Authors: Leisha Kelly
“If somebody lived here, they’d shut the door, Mom,” he said. “There’s nothing in the yard but weeds.”
He was right, of course. But it was not so much the condition of the place that told me it was empty. There was no dog, or it would have heard us and come to greet us by now. Ever since my first stay at Grandma and Grandpa’s, I couldn’t conceive of a farm without a dog.
There was no sign of anyone on these grounds. No cows. No chickens. No truck or wagon. Maybe the people were long gone, and their trusty dog with them.
And maybe the Lord had led us to an abandoned farm on purpose. The house stood there in front of my eyes, surely a better shelter for my children than this crooked barn. I looked up at the rain pouring in through the barn’s holey roof. It didn’t seem likely that even the dry corners of the straw-strewn floor would stay dry for long.
“Sam,” I said. “This is no fit place to spend the night.”
He didn’t even turn around. “We’ll make do, Julia.”
I shook my head and looked out at the house again. I could tell it had been a nice one once, years ago. The dark windows and pillared porch drew me, and I had the irrational thought that God had placed it here, just this night, knowing how much we needed it.
“Can we go in?” Robert begged. “Please?”
Sam carried Sarah over beside us, took one look at the house, and shook his head. “We can’t let ourselves into somebody’s house,” he insisted. “It’s not right. We can wait out the storm here and move on.”
“It’s gonna get too cold out here for Sarah tonight,” Robert reasoned. “Nobody lives here. Maybe there’s even a fireplace.”
Sarah perked up at that idea. The fireplace had been her favorite part of our house in Harrisburg. “Please, Daddy?” she joined in. “Can we go and see?”
“Somebody owns this place,” my husband protested, looking down at the straw at his feet. He didn’t like it, I knew that. But I also knew he would leave the decision up to me.
“I don’t think anyone’d fault us one night, Sam,” I said.
“The storm may set in for awhile. We need a dry place to rest the night. And I’m not sure this rickety old barn will stand a good stiff wind.”
He didn’t say anything but just set Sarah down and picked up all the bags.
“Can we run for it?” Robert asked with the kind of excitement I loved to hear in him.
“We don’t have much choice,” I told him. “But wait a minute and see if the rain slows at all.”
After five minutes, the rain had not let up. But when the wind sent a chunk of barn roof sailing in the air, we made a break for it across the wide yard anyway. With Sarah dangling from my arms, I burst through the open back door, right behind Robert. Sam stumbled in after me and dropped all our things in a heap on the kitchen floor.
It was already dark inside the house, but mostly dry. The kitchen smelled of must and had cobwebs generously spread in the corners. A sagging table, three chairs, and a dusty wood cookstove took up most of the room. I fumbled through my bag for a couple of candles and a match while Sam tried to get the door closed. It had a broken hinge and just wouldn’t stay shut, so he propped one of the chairs against it to keep out the rain and wind.
I lit a candle and handed it to Sam. After I lit the second one, we all went together to the next room.
“Look, a fireplace!” Sarah exclaimed. “Can we have a fire? And popcorn?”
Just like Harrisburg,
I thought.
That’s all my kids really
want. Their old life back.
“We don’t have firewood, honey,” I told her. “Or popcorn either. But we’ll make do.”
I put my candle on the mantle to light the room. The only furniture it held was a broken chair in one corner. I was glad to see that the windows were intact.
Sam went back to the kitchen and brought our bags. He pulled out our two thin blankets.
“Can we explore?” Robert asked.
“Let’s eat now,” I told him, trying to sound as pleased with our adventure as he seemed to be. But there were only two apples and a few old biscuits left in my bag. The Lord would have to provide tomorrow’s breakfast.
I cut the apples in half and set a biscuit in front of each child. I started to offer Sam a biscuit, but he shook his head, so I gave him our old canteen instead.
There should be a
prayer,
I thought, but I only whispered a rote blessing out loud.
Lord,
I prayed in my head,
help us make a life again.
Give Sam a hope again. Help us be close like we used to be.
It occurred to me then that I ought to pray for help in getting over the anger I felt toward Sam. But I didn’t do it. I guess it was easier to think that I’d forgiven him already and was just entitled to my feelings beyond that.
I let the children have all the food. I couldn’t have eaten anyway, with Sam refusing. I would find us more food in the morning. Even though it was only the first part of May, I could be confident of finding something edible among all the things growing outside. Grandma Pearl had walked me through the seasons on her farm, showing me what to look for. That was before Grandpa Charlie had died and we had to move to town. I could still remember how embarrassed Papa had always been by Mama’s parents and their strange country ways. But I’d loved them dearly and had come to thank God for the things they had taught me.
Sam was sitting with his back against the wall, watching his youngsters finish off our last crumb. Once he looked up at me for a moment and then turned his head.
I should hug him,
I thought.
I should tell him we’ll be okay,
that it’s not his fault.
But I didn’t move and couldn’t seem to say anything.
Sarah leaned into me. “Sing ‘Button Up Your Overcoat,’ Mama,” she whispered.
Sam looked at her with the barest hint of a smile, and I took heart. I did my best with the song, adding the hand motions we’d made up as we hitchhiked across Kentucky. Then I jumped into my own silly rendition of “Bye, Bye, Blackbird.”
And all the while as I sang, Sam watched me. What must he be thinking, me acting this way? I’d barely spoken to him for days. But I carried on for Sarah like this was some kind of picnic!
But whatever he thought, my antics for Sarah were genuine. No matter how worried I got or how mad Sam made me, I would still make light of our situation for my kids, just to see them smile. They were going to act like kids. They were going to play and laugh like kids, no matter how bad things got. And somehow, with the help of the good Lord, I’d find a way to fill their bellies, whether Sam found work again or not.
“Can we look around now?” Robert asked me eagerly as lightning crashed outside the window.
Sarah jumped onto my lap and wrapped her arms around my neck. “It’s too dark, Mama,” she whispered. “And too loud.”
“Light a couple more candles,” I told Robert. “It won’t hurt to explore a bit, but only on the ground floor, do you hear? Don’t try any old stairs.”
Sam gave me a reproachful look but ended up helping Robert with the candles and walking through the rest of the downstairs rooms with him while I cuddled with Sarah and sang her another song.
“Are we going to live here forever?” she suddenly asked me. Her gentle whisper shocked me as much as if she’d shouted the words.
I should have told her no. But my mind turned to the house, the high ceilings, the dark woodwork I could see in carved detail with every flash of the lightning outside. There were two little shelves with empty kerosene lamps and a wide mantle with a huge mirror set above the fire-place stone. Pale green drapes hung limp at the windows, still looking presentable despite their years.
It was a decent and sturdy house, despite the lack of care. And I was glad to be away from the road and strangers, glad we weren’t hitchhiking through the night, trying to make it to Dewey’s before morning. I didn’t care if we ever got to Dewey’s. Illinois had been Sam’s promise. A job at the wheel plant. A place to stay. But there was nothing to that now. The plant would close just like Cooper’s back home, and Sam had even said that Dewey was thinking to go south and ask for work in the mines.
I found myself hoping the storm would last for days on end, keeping us stranded here so we wouldn’t have to face the decision of what to do next. We could use the rest. If only we had food, nothing else would matter.
Sam and Robert weren’t gone long. They came back with three dusty blankets they’d found in the closet of a bedroom where one of the broken windows was. Sam apologized for the blankets but said they were better than the ground and warmer than a bare wood floor.
They’d found a pantry too, and the staircase going upstairs. That was it for the ground floor except for the kitchen and the sitting room we were in. Robert wanted to see the second floor, but Sam and I both told him no.
I shook out the old blankets one by one, wondering why anyone would leave them behind. Especially the quilt, with its diagonal rows of alternating dark and light. Someone had pieced together this now-tattered quilt, perhaps for a child or an aging parent. Somebody had loved this house once. Where were they now? The thought was hard in my stomach. People don’t just walk away from a farm like this. They don’t up and leave a home unless they have no choice.
I thought of our house in Harrisburg and wondered if there’d been a foreclosure at this house too, and another family, disheartened and humiliated, watching their possessions being auctioned away. But if that was the case, why was there no new owner? Why would a bank let such a house sit empty long enough for the spiders to lace webs in every doorway?
I stretched out two blankets on the floor, one for each child. They would be warm enough with a blanket of our own on top of them. Sam and I would huddle together under the quilt tonight, I decided. We would manage with nothing under us. And I was glad the kids wouldn’t have to share a blanket like we’d done before. They would sleep warmer here. We owed a debt of gratitude to the owners of this place. Or the past owners. Whoever had left the blankets in the closet and the door wide open. Perhaps there would be a way to repay them someday.
The storm raged outside as I prayed with Robert and Sarah and settled them down for the night. They liked my singing, so I sang a couple of hymns. Sam was just watching me again. Then we both sat quietly until we knew the children were asleep.
“What are we gonna do, Julia?” Sam finally asked.
I got up and reached for a candle. “I’m going to take another look at that kitchen.”
I didn’t want him to follow me. But he did. I knew he would. I also knew it would plague him to know what I was thinking—that maybe it would still be storming tomorrow. And that I’d be glad of it, except for how it would complicate trying to find food outside. We’d have to use whatever we could now. We’d have to do whatever we could to make sure our children didn’t suffer.
“What are you doing?” he asked me, sounding far away and bone weary.
“Praying for something we can use.”
I was going straight for the kitchen cupboards when I nearly stepped on something small and dark that none of us had noticed before. A dead bird. Good thing Sarah hadn’t seen it. She’d have mourned the poor thing sore. Sam picked it up off the floor and pitched it out the door for me. I stepped over the spot where it had been, pulled open a cupboard door, and held my candle inside. The cupboard held a bunch of old jars, most of them empty, but a few seemed to have something inside.
Sam had just come up behind me. “Honey, we can’t—”
“I don’t like this any more than you do,” I blurted. “You know I don’t like stealing. But we’ve got to do something. When Sarah and Robby wake up, they’ll be hungry. God forgive me, but if there’s anything usable here, I’m gonna use it.”
With a prayer, I started pulling out jars, shining my candle on each one to get a look at the label. Parsley. Dill. Basil. Homegrown, but no telling how old. Something like that doesn’t rot, of course, but it doesn’t make much of a meal either. I pulled out more jars and suddenly felt like God had put these things here, just for me. A bit of sugar. Half a box of salt. Just a little baking powder, a box of soda, and three more matches.
The last jar was about a third full and rattled in my hand. It had no label, but it took me only a moment to realize what it was. Popcorn kernels. It was all I could do to keep from crying.
“Just what Sarah wanted,” I whispered. “Sam, look. God’s got a heart for the desires of a child.”
“Will it even pop?”
“No telling. But as long as it’s dry, it’ll be okay. I hope it pops, but even if it doesn’t, it can be parched—like the Indians used to do sometimes.”
Sam looked away from me. “I’m sorry, Julia. That we have to do this.”
I suddenly felt like dropping everything, just to hug him. I don’t know why I couldn’t. I guess a barrier had grown in me that was just too strong. But I took his hand, and he looked back at me. “The Lord will provide,” I told him.
“I’ll go foraging. You know me. And the season’s good for some wild food.”
I put the popcorn jar on the counter with the rest of the jars and started checking the other cupboards. I found a few dishes, an old skillet, and a dented saucepan with no lid.
“We’ll be okay,” I said as much for myself as for Sam. “We can’t be too far from town. Maybe there’s a grocery store. If the storm is over in the morning, maybe we can find the place.”
“We couldn’t buy much,” Sam said. “Not to last us long. We’ve got maybe sixty cents, Julia.”
I heard the gloom in his voice, and I didn’t want any part of it from him right then. Things were bad. But they weren’t going to be hopeless. I wouldn’t have it so.
“Maybe there’ll be a job for one of us,” I suggested.
“How can you still say that?” he said fiercely. “We’ve been in plenty of towns. Nobody’s hiring! Especially not a stranger. If I’d known the wheel plant was having trouble, we’d have never left Harrisburg!”
I shook my head. “What would we have there, Sammy? A line to stand in for bread? And another line to ask for a place to spend the night? It was no good there.”
He looked at me, stunned. “You’re not sorry we left?”