The Promise of Home (16 page)

Karen sniffed and dabbed her nose. “Yes, an aircraft systems engineer. He had a lot of training in the Air Force. He worked for a while at GE, but he got laid off. The job overseas seemed like his best option for now.”

“What exactly was the job? Did I hear you say he was in Saudi Arabia?”

“Um-hmm. I don't know exactly what he was working on. Most of his work is classified, so I never get to hear the details. He was stationed on one of the Saudi air bases, though.”

“He must have some fine technical expertise,” Father O'Brien said. “Goodness, what I wouldn't give for just a bit of that. I can barely operate my computer. All the buttons and keys are so confusing. It seems like every time I press something, it beeps at me.” He looked at Karen carefully. Her tears were coming slower, and she managed a wan smile at his computer comment.

“Nick is brilliant,” Karen said. “I keep thinking that's the reason he was taken. He must know something important. Nothing else makes sense. Americans don't go missing in Saudi Arabia anymore, like they do in other places in the Middle East. At least that's what Nick said before he left. It's one of the reasons he felt safe taking the job.”

“If that's true, then whoever has him will want to keep him alive,” Father O'Brien said. “That's another reason to keep the faith. Listen to me, Karen,” he said with a gentle squeeze of her hand, and she raised her tear-streaked face to look into his. “God loves you, and Nick, and Ben. Psalm 91 teaches us that the Lord is a refuge and a fortress, and that He will rescue and protect those who acknowledge His name. I believe deeply that God is watching over Nick right now, protecting him. And He's doing the same for you.”

“I feel so hopeless and afraid, Father. Like I'm all alone. And,” she added in a barely audible whisper, “it isn't good for me to be alone right now.”

“Remember, you're not alone, Karen. You're not. God is always with you and with Nick. And, there are so many people in Mill River who care about you and your family. If you need help, we'll be there,” Father O'Brien said. “Our church family and our community are small, but both can do so much. Let me make a few calls. In the meantime, you're welcome to come here or call me anytime.”

After they had said a prayer for Nick's safety and Karen had left, Father O'Brien put on his reading glasses and looked through his Rolodex for Elsa's home number. He rarely called his secretary at home. It was clear, though, that Karen needed assistance immediately, and Elsa could quickly activate the church support group. The volunteers on the list could provide meals for Karen and her son. They could also take turns visiting her or taking her for outings on the days she wasn't working. That way, she wouldn't be left alone with her worries for long stretches of time.

As he thumbed through the cards of members' addresses and phone numbers, Father O'Brien thought of some of the countless instances when the members of his church and others in Mill River had pulled together to help one of their own. There had been many surgeries and deaths. Car accidents had been another, more common occurence. Occasionally, a house fire or a bad winter storm had taken its toll on someone's home. Regardless of the reason, the people of the town always helped each other. Even he had been the recipient of his neighbors' love. Every evening for a full two weeks after the last town meeting, when people had come to understand the deep friendship that he'd lost with Mary's passing, someone from the town had brought him supper or stopped by to visit.

A support system like that could help people through the most difficult situations. But it was true that sometimes, assistance from friends and loved ones wasn't enough to avert tragedy or prevent a tragedy from getting worse. Even with his help, and help from his grandmother and uncle, his poor mother had suffered terribly after his father had left.

For Karen's sake, and for her son's, he could only hope that the grace of God and the loving hands of their friends and neighbors would see them through until Nick was found and returned safely home.

Saturday, April 21, 1934

A
t dawn on the morning after Dr. Washburn's visit, Michael was awakened by his grandmother knocking on his bedroom door.

“Michael? Michael, get up. I need your help.”

He thought at first his grandmother's voice had been a dream. He forced open his eyes and saw the faint sunlight beginning to illuminate his window. His grogginess quickly disappeared when his grandmother knocked again and opened the door.

“Did you hear me, Michael? I need you to do the milking this morning. Your mother's worse. She's been awake retching for nearly an hour, and I don't dare leave her. Thank goodness the doctor will be back today. Hurry, now.”

Michael pulled on his clothes and nearly ran down the steps. His heart was beating fast, mostly from the shock of hearing his grandmother's words. Of course he would do the milking, but he wanted very much to see his mother before he went out.

His grandmother was standing at his mother's bedroom door with the doorknob in her hand, like a butler prepared to usher a guest out of someone's home.

“Can I go in? Just for a minute?”

“She's having a hard time at the moment, and you best take care of Onion first,” his grandmother said. “The milk pail is in the kitchen. I scalded it last night. You can look in on your mother when you come back inside.” Michael reluctantly headed toward the kitchen as she slipped inside the bedroom and shut the door behind her.

The family's Holstein was awake and shifting impatiently in her stall when he arrived at the barn. Carrying the empty milk pail and a bucket of warm, soapy water, he went to the opposite end of the barn, where a row of milking stations faced a feed trough against the wall. Once he had placed a ration of fresh hay and corn in part of the trough, he went to Onion's stall, opened the door, and grabbed her by the halter. “C'mon, girl, let's go,” he said. Rather than follow him eagerly, though, as the cow did with his grandmother, Onion planted her feet and pulled against him.

Michael held up the shining milk pail. “Look here. You know what this is, don't you, girl? Come on, now, be a sweetheart and come get your breakfast.”

The cow opened her mouth and lowed but didn't budge.

Michael sighed. He remembered the cows that his grandfather used to have—Holsteins, all, and every one of them sweet and docile. A few years ago, when the family had decided to return to the farm from Winooski, his father had purchased Onion from a farmer who was giving up on the dairy business. The young cow had already borne a healthy calf and proved to be a good milk producer. Unfortunately, they'd discovered once they got her to the farm that she was unusually stubborn and unaccustomed to being hand-milked. His grandmother had worked with her daily, and gradually the cow had grown used to the routine and to being handled. But his grandmother was the only person for whom the cranky cow would cooperate.

To their dismay, they also learned that the cow had a particular liking for wild onions. She eagerly sought out and consumed the dark green clumps with purple flowers that occasionally appeared in the pasture. The wild onions, in turn, gave her milk an unpleasant taste and odor. The name Onion was fitting for her temperament as well as her preferred grazing.

Tabby, the barn cat, meowed a greeting from the hayloft. She arched into a stretch, watching as Michael scooped a handful of corn out of the feed tub and walked back toward the cow. “Here you go, girl. Let's try this again,” he said as he held out the corn. Onion lowered her large, dripping nose to his hand, unfurled her wet tongue, and began licking up the grain. He took hold of her halter again and stepped back. To his relief, she walked forward with him, her attention fixed on the offering in his hand.

Slowly, he guided her toward the milking station he had prepared. Once the cow found the waiting hay and corn, he fastened the wooden stanchion around her neck. Next, he washed her udder and his hands with the soapy water from the bucket. Finally, he positioned the clean milk pail under the cow and sat down beside her on a milking stool.

Although he was a bit rusty, he'd often helped his grandfather with the milking when he was younger, and it didn't take long before he found a good rhythm and had nearly half the pail filled. Once the back half of the cow's udder had been emptied, he switched to the two front teats. It was then that Onion decided to act up. She lunged backward and, with her head secured by the wooden boards, threw the rear half of her body sideways toward him. He barely managed to stand up and move out of the way to avoid being knocked over.

“Gosh darn it, Onion!” He shoved his weight against the cow, trying to push her back into position, but this only caused her to kick out violently with her hind legs. As hoof collided with metal, there was a loud
crash,
and the milk pail and its contents went flying.

Twenty minutes later, Michael was fuming as he carried a scant half-pail of milk into the kitchen.

“That's all you got?” his grandmother asked as she stared down at the milk.

“No, but she kicked over the pail and nearly trampled me to death before I got this much. I ended up roping her rear legs to the stall before I could finish with her.”

“She'll get used to you in time, I'm sure. She'll have to. I've got to attend to your mother until she's better, so you'll have to take care of the chickens and the milking.”

“You're the only one Onion likes,” Michael complained, although he felt his face flush scarlet with shame for doing so. “She's liable to kill me next time.”

His grandmother was quiet as she took the pail from him. “Let me think about it. Onion's difficult, but I've had difficult cows before. Maybe I can figure out a way to make it easier.”

Michael nodded. “How's Mother?”

“Asleep, but otherwise no change.”

“I'm going to go sit with her for a few minutes.”

“All right. Don't wake her, though. I'll fix us some breakfast, and then I'll need you to fill the wood box. We're running low.”

Michael tiptoed to his mother's room and went inside. He winced when the chair beside her bed creaked as he slowly sat down on it, but his mother didn't stir. The rapid, shallow rise and fall of her chest was the only movement she made.

How different she looked than just a few weeks before, busily rushing around the kitchen, her dimples showing as she smiled and served dinner to the family. Her complexion was even more sallow, and her slightly parted lips were dry and cracked.
She's changed so much in such a short period of time,
he thought.
Lots of things have changed.

Michael's gaze traveled down to his mother's abdomen beneath the heavy bedcovers. He remembered seeing her midsection grow and change to varying degrees over the years. At first, learning that she was expecting a baby had been a source of happiness for the family. When Michael was a young child, Seamus was already doing a man's work. With his big brother and the rest of the family too busy to play or pay him much attention, Michael had been giddy at the prospect of having a younger sibling. After his mother's multiple losses, though, and increasing difficulty, their collective happiness repeatedly turned to anxiety and fear.

A part of him wondered if there was any truth to what Dr. Washburn had said—that his mother's sickness was caused by some part of her that truly didn't want the child she was carrying. Deep down, though, he didn't—and couldn't—believe such a thing any more than his grandmother did.

One of his earliest memories on the farm was of his family gathered in the far corner of the pasture, of his father placing a tiny, handmade wooden box into a freshly dug hole in the ground. He'd been so young back then and hadn't understood anything…what was in the box, why his mother tossed a handful of dirt in the hole and then dropped to her knees before it, why his grandmother held him close and prevented him from running over to his mother.

Maybe somehow it will be different this time
, he thought.
Maybe things will be all right.
Even knowing the suffering and heartbreak his mother had endured in the past, there was a spark of hope deep inside him for her and the baby she carried. It burned brightly despite the absence of his father and brother, the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, and the secrets he harbored. It burned despite the fact, in so many ways, he felt utterly alone.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of chopping and stacking and hauling wood, mucking out Onion's stall while the cow spent some time in the pasture, looking in on his mother, and tending to his studies. In the late afternoon, he was seated at the kitchen table working out rows of arithmetic problems when his grandmother touched him on the shoulder. “It's about time for the milking again, and I have an idea.”

He looked up to see that she was holding one of her old work dresses and the woolen hat she wore when she went out to the barn during the wintertime. “What are those for?” he asked, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he realized the answer to his question.

“They're for you. Now stand up and slip this over your clothes. You're skinny enough that it should fit around you.”

Michael stood up, though he couldn't believe the indignity of his grandmother's plan. “You want me to wear a
dress
to do the milking?”

“
My
dress. And
my
hat. Onion will think you're me, and she shouldn't give you such a hard time. Now let me help you put it on.”

Before he knew it, his grandmother had pulled the dress over his head. He grudgingly put his arms through the sleeves, frowning as she fastened the buttons up the front. His large hands and half of each forearm protruded from the end of each sleeve.

“What if someone sees me?” Michael asked. “I'll be a laughingstock. Besides, I can't believe this will work. Cows have a good sense of smell. She'll know right away that it's not you.”

“No one will see you except Onion,” his grandmother said as she pulled her hat over his head and fastened it under his chin. “With these clothes, you'll smell like me. And oh, I almost forgot! You must whistle when you're around her. I usually do, and I think it helps to keep her calm.”

“What should I whistle?”

“Anything. Songs from the radio or the movies, hymns, school songs, patriotic songs. She doesn't seem to care.”

“Lizzie? Lizzie, are you in the house?” Anna's voice called weakly from the bedroom, and his grandmother turned in that direction.

“Yes, Anna, I'll be right there.” Lizzie rushed into the kitchen, grabbed the clean milk pail, and handed it to him. “Hurry, now. The sooner you get out there, the sooner you'll be done.”

Michael was left holding the pail as his grandmother bustled into his mother's bedroom and closed the door. With a resigned sigh, he headed to the barn.

Tabby was perched on a hay bale and greeted him with the usual meow. As he began to ready the milking area, the cat jumped down and began weaving around his ankles, purring loudly.

“No fooling
you
, is there?” he whispered as he scratched around her ears and under her chin. “I suppose you're ready for your evening milk.” When he straightened up and glanced in the direction of Onion's stall, he realized that the cow was looking straight at him. Not for a minute did he think his ridiculous disguise would work. Nevertheless, he decided not to say anything else to the cat, in case his voice gave him away.

As he'd done in the morning, Michael went to the stall, grasped Onion by her halter, and pulled gently forward. The cow started to resist, so he quickly began whistling “Yankee Doodle.” Onion cupped her long ears toward him, eyeing him suspiciously. Then she blew a long sigh through her nostrils and allowed him to lead her from the stall.

It was surprising how much faster the milking went with a little music. Michael whistled as best he could, going through songs as they popped into his head and squeezing in time to the rhythms. The entire milking session was uneventful and even pleasant, although by the time the pail was full and Onion was safely back in her stall, he had decided that it was the whistling and not his grandmother's dress that had made the difference. The next time he came to the barn, he would whistle again, but he would be wearing his own clothing.

Michael went back to whistling “Yankee Doodle” as he exited the barn. He was so focused on not spilling milk out of the very full pail that he was nearly to the house before he looked up and saw his uncle Frank and Dr. Washburn standing in the driveway, staring at him.

“Afternoon,” the doctor said. There was a long pause as he seemed to grope for words. “Are you feeling all right, son?”

“Yes,” Michael muttered, and he was nearly overcome by the rush of heat that entered his face. He could feel his cheeks and ears and neck turning a bright pink. How was it that he hadn't heard their cars drive up? Had he been whistling that loudly? “Yes, I'm fine. This…” He looked down at the bottom of the skirt wafting around his knees and quickly removed his grandmother's hat. “This was Grandma's idea. She made me wear her things to trick the cow into thinking I was her. Onion nearly sent me flying when I tried to milk her this morning.” The two men continued to stare, and Michael felt his face burn hotter. “Grandma's been in with Mother most of the day,” he added.

“Well,” Dr. Washburn said with a polite smile, “it sounds like I should see her right away, then.”

“Yes,” Michael said, and he hurried ahead of the doctor and his uncle to open the door for them. “Go ahead down the hallway to her room. I'm sure she's expecting you.”

“Thank you…
madam
,” Dr. Washburn said with a wicked grin and a tip of his hat as he passed. Uncle Frank followed with a bemused expression.

Michael's face was still flushed as he set the pail of milk on the kitchen counter and started unbuttoning the dress as quickly as he could. He couldn't even bring himself to make eye contact with his uncle.