A Part of the Sky (12 page)

Will Henry cornered Jacob and me.

We were at school, standing in the hall by a drinking fountain that bubbled water all the time.

“You guys ought to do it,” Will said.

“Why?” asked Jacob. “Rob and I don’t have to take shop anymore. We’re high-schoolers now, like you.”

Jacob’s older brother said, “That’s the point. A sorry to Mr. Orr would only be a bootlick if you still had him as a teacher. But you don’t. So your apology might make you men, instead of bad little boys.”

Jacob said, “You think you’re so growed up just because you’re a senior.”

“Becoming a senior has nothing to do with it,” Will told his brother. “To grow up is to stand up.
Manly. Instead of sneaking around to stir up mischief. I won’t make you do it. Nor will anyone else.” Will shrugged. “It’s up to you.” Turning, he walked off to class.

“Will’s right,” I told Jacob.

“Are you on
his
side?”

“No, your brother’s on
our
side. Truth is, the prank we played on Pop Orr a year ago is still pestering me.”

“Honest?”

“Yes. So if you won’t come along, I’ll work up my courage and go down to the shop lonesome.”

“I’ll go, Rob.” Jacob grinned. “I can’t abide thinking you’ve got more guts than me.”

“Let’s go.”

“Now?”

“If we don’t face at him sudden, we never will.”

We went, and found Pop Orr alone in his basement shop. Broom in hand, he was sweeping up some wood shavings and sawdust.

I said his name. “Mr. Orr?”

He didn’t seem to hear. But then he squinted our way, looking surprised, and dropped the broom.

“You two,” he grunted.

Doubting that Jacob Henry would do the talking, I waded right in. Full blast. “I’m Rob Peck. Last year, Jacob and I gave you some grief. More than once. We come to apologize. And to say thanks for teaching us.”

Not knowing what else to add, I walked to Mr. Orr and held out my right hand to him. For a moment, I didn’t think he’d accept a handshake. But I was mistaken. Clasping my hand, his grip was firmer than a eagle’s claw. To my surprise, he didn’t let go. He held on. His fingers felt twisted. Maybe arthritis.

“Rob,” he said in a hoarse voice. “Thank you, boy.”

When my friend stepped forward, Pop took Jacob’s right hand with his left. Then he just stood, looking old, gray, and maybe tired of teaching.

“Jacob and Robert,” he said, with a slow nod of his head. “Got to admit you took me back a step.” For a second, his wrinkled face seemed to be resisting a smile. “In a way, this is kind of a celebration. Now I don’t mean mine. I meant yours.”

Holding our hands, his grip seemed to relax, yet he didn’t turn us loose.

“I’m an old man,” Mr. Orr said. “My feelings
aren’t important. But yours are. That’s why I credit you rascals with an honorable act.”

Pop dropped our hands. But then touched us in a different way, placing his hands on our skinny shoulders. Jake Henry and I just stood there in the sawdust, unable to speak a word. We hadn’t surprised Mr. Orr near as much as he done at us.

Pop nodded again. “You lads probable had me pegged as just a deaf old codger with failing eyesight and a crooked spine. I know. With such a crew of cut-ups, I’m tougher than tripe. But I am pleased you came to visit. And own up.” Behind his steamy glasses, he was blinking again and again. “Even a hard-boiled egg,” he said, “has a soft center.”

“I’m glad we got to know you better, Mr. Orr,” I told him. And meant it.

“Likewise,” said Jacob. “Me too.”

“All right,” the shop teacher snarled, “git on out of here. And try not to burn down the high school.”

Laughing, we left.

Later, at English class, I was tempted to inform Miss Malcolm all about how Jacob Henry and I had gone downstairs to make our peace with Pop. A year ago, I would have spilled the whole story.
Yet I didn’t. Doing it was enough. All I told Miss Malcolm after class was that Miss Sarah died. I knew our English teacher was partial to cats, and said how sorry she felt.

On the way home, I stopped by Ferguson’s Feed & Seed, to say a brief howdy to my favorite proprietor. And his sparrows.

“Well,” he said. “It’s young Rob.”

I caught him trying to shift some barley bags that were too heavy for a man of his years. So I helped him do.

“No charge,” I said, giving him a grin. “This chore’s on the house. On me.”

I asked him how business was. His response wasn’t encouraging. “Bad,” he said. “A few weeks ago, in New York City, that exchange market on Wall Street took a tumble.”

“I don’t get it.”

“All the stock fell to pieces.”

“Livestock?”

“No, business stock. Shares in companies. A few banks went under. The radio predicted more might follow. I can’t savvy what’s happening to the United States. We used to have work. Now we seem to have lost all optimism. People are afraid of the future. Some of the local farmers tell me that they’ll possible not plant next spring.”

How well I knew.

“How’s your family?” he asked. “Still uproad?”

“Yes, but I don’t know for how long.”

“Fixing to vacate?”

It pained too much to consider. So I told Mr. Ferguson that we’d stay on our farm and try to hold on. Yet I was telling myself a story. A lie. I’d missed our December payment to the bank, as well as earlier ones. Not to mention our unpaid taxes.

Mr. Ferguson went to the back of the store, and I followed. He seemed to have a purpose.

“Years ago, Robert, I used to live here. Up above, night and day. Just getting started in the feed business. Couldn’t afford a house. Here, I’ll show you.”

Up the back stairs, he led me to three small rooms. Two were bare as bones. Empty. The third room still held an ancient potbelly stove with a black pipe leading to a vent. There was a dry sink without water faucets.

“You lived here?”

“For near to twenty years. Then bought me a house, only a walk away. Got wed. My wife died. Her name was Mildred Ann Ringgold. And I still miss her.”

As he spoke, I listened with only one ear, studying
the three little rooms. And thinking the unthinkable.

“It’s freezing up here,” Mr. Ferguson said with a shiver. “Too cold to abide. So let’s go back downstairs and thaw.”

“About those rooms up there in the back,” I said. “Has anyone else ever lived there?”

“Nope. Vacant for years. Maybe my loft is just aching for company. A pity. A living place ought to have people. I wouldn’t mind hearing voices up there at all.” Over his funny little glasses, he looked square at me. “What’s your opinion?”

It hit me.

Mr. Ferguson had showed me his three upstairs rooms for a reason. It wouldn’t be his way to insult me or my family with charity. Yet it was checkers. He was waiting for me to move.

And I jumped!

“Sir, I could work for you free of charge. Help you through the times. In exchange, maybe you could … maybe you’d let us …” Biting my lip, I couldn’t make myself finish.

He come to me. “Rob,” he said, “maybe it’s time you growed another inch.” He poked my ribs with his finger. “Stopped in at the bank today. Talked to Henshaw and Gamp concerning a few of my own business matters. A few places are going under
here in town. And a farm or two. The bankers are worried sick. They’re scared skinny.” He paused. “Robert, a frightened man will panic and do desperate.” His voice softened. “Forgive them, boy.”

“You learned something today,” I said, my voice shaking.

“Yes. Be prepared to pull up stakes.”

“I don’t know what’s left to do. It’s our farm. Papa’s buried under it. So are my brothers. And other kin. That place is our home.”

Mr. Ferguson wiped his glasses. “Son, home is where you’re cozy close to kinfolks. It isn’t land, or timber, or fancy furniture. You Pecks are people, not trees. An oak might be deep rooted. Maybe, because of a squirrel, its acorn could sprout and prosper a mile distant.”

“Sir, you certain are a friend.”

“So are you. Perhaps you and your family want to make other plans. If so, don’t worry about hurting my feelings. But I still wouldn’t mind a willing helper. One that’s handy and nearby. Oh, and rent-free.”

“I’ll let you know, Mr. Ferguson.”

“By the way,” he said, “you ought to pay call to the Learning Bank tomorrow. I know Mr. Gamp wants to explain matters. Best you go there and listen.” He paused. “As to my upstairs offer, there’s
no hurry. It’s waited a lot of years to turn useful again. A few more weeks or months won’t bother.”

On the way home, walking uproad on the packed snow of the gravel road, I was trying to plan how I would inform Mama and Aunt Carrie about the bank business. No easy job. But, sure as Sunday, I’d be stout enough to hold us together.

Fists clenched, I walked into winter wind.

17

In school, it was impossible to concentrate.

Although I was trying my best to learn, my mind was in commotion, rumbling like a threatening storm. All I thought about was one worry. Our farm.

Becky Lee Tate brought a extra-size noon bag, as she often did, then politely claimed that her appetite was off feed. We both realized the ruse to stuff food into me. Yet we didn’t discuss it. Becky refused to be thanked. Nevertheless, I ate in silent gratefulness.

As we sat together, I couldn’t talk to her. My mind wasn’t at school. It was home. Without closing my eyes I could see our little orchard. Four trees and four graves: A cousin. My brothers, Charles and Edward. And my father, Haven Peck.

How would I tell Mama and Aunt Carrie that
we could no longer hold the land that held our dear?

“Thanks to you, I didn’t fail at school. But since Papa died, I certain did as a farmer.”

Becky took my hand.

“Nobody’s a failure at thirteen,” she said. “Allow yourself a chance. Even if you might have to give up farming or lose the place, it doesn’t mean you stop living.” She paused. “It makes poor sense to burn all your woodpile before the weather quits at winter.”

“Today,” I said, “might prove to be tougher than I am.”

Then I told Becky Lee about what I was having to face after school. Going to the bank. Hoping I’d be man enough to handle matters.

“Walk in tall, Rob. A bank is only a building. Hold your head up high and be the gentleman you always are.” She poked my ribs. “Well, almost always.”

My last period was a study hall, supervised by Miss Malcolm. Explaining that I had important banking to do, I asked her to be excused early.

“Go,” she said, “and be Ivanhoe.”

After leaving the school, I got to appreciating all of the good people I’d come to know. So many.
Their faces appeared, smiling, one by each. Wealth, I was concluding, wasn’t money. Losing friends would be more painful than losing a farm.

Inside the bank, I yanked off my wool mittens and hat, then asked a woman at the first desk if I could please see Mr. Gamp. I give her my name.

“He’s very busy,” she said. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, ma’am. Not really. But …”

“Then I’ll take your telephone number.” She smiled. “As soon as Mr. Gamp has a vacancy in his schedule, we’ll contact you.”

“We don’t have a telephone. Our place is over a mile uproad. I go to school weekdays, and it don’t recess before the bank closes at three o’clock. Please let me see Mr. Gamp. He wants to see me. Just yesterday, he told Mr. Porter Ferguson that I ought to stop by here.”

“Well … all right. You wait here, young man, while I go back and check to see if Mr. Gamp is available.”

She marched away. A minute or so later, to my surprise, Mr. Gamp returned with her, extended a hand, and then guided me to his office.

“Please have a chair,” he said.

We both sat.

“Robert,” he said, “in the past, you and I have had a few unpleasant meetings. Today will be one more.”

Right then, I wanted to leave. Jump out of his big leathery chair and escape out the door.

“Believe me,” he said, “I take no personal pleasure in any foreclosure. Unfortunately, a bank is often the instrument that separates a family from a home. And it’s worse when the home is a farm.”

“Then we are going to lose it?”

Mr. Gamp nodded. “In these matters, I alone do not decide. The board does. The action we take is not motivated by meanness. Instead, it’s responsibility.” He removed his glasses to wipe the lenses and left them off. “Lately, I have been working at this desk seven days a week, long hours, trying to keep the town’s one bank on firm footing.” He sighed. “It’s uphill plowing.”

Recalling what Mr. Ferguson had told me about other banks closing their doors, I believed what Mr. Gamp was saying. He looked tired, and worried.

“We have a duty to our depositors as well as to shareholders. We are a mutual trust. That means that many local citizens own the bank in common. In a sense, you are one of them. If our bank fails,
it would be a calamity to the entire village, to the paper mill, for everyone.”

“I understand, Mr. Gamp. But I have to find out what’s going to happen to
us
.”

“First off, allow me to say that there’s always existed a respect in Learning for your father. And also for you. During your first visit, you placed twelve dollar bills here.” His finger tapped the desk. “You probably thought that I coldly scooped up those dollars with little concern for your hardship. Sometimes, I confess, I’m overly abrupt. We are in hard times. Nonetheless, our bank enjoys no pleasure in squeezing good people.”