Through the Deep Waters (5 page)

He reached the barn, and two curious hens darted ahead of him to poke their beaks against the dark earth floor. He stepped past them and made his way to the straw-lined wagon where he’d placed the morning’s eggs in with the previous two days’ bounty. Admiring the washed, smooth orbs, he smiled. Twelve-dozen eggs in three days’ worth of laying. When the salesman in Hutchinson had told him the birds would each lay an egg up to 360 days a year, Amos had been skeptical. Almost an egg a day? But so far, the man’s words had proven true.

Of course, the hens were tricky about it, laying an egg in twenty-five-hour cycles and only when the sun shone. So his egg retrieval had to change every day according to the hens’ schedule. There’d be fewer eggs in the wintertime, too, with the shorter days. But even so, he was happy with his choice of the Leghorns. They were certainly the best egg-laying chickens a man could own.

He fingered the eggs, thinking. At twenty cents per dozen, with four dozen hens laying, he could make eighty cents a day. If he doubled his flock, then he could make a dollar and sixty cents a day. A dollar and sixty cents times 360 days came to—

With a wry chuckle, he stopped himself. He sent a grin in the direction of
the two hens. “What now, am I counting eggs before you even lay them? I should know better.”

He took hold of the handle of his wagon and headed for the barn door. The wagon was nothing more than a child’s toy, but it worked for transporting his eggs into town. He’d spent every one of his carefully saved pennies plus the money Pa had given him—what Pa called an early inheritance—to buy the farm and chickens, so he couldn’t afford a horse to get his eggs to those who would buy them. But it was less than two miles into Florence. Even with his bum hip, he could make it. Hadn’t the Lord been good to lead him to a farmstead close enough to town for him to walk?
Thank You, dear Lord
.

The wooden wheels moaned like rusty hinges, and the pair of chickens scattered, clucking in alarm when he pulled the little cart from the barn. “Now, now, you are fine. It’s only noise. It can’t harm you.”

Without warning, words he’d heard in the past taunted his memory. His mother always quoted the rhyme about sticks and stones breaking his bones but words not hurting. Ma had been right about most things but not that.

Words did hurt, and even remembering them hurt.

But he was far from those who had tormented him, so he pushed aside the remembrances and addressed the chickens once more. “Be good and stay on the ground. No flying up in trees. I’ll be back soon.”

He headed down the dirt road, his wagon squeaking behind him. Was it foolish to talk to chickens? Most people would probably think so, but sometimes a man needed to say things out loud. There wasn’t anyone else around to listen. His heavy boots scuffed up dust, but the Kansas wind whisked it away. He watched his long shadow stretch toward the scrubby brush alongside the road, and a hint of melancholy struck. If only the shadow were another person walking with him.

“Now that I’m settled,” he said to his shadow, “I should get myself a dog. A dog could walk to town with me.” Maybe he could even get two—one to go with him and one to stay behind and keep watch over the chickens. Not that he worried much about predators during daylight hours. Even so, extra precaution wouldn’t be foolish. He’d ask in town about litters of puppies.

Some dogs chased chickens, he knew, but they could be trained not to do so. His pa had trained their dog by hanging a dead chicken around its neck and then beating it. Afterward, the dog had been afraid of chickens, but it had also been afraid of Pa. So Amos wouldn’t train his dogs in such a heartless manner. He wouldn’t want his dogs skulking away from him in fear.

He paused, checked to be sure the eggs weren’t bouncing together, switched hands on the handle, then set off again. Yes, it would be nice to have a dog or two to sit beside the table when he ate his meals or to trot along with him when he did his chores. He’d look less silly talking to a dog than to the chickens. Dogs were good companions.

But even better than a dog would be a wife.

Sweat dribbled into his eyes, and he winced. He yanked off his hat, cleared the moisture from his forehead with his shirt sleeve, then tied the handkerchief he always carried in his pocket around his head to catch any other dribbles. He settled the hat over the bandanna. It was a tight fit but it worked. He moved forward, the sun heating his head and shoulders, a breeze teasing his cheeks, and his thoughts carrying him to places he tried not to go.

He’d turned twenty-four in mid-January. By the time his older brothers had reached twenty-four years, they were already married with a youngster or two underfoot. Although the Good Book advised against covetousness, he envied his brothers. Partly because they had families, and partly because they had two healthy legs that enabled them to walk behind a plow and cultivate the soil, just as Pa had done before them. Pa was proud of his strapping farmer sons. Another reason to envy his brothers.

They’d been astounded when he said he intended to raise chickens. He’d only be squandering his money, they told him. Chickens stunk, they said. Chickens were messy. Chickens attracted foxes and coyotes and hawks, and he’d never be able to raise enough of them on his own to make a living. Recalling their bold statements, he even envied their surety—Titus and John were confident men, so unlike Amos.

But maybe he had some confidence after all because he’d spouted at them,
“Wait and see. I will be a successful chicken farmer.” Then he’d gone ahead and bought the farm and chicks despite his brothers’ dire predictions. And things weren’t going so bad for him.

People in town bought his eggs. He even sold a few, at a reduced price, to the local grocer. If that big, fancy hotel run by Mr. Fred Harvey started buying his eggs instead of having them brought in on the railroad, he’d be set. He squared his shoulders and felt a smile growing. Wasn’t it fine to prove his brothers wrong? To show his pa he was still capable of taking care of himself even with his bum leg? And if he showed himself capable of making a living, then maybe—
It’s possible, God, isn’t it? I don’t want to be alone my whole life long—
he’d find a lady who didn’t mind his gimpy gait and crooked hip.

He reached the edge of Florence and stopped at the first house, where the missus had said she’d take a dozen eggs twice a week. She answered the door on his first knock. A bright smile burst across her round face.

“Good morning, Mr. Ackerman! I was hoping you’d be by today. I need to bake a birthday cake for my youngest grandchild—he turns three tomorrow—and I’m all out of eggs.”

“Do you need more than a dozen?” Amos couldn’t resist bragging, “I have plenty.”

She held out her apron skirt to form a pouch, laughing as she did so. “How about two dozen today, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Amos loaded her apron, careful to place the eggs so the shells wouldn’t crack. He counted out twenty-four and then waited while she went inside to unload her apron and fetch his payment. He cringed when she returned with a fifty-cent piece pinched between her fingers. “I’m sorry, ma’am. I came here first, and I don’t have any change.”

“No need to worry.” She pushed the coin at him. “You just keep it.”

He held up both hands in protest. “Oh no, ma’am! I can’t take a whole fifty cents from you.”

“That’s what I would pay the grocer for two dozen eggs, and Mr. Root doesn’t deliver them to my doorstep.”

“But—”

A mock scowl marred her face. “Didn’t your ma teach you not to argue with your elders?”

Amos chuckled self-consciously and ducked his head. His ma had taught him that and a whole lot more. He pocketed the coin, then met the woman’s gaze. “Thank you, ma’am. And tell that grandson of yours happy birthday.”

Her smile returned. “I will. Good day, Mr. Ackerman.”

The woman’s kindness warmed his insides as much as the sun overhead warmed his outsides. Amos continued his trek through town, knocking on doors, accepting refusals as politely as he accepted coins in exchange for eggs. By the time he reached Root’s Grocer, only twelve eggs remained nestled in the straw. The owner took them and gave Amos fifteen cents, which Amos requested be placed on his account. Then he used up that credit plus a little more by buying cornmeal, a half pound of sugar, coffee, beans, and a side of bacon.

He bade Mr. Root farewell, loaded his wagon with his purchases, and turned his feet toward home. But then he paused at the edge of the boardwalk. The steep-pitched roof of the three-story turret on the Clifton Hotel peeked above the treetops, capturing his attention. Selling his eggs to individuals was fine and good, but if he wanted to fulfill his dreams of expanding his business—adding more chickens to his flock for eggs and also for meat—he needed to sell to something bigger. And the Clifton Hotel, the townsfolk of Florence boasted, was the biggest hotel in all of Kansas.

The Santa Fe railroad that had brought him to town carried passengers through Florence every day of the week. When the train stopped for watering, those passengers marched up to the lunch counter or entered the dining room to partake of the hotel’s offerings. Word had it, up to a hundred people enjoyed a meal in the hotel each day. Which meant the cook needed eggs. Lots of eggs. Would they let Amos provide them?

Temptation to head over to the hotel and ask to speak to the manager made his feet itch. But then he glanced down the length of his dusty bibbed overalls to the toes of his scuffed boots. When a man pursued a business deal, he shouldn’t be dressed in his work clothes. Besides, he’d sold every last egg
from his wagon. The manager and cook would want to see the quality of his eggs—their size and color—before making a decision.

A distant whistle cut through the air, alerting him that another train would pull into the station soon. At the same time, his stomach rumbled. Dinnertime already. He needed to get back to his farm. Giving the wagon’s handle a tug, he bounced the wooden box from the boardwalk and headed for home.

As he followed the dirt road out of town, he made his plans. Tonight he’d fill his big tin tub and take a bath. With store-bought soap so he’d smell extra good. Then in the morning, after he gathered the eggs, he’d put on his Sunday suit and take the fresh eggs in to the hotel. Anticipation coiled through his stomach, making him wish he could leap in the air and kick his heels together in excitement, the way he’d done before the accident stole the ability from him. But even if his legs couldn’t leap, his heart could. It beat an eager thrum the whole way back to his farm.

Because tomorrow, his dreams very well could come true.

Kansas City, Kansas

Dinah

“I’m very sorry, Miss Hubley, but Mr. Harvey’s stipulations for servers are quite clear. You must be eighteen years of age to apply for a position as waitress in one of the restaurants.”

Dinah slunk low in the tapestry chair on the far side of the interviewer’s desk. With her fistful of money, she’d purchased decent clothing and train tickets. Then she secured an interview with the Harvey House representative and traveled the distance from Chicago to Kansas City, all in pursuit of a dream. Hadn’t she learned by now dreaming was a useless waste of time? Of course she had, but at Rueben’s encouragement she’d found the courage to climb into the boat of hope. Mrs. Walters’s statement poked a hole in the boat’s bottom, and Dinah sank with it.

Why hadn’t she lied about her age? She’d already given a false address and blatantly misled the Harvey representative concerning her moral character. She’d claimed herself an orphan, which might not be true—Tori’d been buried two days ago, but Dinah didn’t know if her father, whoever he was, still lived. So many mistruths had slipped from her lips, but when asked her age, she baldly gave an honest answer. Perhaps there was some small droplet of decency still left within her dry, barren soul. But what had her honesty accomplished? Rejection. A bitter taste filled her mouth.

Mrs. Walters’s face pursed in sympathy. “Don’t be so downtrodden, Miss Hubley. Your eighteenth birthday will come in a year’s time, and you can apply then for a waitressing position.”

Tiredness, frustration, helplessness rose up in one mighty wave. “What am
I to do until then? I can’t go back—there’s nothing there for me. I came all this way for a job so I could take care of myself. I’m almost out of money.” She’d have had a tidy sum if she hadn’t purchased a burial plot in one of the city’s nicest cemeteries, a fine pine casket, and a carved granite headstone. But she couldn’t bear to place her mother in an unmarked grave in the potter’s field no matter how Rueben chided her for spending her money on the dead rather than the living.

She blinked back tears and finished. “Please, won’t you let me train to become one of Mr. Harvey’s servers? I won’t tell anyone I’m only seventeen.”

The woman’s eyebrows descended. “We must be forthright with Mr. Harvey, Miss Hubley.” Her expression softened. “But if you’re open to other positions …”

The draining hope dared to puddle. “Other positions?”

Mrs. Walters began ruffling through a stack of papers on her desk. Her face lit up and she lifted one small sheet. “Would you be willing to go to Florence?”