A Part of the Sky

  “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.

  Chapter

  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.”

  “In other words,” I said, “it’s a matter of choices.”

  “Yes. That’s very perceptive. Robert, our bank has to survive. Circumstances are forcing us to act. We, as a business, can see no possible alternative. No way that you Pecks can continue to skid deeper into debt.”

  “This isn’t too easy to take.”

  “No. It is not. And if you doubt that the bank regrets its action, I can’t blame you. But someday, after you’re fully grown to manhood, I may be no longer around. Yet there will still be a bank here, a place of commerce where you’ll be able to conduct business. A bank to make loans to merchants and farmers that perpetuate a thriving community.”

  “What’s going to happen, sir?”

  “The bank is taking your farm.”

  “Couldn’t we get some sort of a loan?”

  “You already had one. That’s what a mortgage is. Thus a secondary mortgage is not feasible.”

  I nodded. “Mr. Ferguson sort of warned me. But I guess I had to come and hear it direct.”

  “That’s the nutshell. The land will be put up for public auction. When the sale to a new owner is approved and legally completed, equity funds will be placed in a bank account in your name. It won’t be much, because it’s only five acres, and the market is meager. Few buyers.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “I’m glad you do.”

  Mr. Gamp stood, as a signal for me to leave. Our business was over. So I stood as well and then offered him a handshake. He walked me to his door. It was surprising when he put a hand on my shoulder.

  “A lot of people,” he said, “think that I’m the meanest snake in town. After what I’ve just done to you, I’m convinced they’re right.”

  “You had to do it, Mr. Gamp.”

  “Yes,” he said, “I truly did.”

  Ferguson’s Feed & Seed was a place I had to pass on the way home. In need of seeing a friendly face, I popped in. There was also another reason for a visit.

  “Mr. Ferguson,” I asked him, “now that you’ve had a chance to consider, do you still want us to live upstairs? I hope so. We got nowheres else to go.”

  He smiled. “Yup. Deal’s a deal.”

  “Sir, we’ll soon be coming. Three of us.”

  “You’ll be welcomed.”

  Chapter

  18

  The wagons come.

  Snow wouldn’t clog the wheels, because a fierce northwest wind had blowed the road clear. Its pebble surface was frozen, yet dry. Bare. Rock hard.

  When I’d asked Ben Tanner, he offered at once to help move us. So did Sebring Hillman and Ira. Yet I was surprised when Lampson Henry arrived with a team, along with Uncle Hume and Aunt Matty in a one-horse buggy. Only the Tanners arrived with oxen.

  The women helped inside.

  Bess Tanner, Astrid May Hillman, Aunt Matty, Mrs. Henry and Mrs. Long had all brung boxes and barrels and remnants of wool and muslin to help Mama and Aunt Carrie pack.

  Two days ago, I had cleaned and dusted the three rooms over the feedstore. The stove, when I’d built a fire, heated at least one room. Mr. Ferguson said that he’d relight it so the place would be partial to our arriving.

  I’d given away our chickens, to Ira. Only three were left. We’d eaten some. The cold had killed the rest.

  I closed the door of our empty barn.

  As the wagons got loaded, I felt grateful there was so much to do. Possessions, even the few we had, have a way of owning you, body and brain. With a door constant open, the house become so icy cold. No pulse.

  It was like our home was nearing death.

  The more it emptied, the sadder it seemed to fill with sorrow. Mama and Aunt Carrie shuffled around inside touching places. Not with gloves. Their fingers were bare, as though searching the wood and stone for something lost. r />
  We let our cookstove go out. There it stood, silently strong, our big, black Acme American that my mother had stuffed with so much split wood and emptied of ashes. No room for it over the feedstore. But how could I ask Mama to leave one of her life’s major companions? Mama and Carrie were standing there, in an otherwise empty kitchen, holding on to each other at the stove. Even though heatless, to them, it was still baking memories.

  Ben Tanner watched them there.

  “Too dear a stove to leave behind,” Ben said. “We got more wagons than we need. If you agree, Rob, I’ll porter it to our place and store it into my haybarn. When the time comes, you can have it back. Hear?”

  With four big men, Ira, Sebring, Lampson, and Ben, the stove went. Mama understood. Now it would rest safe, with caring neighbors, and have a home.

  But no fire.

  Before leaving, Mama and I waded through the snow to the orchard, west of the house. The graves had no markers. Yet we knew where they were, beneath a quilt of winter.

  “Our lost aren’t here below, Mama. They’re above us. A part of the sky. Someday, we will be together again. All the Peck family. Kin and animals. No bank can divide us apart. You and Aunt Carrie and I can stand without hitching.”

  Ben and Bess, the eldest, headed to home property. Loaded, we started for Learning. The wind was a whip. Trying to keep Mama and Carrie warm was impossible, even though I had them bundled and sheltered some under a big tarp on Ira’s wagon. My mother and aunt had few warm winter clothes. They, for half of every year, were indoor workers. Not snowbirds. To them, winter was a kitchen hibernation.

  Several times we had to whoa a wagon because a box or carton got winded off. Whenever we hit a stretch of ice, the going slowed; the iron on the horse hoofs made slippery footing on which to haul. But the big horses, furry thick, leaned into their collars and pulled willing. Snorting out gray plumes of breathing.

  At my request, Mama and Aunt Carrie went direct to Aunt Matty’s, where it would be furnace warm. I told her I’d return in a few hours to get them.

  We unloaded behind the feedstore. Then up the narrow stairs, with Mr. Ferguson there to greet us all a friendly welcome.