run a raggedy old vagrant like Gabriel Harper off his property in no time flat. Lucky for him Frank was dead.

‘‘Eliza, you need to tell me how I can pay you back.’’

I was so surprised to hear him say my name in that deep, soft voice of his, that I barely understood his question. Then the thought came to me—maybe he really was an angel sent to help me. Maybe his being sick was some kind of a test and now that I had passed, God would let him stay and help me run the orchard.

‘‘You know anything about farm work and apple trees?’’ I asked.

‘‘Some.’’

‘‘Then there’ll be plenty of ways you can pay me back come springtime.’’

I didn’t know what to do with myself for the rest of the morning. There were still enough of Frank Wyatt’s rules instilled in me after living with him for ten years that I couldn’t bring myself to do any work on the Sabbath. But to have fun, like Aunt Batty urged us to do? I could barely remember what the word meant.

When I finished in Mr. Harper’s room, I put on my coat and quietly went out on the back porch to take a peek at what making snow angels was all about. Jimmy was busy rolling huge snowballs to build a fort. Becky and Aunt Batty were flopping over backward into a snow drift, then waving their arms and legs all around like they were trying to fly. I spotted Luke out in the yard under the clothesline where the snow was all packed down, playing a game with Winky.

Luke would throw the ball for Winky to fetch, but the plump little dog couldn’t seem to run in a straight line to where the ball landed. It took him forever to find it, then every time he headed back toward Luke with it in his mouth, his bad eye would cause him to veer off to one side and he’d end up missing Luke by five or six feet. Poor Winky would stop and look around, bewildered and offended, as if Luke had deliberately moved off to one side to trick him.

Luke laughed so hard he dropped to the ground. Tears came to my eyes as I watched him giggling and rolling in the snow with the little dog licking his face like he was a lollipop. What a glori-ous sound Luke’s laughter was! The child inside my son was reborn, thanks to a silly, rumpled-looking, one-eyed dog. Suddenly Winky was beautiful to me, as sleek and as graceful as a real hunting dog.

I remember thinking,
If only this could last—the ice cream, the snow, the little dog and ridiculous cats, the laughter. If only our lives could stay this way, for my children’s sakes
. But even on this day of rest I felt trouble sitting patiently at my feet, waiting for me to move so it could shadow me again. God just didn’t seem to want me to be happy. I wasn’t allowed to be.

I found out the next day just how right I had been.

First thing Monday morning I fired up the stove in the washhouse so Aunt Batty and I could do laundry. The water was getting hot in the copper boiler, and we had just set up the bench wringer and galvanized washtubs when a shiny black car pulled into my driveway. I recognized the driver, Mr. Preston, from Frank Wyatt’s church. He was an elder, like Frank had been, and a real bigwig with the Savings and Loan in Deer Springs. Was he going to scold me for not coming to church anymore? I dried my hands on my apron and went out to greet him, feeling cornered.

‘‘May I take your coat and hat, Mr. Preston?’’ I fussed as I led him into my parlor. ‘‘Would you care for a cup of coffee?’’

‘‘No, thank you, Mrs. Wyatt. This isn’t a social call, I’m afraid.’’ He took a seat on the horsehair sofa, still wearing his overcoat, and pulled an envelope from his inside pocket. His eyes were on his shoes, not my face. ‘‘I’m here to talk about your mortgage,’’ he said, handing the envelope to me. ‘‘I’m very sorry, but we’re going to have to foreclose.’’

I heard my heart pounding in my ears. ‘‘What does that mean?’’

‘‘The bank is giving you ninety days to pay this loan in full. The letter explains everything—the terms and the amount owed and so forth.’’

His words made no sense to me. ‘‘I don’t understand. This farm has been in my husband’s family for years. How could they owe your bank money for it?’’

‘‘Your father-in-law borrowed money a while back to make some improvements—plant new trees, purchase a truck, things like that. Farmers do it all the time, borrowing in the spring and paying it off when the fall crops come in. He used this house and land as collateral—that’s a typical practice, too. Unfortunately, because of the stock market collapse, Frank didn’t get as much for his crops as he’d planned. Nobody did. Then he passed away so suddenly....’’

‘‘So you’re saying I owe you this money now?’’

‘‘You’re Frank Wyatt’s next of kin.’’

‘‘How much money?’’

‘‘It’s all there in the letter. He still owed a little over five hundred dollars when he died.’’

My mind went flying in a hundred directions like a flock of geese at a shotgun blast. It might as well have been five million dollars. I tried to stay calm and recall what little I knew about business matters. ‘‘Will I be able to pay the money back in installments, like a regular loan?’’

Mr. Preston coughed, then cleared his throat. ‘‘The...uh...The bank has been forced to dissolve. I’m afraid our creditors will need everything in ninety days.’’

‘‘Where am I supposed to find that kind of money by then?’’

He sighed. ‘‘Some folks are holding auctions, trying to sell off some of their equipment. Problem is, everyone around here is in pretty much the same predicament. Most folks owe even more money than Frank Wyatt did. There aren’t too many folks in a position to buy right now.’’

‘‘What happens if I can’t raise the money?’’

‘‘Then the bank will take legal possession of Wyatt Orchards. They can auction it off to reclaim the debt.’’

‘‘But that isn’t fair,’’ I cried. ‘‘This house belongs to my children. They never borrowed a single dime from your bank, and now you’re saying the bank has a right to turn them out of their own home? Just like that?’’

Mr. Preston stood, shoving his hands deep inside his pockets, as if they were stained with blood and he wanted to hide them. ‘‘I’m very sorry, Mrs. Wyatt. There’s really nothing I can do. I just have the unfortunate task of serving you notice.’’

I returned to the washhouse in a daze, as if it had all been a terrible dream. I couldn’t think what to do, so I concentrated on scrubbing laundry as if my life depended on it.

‘‘What did he want?’’ Aunt Batty asked. ‘‘He’s that hot-shot fellow from the bank, isn’t he?’’

‘‘He had some business of Frank Wyatt’s to discuss,’’ I said numbly.

‘‘I never liked that man,’’ Aunt Batty said. ‘‘He reminds me of a mule named Barney that my father once owned. Barney was almost as homely as that fellow and just about as cantankerous. That’s why I would never put my money in his bank. I’d sooner keep it in Barney’s stall out in the barn than leave it with him. Come to think of it, maybe I did leave some of my money out in the barn....’’

Aunt Batty went on and on about Barney the mule and his stubborn ways until Becky got the giggles and couldn’t stop. But I barely heard a word Aunt Batty said, troubled as I was about owing the bank all that money.

We’d finished hanging all the wash on the line and had gone inside for lunch when another car pulled into our driveway, this one much older than the banker’s car and not nearly as shiny. Alvin Greer and his wife, Bertha, stepped out of it. I recognized the older couple from church, though I’d never been part of their social circle. They owned a few dozen acres of land just north of Wyatt Orchards. I was willing to bet they were bringing me more trouble.

‘‘I know you!’’ Aunt Batty exclaimed after I’d invited the Greers into the house. ‘‘You’re that little Greer boy, aren’t you? Alfred...Albert...?’’

‘‘Alvin.’’

‘‘That’s it! I went to grammar school with you and your sister Adelaide.’’ She grabbed the sleeve of Mr. Greer’s coat and examined it closely, then smiled up at him. ‘‘I see you finally learned to use a handkerchief. Good for you! When he was a youngster,’’ she explained to Mrs. Greer and me, ‘‘Alvin always had a runny nose and he used to wipe it on his coat sleeve until he had a shiny patch right there.’’

Mr. Greer’s face turned brighter than a ripe apple and I was afraid he was about to have a fit. But just then Becky skipped into the kitchen with a ball of gray yarn and a crochet hook. She and Aunt Batty were getting carried away with making kittens for Arabella, and Becky had gone into the parlor to rummage through my knitting basket for more yarn.

‘‘I found this color,’’ she said gaily, then stopped when she saw we had company.

‘‘Becky Jean, say ‘how do you do’ to Mr. and Mrs. Greer,’’ I prompted.

‘‘How do you do,’’ she repeated, then started chattering like a Victrola that had been wound up too tight. ‘‘Won’t this make a pretty color for Arabella’s new kitten? Aunt Batty is knitting our cat some babies because she wants to be a mama real bad—the cat, I mean, not Aunt Batty—and I’m going to make their tails.’’ She waved the crochet hook. ‘‘Aunt Batty is teaching me how.’’

‘‘That’s...nice...’’ Mrs. Greer looked as if she didn’t know quite what to make of it all. Arabella rubbed against her leg, purring loudly. Bertha Greer was known to be the biggest gossip in the entire church so it wouldn’t be long before everyone in Deer Springs heard that the Wyatts had all lost their minds.

‘‘If we could have a few minutes of your time,’’ Alvin Greer said, ‘‘we’ve come to discuss some very important business, Mrs. Wyatt.’’

‘‘Of course. Won’t you step into the parlor? Would you care for some coffee?’’

‘‘No, thanks.’’ They sat side by side on the good horsehair sofa where Mr. Preston had sat just a few hours earlier, looking like they both had broomsticks up their backs. I pushed Queen Esther off my rocking chair and sat down facing them.

‘‘We’ve come to make you an offer, Elise—’’

‘‘It’s
Eliza
. My name is Eliza.’’

‘‘Yes...of course. We’d like to make you an offer on Wyatt Orchards, and I think you’ll agree that it’s a very fair one.’’

‘‘An offer? But the orchard isn’t for sale.’’

I saw the two exchange glances before Mr. Greer continued. ‘‘We understand you’ve encountered some...uh...financial problems with the Savings and Loan and—’’ ‘‘

I don’t see how my finances are any of your affair, Mr. Greer. And if you heard it from Mr. Preston, then he had no business telling you.’’

‘‘Now, Eliza, don’t get yourself riled up.’’

‘‘Everybody in Deer Springs knows the bank is folding,’’ Bertha Greer said. ‘‘Each one of us is affected by it one way or another— some lost their savings, some are having their mortgages foreclosed. If you had been in church yesterday, you would know that everyone is talking about it.’’

I let her comment go by, too stunned to speak.

‘‘Everyone knows you can’t run this place all by yourself,’’ Mr. Greer continued, ‘‘and I certainly don’t want to see you and your little ones tossed out in the street if the bank forecloses. So I talked it over with Reverend Dill and some of the elders at church yesterday, and they all agree that I’m offering you a fair deal. A very fair deal. You can ask them yourself.’’

I didn’t trust myself to speak, afraid that my voice would come out all shaky or that I’d burst into tears. When I didn’t say anything, Mr. Greer kept on talking.

‘‘I’ll scrape up enough cash to settle your loan as a down payment to purchase this property—all the orchards, the apple barn, the equipment, and so forth. I’ll give you five thousand dollars for everything, paid to you in yearly installments. You can rent the house and the cow barn and enough land for a vegetable patch from me on a yearly basis—subtracted from the purchase price, of course. That way you’ll have a place to live until your children are grown. Now, doesn’t that sound like a fair deal?’’ He grinned and it was so unnatural-looking on his usually sour face that he reminded me of a jack-o’-lantern.