Hannah, Divided Page 10

  There was a knock at the back door. “But that’s awfully early for the guests,” said Ma, startled. She went to answer it, and returned a moment later looking preoccupied. “A tramp outside wants dinner and shelter. I’ll give him food, some milk, and he can stay overnight in the barn with a quilt and pillow.”

  As Hepp and Hannah watched, Ma shook some coins from her crockery pot on the windowsill. “And seven cents to see him on his way,” she said, counting it out. “That’ll have to do. I spent nearly every penny on a Thanksgiving turkey from Brandywine River Farm. Oh, it’s a shame. Two days’ time and there’d be meat to give him, along with pie and chestnut stuffing. He looks so gaunt, I’d like to send him off with more.”

  “But I have money!” Hannah cried as she ran to her coat that hung from the hall peg. She dug out her aluminum-collecting money, her two dimes and three pennies, and added it to the pile in her mother’s hand. “Thirty cents,” she pronounced. “That’s a better number.”

  “Better,” said Ma, and she hurried out to tend to the stranger.

  27. THE HEART OF IT

  HEPP HAD MATURED, EVERYONE agreed. Although he had developed no more passion for the dairy, he was reliable with chores, and his storytelling kept the mealtime hour filled with intrigue. The return of Hepp’s easy, lighthearted presence pulled everyone into a joyful mood.

  Without quite intending to, Hannah swept thoughts of Mrs. Sweet and the Wexler Scholarship and Ottley Friends into a corner of her mind and left them there. She never shared stories of Philadelphia. Not that anyone pressed her. Nobody inquired of her studies. Nobody asked whether or not she would pass next month’s exams.

  Hannah reasoned that, with Hepp home, she would stay through Thanksgiving, but that day came and left without any talk of her returning to the city. By then, her hands had reacquainted themselves with her old chores so easily, it was as if she had never left them off. She was concerned, though, about the pending telephone call from Mrs. Sweet, and her mind tumbled with different excuses.

  Only, Mrs. Sweet did not telephone.

  Home Is Where the Heart Is promised the faded cross-stitch on a pillow Ma kept on the horsehair sofa in the front room. Hannah had aired out, plumped up, and propped her feet on that pillow countless times without pondering its meaning. Now the words pulled at her with new insistence.

  Yet every night, opening her Level Seven math book, she seemed to turn into another self. By lamplight, she reviewed her worksheets and drafted new ones. She even labeled them with Mr. Cole’s whimsical headlines—Geometry Chums! Keen Scalenes! She could almost feel Mr. Cole’s glass eye hovering over the house, brilliant and coolly watchful as the moon.

  I must get back to Ottley Friends, Hannah insisted to herself. No matter how much I detest it there. I’m three math levels higher than any other girl in my grade. I can’t be blown back, even if my heart is here at home. Granddad would have hated for me to quit.

  And yet her convictions seemed to fade with each sunrise.

  Saturday dawned. After that morning’s milking, Pa, Hepp, Roy, and Hannah trooped into the kitchen to find coffee on the boil, eggs in the poacher, and sections of The Chronicle scattered on the table.

  “You have the weekend paper delivered?” Hannah asked as she reached for it.

  “It’s Will Emery’s new job,” Ma told her. “He’s trying to make some money delivering The Chronicle and The Little Bee to the area.”

  “Rolls up here in his daddy’s half-broke Hudson quarter past six on the dot,” Pa added. “Noise to wake the dead.”

  “Oh, we’re already awake, and it hardly costs,” Ma said. “The neighbors are chipping in. The Emery farm is in danger of foreclosure this spring.”

  “Look at you, Hannah Bennett! Pretending to read the National news section with more airs than Mrs. Vanderbilt.” Hepp reached across the table and batted the paper at its crease. Hannah shook it out indignantly.

  “I can read some words,” she retorted.

  Roy grinned and watched from where he stood at the door, a biscuit in one hand as he used the other to button his overcoat. He was teaching himself to drive by taking over the morning milk deliveries. Bit by bit, Roy was learning how to manage the entire farm and dairy. He would be the one to run it one day. Hannah saw that now.

  Hepp tweaked her ear. “What are these some words telling you?”

  “For your information, I’m following an item on Baby Face Nelson,” she said. “He’s on the lam. Stole a car in Nevada and he’s heading north toward the Corn Belt. But he’ll never get caught. He’s got coppers so spun around they’ll need eyes in the back of their head to catch his tail.”

  “Listen to you!” Hepp snorted.

  “How can you read about such horrors in the world?” asked Ma. “Hardened criminals like Mr. Nelson are who keep me up nights!”

  “Ma, it takes nothing to keep you up nights.” Hepp laughed. “Two years ago, you were locking our bedroom windows against baby kidnappers, and all of us full grown!”

  “World is full of troubled and troublesome people, and it’s your ma’s right to lock a window against ’em,” said Pa, raising a hand against Hepp’s laughter and closing the subject.

  Hepp went quiet but his glare trapped Pa’s a moment too long. Last evening, Pa and Hepp had argued over the best way to repair some fencing out in the south pasture. It was the same tired back-and-forth, the same old struggle between them. Hannah suspected that it would not be long before Hepp itched to leave home and travel again.

  The way life used to be was not the way it was meant to last.

  28. PLEASE YOURSELF

  LATER THAT DAY, HANNAH pulled on her coat and walked to the cemetery in search of a solitary moment of prayer for Granddad.

  Instead, she found Hepp sprawled flat on his stomach on a barn blanket. He was reading a book.

  “Gee, it seems chilly for picnics, don’t you think?”

  Hepp looked up. “Last winter, I lived in a Hooverville outside Chicago. Since then, I learned I can read just about anywhere. Plus Granddad McNaughton feels close to me here. Wish there’d been time for one last visit—not that I was special to him, grumpy old man that he was.” He shut the book. “But he would have liked this. John Muir, Travels in Alaska.” He rolled up to sit, leaning back on his elbows, as Hannah dropped down onto the blanket beside him. She touched Granddad’s simple headstone that stood next to the marker for Grandma McNaughton, who had died before Hannah was born. Granddad’s dates were 1866-1934.

  “Thirty-four years in each century,” she noted. “An even divide, just the way Granddad would have wanted.” Then she leaned back against the slab and tried to grasp the cold, real fact of it. Her eyes filled.

  “Say, when are ya heading back to Philly, city slicker?” Hepp’s coaxing cowboy drawl made Hannah laugh even as she rubbed at her eyes.

  “I’m no slicker.” She nudged Hepp in the ribs with the toe of her boot.

  “Ah, but the city’s changed you,” Hepp contended. “Question is, for the better?”

  “Our folks don’t think so. All I’m hearing is how pale and tired I look. But if I don’t get back by next week, I ought not to return at all,” said Hannah. “I’ll be too far behind in my studies.”

  Hepp stretched out his legs, crossing his feet in their funny shoes that were made of a thin, clownish rubber that Hannah had never seen before. “Then why are you still knocking around?”

  “Suppose I’m confused,” Hannah answered honestly. The interest in Hepp’s face encouraged her to continue. “It’s likely I won’t pass that blamed exam, and I’d been dreading my defeat in Granddad’s eyes. He was so sure I’d be his legacy. Now he won’t have to witness my failure.”

  Hepp ran a thoughtful finger over his new mustache. “Pass or fail, you’d disappoint Granddad’s memory if you copped out altogether,” he said. “To quit now might not sit easy with you, either.”

  Hannah nodded. She knew it was true, but it was still hard to hear. “How do you do
it, Hepp?” she asked. “With all your traveling. How do you step into a new place and make it yours?”

  “It’s not against the rules to slip a bit of your old home into the new. You’re only as much a stranger as you want to be. Simple, really.” Hepp stood. “I’ll leave you to your time alone. Gotta keep moving, anyhow, so Pa can’t catch me reading.” Briefly, he rested a hand on the crown of Hannah’s head. “Granddad’s passing must be hard on you. But I suppose it was burdensome, too. He was tough to please. Now you’re free to please yourself. Remember to bring in that blanket.”

  Hepp set off down the hill. He had lost his childlike lope, Hannah noticed, but he had gained a stance that would not tip over easy.

  “He was hard to please,” she said softly to herself. “But when he was pleased, there was nobody happier.” And she knew that some part of her would continue trying to please Granddad. Even if he was no longer here in the space of his body, she would always feel connected to the space of his soul.

  29. NOBODY’S SWEETHEART

  TRU AND BETSY CAME to visit late that afternoon. Tru had brought half a mince pie and Betsy, her ridge-grip jump rope.

  Three were not enough jumpers for a real team, and it was too cold and getting dark, besides, but Hannah shooed Homer and the hens out of the way so that the girls could set up a game in the side yard. Tru had invented a count from a new radio song.

  Who’s that little chatter-box?

  The one with curl-ee auburn locks?

  Who do you see?

  It’s Lit-tle Or-phan An-nee!

  Count all the orphans,

  How many do you see?

  One, two, three, four, five, six, seven …

  Hannah counted to only fourteen orphans before she tangled and tripped. Then she and Tru turned the rope and watched as Betsy, braids flopping, jumped and jumped until Hannah’s hand began to hurt.

  “You’ve gotten expert!” Hannah exclaimed.

  “And you’re out of practice!” Betsy retorted. “Don’t you have any good jump-rope partners in the city?”

  Hannah shrugged and let the question go unanswered.

  Afterward, the threesome gathered in the kitchen for Tru’s pie along with hot cider spiked with cinnamon sticks. The girls told Hannah all of the gossip about school and sweethearts. Elgin was sweet on Melinda and had given her a sandalwood jewelry box that opened to play “The Great Crooner”—which by now they were all sick to death of hearing. Tru still preferred Hollywood men to Chadds Ford boys, and was sweeter on Clark Gable than Lane Chandler these days. Betsy was sweet on Roy—but a hawkish look from Betsy stopped that piece of news midway out of Tru’s mouth.

  And did Hannah have a sweetheart? Their eyes were shiny, waiting.

  Hannah pressed her mug to her lips and held back her answer, though she was thinking of Joe. He was different from her sweetheart, she realized. Joe Elway just might be her best friend, same as Tru and Betsy were each other’s best friends. But how could she explain to them that a boy was her best friend? How would they hear it without twisting her arm for another meaning?

  “No,” Hannah answered after a lingering moment. “My school is only girls. Fact is, I hardly know any boys these days.”

  “How wretched!” exclaimed Betsy. “Poor you. That sure takes the fun out. And the girls?”

  “Hateful,” said Hannah. “Full of airs and snubs.”

  “Why, I could have told you that, silly!” said Tru, a lilt of satisfaction in her voice. “What did you expect? Oh, Hannah, stay here next week for the church tea dance! Everyone’ll be there, and you could use some real fun.”

  “Besides, if you’re not meeting any fellas, how’ll we all become June brides?” demanded Betsy. “And live down the street from each other in our own dear little white houses? Mine with green shutters and Tru’s with red shutters and yours with blue shutters!”

  Hannah had forgotten about her white house with its blue shutters. She missed chatting with the girls, too, and jumping rope, and hearing the school gossip. She missed all of it dearly. But her mind’s eye could not seem to picture herself in that white and blue house. Perhaps it was because she did not have a sweetheart.

  Later that evening, up in her room, Hannah sat at her desk and picked up her math book. She fanned its pages. She had finished the workbook exercises the night before, and her Level Seven book was complete. If she wanted a challenge, she would have to get hold of Level Eight, which was propped on Mr. Cole’s crowded shelf. If Mr. Cole sent the book to Chadds Ford by post, she could teach herself. But Level Nine was an introduction to calculus, a fresh learning expedition that demanded the expert guidance of Mr. Cole.

  If she stayed in Chadds Ford, the mysteries of Level Nine and every level thereafter would remain unanswered.

  Abruptly, Hannah stood and paced her room thirty-two times. She stopped and looked out her window at the moon. It wasn’t fair. She itched to know. She craved to know, or Levels Nine and Ten and onward and upward would tempt and haunt her forever.

  Perhaps there was no one correct place to be. Whatever she decided, she would be acting on instinct. And that would have to be reason enough.

  30. WOODEN KIMONO

  BY EARLY NEXT MORNING, Hannah was packed and ready to go.

  “My mind’s made up,” she stated during breakfast after the milking. “I thought Roy might drop me off for the early train while he made his delivery rounds.”

  She knew from their faces that Ma and Pa were unhappy to receive this news. Roy went stubbornly mute. Hannah could feel her mouth fix in a determined line. She looked to her older brother for help.

  “Good girl,” said Hepp, firmly on Hannah’s side. “About time.”

  There was a silence. Then Pa set down his fork. “No Bennetts are quitters, anyhow,” he said. “Take that dollar from my wallet. It’s in my jacket hanging on the peg. Ought to pay your way, plus you owe some to Mrs. Sweet.” He looked at Ma.

  “Suppose you owe Mrs. Sweet the effort, as well,” agreed Ma slowly, adding, “and completing that exam would have been your grandfather’s wish. Let me make you a lunch. I believe there’s a tin of sardines in the pantry, and some Thanksgiving turkey to take along.”

  It was decided. No one would hold her back, neither by guilt nor doubts nor reason. Hannah held tight to her emotions as she made her good-byes. Luckily, Hepp would be staying on in Chadds Ford through the week, which softened the blow, for Ma especially.

  Hepp’s hug ended in a slight push of Hannah’s shoulders toward the door.

  Silent, Roy carried Hannah’s bags and flung them into the cab. He drove the truck too fast, too, with gripped fists and a marksman’s concentration on the road. “But will you continue on, Hannah, even if you do make the grade?” he asked finally, breaking his own silence as the Chadds Ford train station came into sight. “How would you expect to spend years away from home?” His voice cracked on its edge.

  Years was hard for Hannah to think about, too. She felt dizzy, but she tried to attribute it to Roy’s perilous driving.

  “I’d rather you wish me luck than leave me worries,” she said. “Pass or fail, I’ll be home for Christmas.”

  “Good luck, then,” said Roy, “for what it’s worth. I’ll double back here when I’m done my deliveries, to see that the train got you. Or if you changed your mind.”

  As Hannah watched the truck drive away, old fears gripped her. She imagined herself calling Roy back, skipping and chasing behind the truck like a tumbleweed. What a peaceful morning it would be if she could share it with her brother, delivering milk to their neighbors.

  Even the engine’s whistle sounded lonely when the train eventually pulled in.

  The force of her step hid the quaver of her spirit as Hannah boarded. She found a seat on the aisle so that she did not have to watch the countryside pass by. Instead, she flipped back through her Level Seven book. “Level Eight will be in my hands by tomorrow,” she reminded herself in a whisper. She ate her cheese-and-sardine sandwich w
ithout looking to see whose nose she offended.

  Entering Suburban Station, Hannah ran into the headline everywhere, both in bold black newspaper type as well as in the urgent echoing chants of the newsboys.

  BABY FACE NELSON SHOT DEAD! BODY FOUND IN CEMETERY DITCH!

  She fished a discarded Philadelphia Inquirer from one of the dustbins and stood frozen in place, trying to make sense of the news.

  Poor Joe!

  She picked through the words. Baby Face had not stood a chance. Special Agent Hoover wasn’t as thick as Joe had said. But Hoover’s right-hand men, Cowley and Hollis, both had been killed in the line of duty. It was a terrible shame. Two good lives dashed out in the name of one scoundrel. Hannah had never warmed to Baby Face. She was frankly relieved that he had met his bloody end.

  She rolled the paper under her arm to finish the article on the subway, where she became so engrossed that she missed her stop and had to haul her bags down five city blocks in the freezing cold. Strangers grumbled and stepped around her.

  ‘“Scuse me! Coming through!” She whistled in her best imitation of Joe.

  It was not raining, but the afternoon was dark and soggy, nearly the same weather as that first day Hannah had arrived, only now with a winter bite. The sky was lumpy as a bowl of mush. As she walked past Rittenhouse Square Park, Hannah saluted her willow. A familiar tree was better than no familiar living thing at all.

  She arrived at 5 Delancey Place to find it quiet. She spied Joe through the open door of his bedroom, his boots on and facedown on his bed. When she crept closer and spoke his name, he turned his head, and she saw that his eyes were red-rimmed.

  She perched on the edge of the bed. “Gosh, Joe, I’m real sorry about Baby Face. I know he meant a lot to you. A terrible end.”

  “Did you read he took seventeen bullets?” Joe turned his baleful eyes on her. “I never thought that fella’d get the wooden kimono. Nope, I never thought it for a minute, milkmaid.”