“We’ll put on bandages when the wounds dry.”
Papa came in a few minutes later, Bernie and Clotilde trailing behind him. “How is she?”
“She’s a mess!” Mama’s voice broke. She tipped Clotilde’s head and leaned down to kiss her. “At least we have one girl who knows how to fight back!” Turning away, she went outside. Papa went outside and talked with her. When he came back, Mama wasn’t with him.
Hildemara lay on her cot, watching Mama walk away. She had disappointed her again.
Clotilde peered out the tent-house door. “Where’s Mama going?”
“She’s taking a walk. Don’t bother her. Go on outside for a while. Everything is fine. Bernhard, make certain she doesn’t get near Mrs. Miller’s roses.” Papa lifted Hildemara carefully onto his lap. He brushed the hair back from her face and kissed her cheeks. “Mrs. Ransom won’t be your teacher anymore. She went to Mr. Loyola after you and Clotilde ran away. She quit her job, Liebling.”
“She hates me, Papa. She’s always hated me.”
“I don’t think she hates you anymore.”
Hildie’s mouth wobbled and she burst out crying again. “I prayed for her, Papa. I wanted Mrs. Ransom to like me. I prayed and prayed and my prayers never changed anything.”
Papa pressed her head gently against his shoulder. “Prayers changed you, Hildemara. You learned to love your enemy.”
20
1924
Papa heard about a farm for sale on Hopper Road, two miles northwest of Murietta. When he went to town for supplies, he came back the long way to see it; he talked to Mama about it. After seeing it for herself, Mama bargained with the bank over the property, but—“They wouldn’t budge on the price, so I left.”
“Well, that’s it, then.” Papa despaired.
“We’re just getting started, Niclas. That place has stood fallow for two years. No one has made an offer. If we wait, they’ll come around.”
While they waited, Mama told Papa to make up a list of what he would need in the way of equipment and tools to work the farm, as Mama made up her own list of needed items. She went into town three times over the next week, but never set foot in the bank. She went again the following week, and the banker came outside to talk with her.
“He wanted to negotiate.” Mama laughed. “I told him I’d done my negotiating. The place isn’t worth any more than we offered.”
“So? What did he say?”
“We can have it.”
Both Mama and Papa went back two days later to sign the papers. They came home arguing. “We could’ve paid the full amount in cash and not had a mortgage.”
“You have to spend money to make it, Niclas. We’re not going to run up debt at the hardware store and the general store and the feed store. Let the bank carry the paper for a few years, not ordinary folks who work hard to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads.”
Papa went out and bought a sorrel farm horse and sturdy wagon. He had just started dismantling the tent-house when Mrs. Miller came outside and said Papa had deserted her in her time of need. She said a decent man wouldn’t leave a widow and her daughter to fend for themselves, then claimed Papa had no right to take what belonged to her, and he had better leave the tent-house exactly where it was or she’d have the sheriff after him.
Mama held her temper until the last demand. Then she stepped between them. “Now that you’ve had your say, I’ll have mine.” Papa cringed as Mama went nose to nose with Mrs. Miller. When Mrs. Miller stepped back, Mama stepped forward. “Ring up the sheriff, Mrs. Miller. Please! I’d like to show him all the receipts for everything we’ve had to buy over the last two years just to keep a canvas roof over our heads. People ought to know how you and that lazy daughter of yours sit around all day doing nothing but stuffing your faces.” For every step Mrs. Miller took backward, Mama advanced, hands in tight fists. When Mrs. Miller turned and ran, Mama shouted after her. “Maybe I’ll post a notice in town. Looking for work? Don’t go to the Miller place!”
Hildemara shook with fear. “Will she call the sheriff now, Papa? Will he come and take you and Mama to jail?”
Mama gave her such a look. “We’re in the right, Hildemara Rose.” She gave Papa a hard glare, too. “Scripture says a worker is due his wages. Doesn’t it? It’s about time the ox got his meal!” She pulled a stack of receipts out of one of the boxes. “And I have the papers to prove we haven’t stolen one thing.” She kicked her foot out. “Not even the dust!” She stuffed the receipts in her pocket and went back to packing.
When everything was ready to go, Papa and Mama rode on the high seat of the wagon, baby Rikki on Mama’s lap. Hildemara climbed into the back with Bernie and Clotilde. They whooped like wild Indians as they drove off Mrs. Miller’s place. Mama laughed. They stopped in town at the hardware store and Papa bought shovels, rakes, hoes, pruners, short and tall ladders, large and small saws, a bucket of nails, and sailcloth. He placed an order for poles, baling wire, and lumber to be delivered later. Mama went to Hardesty’s, her own list to fill: a sewing machine, buckets of paint, brushes, and a bolt of yellow and green chintz.
On the way to the new place, the wagon bed piled high with all their purchases, Clotilde pressed in between Papa and Mama on the high seat, while Mama held Rikki. Hildie followed on foot with Bernie. When Papa turned in to the yard, Hildemara thanked Jesus she wouldn’t have to walk any farther. She felt a rush of excitement at the sight of a barn, an open shed with an old plow, a windmill, and a house with a towering chinaberry tree in the front yard. A huge century plant grew on the opposite side of the driveway.
“All this belongs to us?”
“Us and the bank,” Papa called back.
Hildie ran up the steps, but the front door had a padlock. The windows had been covered with plywood to protect them from vandals, so she couldn’t see inside. She ran to the end of the porch. “An orange tree! We have an orange tree!” She didn’t care that all the fruit lay rotten on the ground.
“Hildemara!” Mama called as Papa drove toward the barn. “Help unload the wagon!”
As Papa handed tools down, Mama, Bernie, and Hildemara stacked them against the wall. Clotilde sat on the ground holding baby Rikka in her lap. Papa unloaded Rikka’s crib and carried it to the back door of the house, where Mama and Bernie had stacked the folded cots. A huge California bay laurel tree grew thirty feet from the back of the house, its massive arms stretching leafy branches in a hundred directions.
Mama had the keys to the padlock. Papa took them from her. Then he took Rikka and handed her off to Hildemara. “Stand with your brother, Clotilde.” He removed the padlock and tucked it and the keys into his pocket. Grinning, he scooped Mama up in his arms, shouldered the door open, and carried her inside. Muscles straining, Hildemara lugged Rikka up the back steps behind Bernie and Clotilde.
Papa set Mama on her feet. He gave her a quick, firm kiss and whispered in her ear. As he headed for the back door, Mama’s cheeks turned bright red.
Hildemara stood awed. The house had one front bedroom, a large rectangular living room, a kitchen, and a potbelly stove. “It’s so big.”
Mama looked around and sighed. “I used to own a three-story boardinghouse with a big dining room and parlor.” Shaking her head, she went to work. She took Rikka from Hildemara and jerked her chin at Bernie. “Help Papa bring in the cots. Hildemara, you can start sweeping out the bedroom. Start at the far wall and sweep toward the door and then out the front so it won’t blow right back in again.”
As soon as Papa brought the crib inside, Mama put Rikka down for a nap. Mama opened the door of the potbelly stove, took one look inside, and ran out the back door. “Niclas! I need a hammer to take the plywood off the windows, and you have to take the chimney pipe apart! It needs to be cleaned out or we’ll have the house burn down over our heads!”
Papa came in with a bucket of coal. He’d found a bin full in the barn. When Mama finished cleaning out the stove, she started a fire. She left t
he door open to warm the house, warning Clotilde to stay away. Then she went to work scrubbing the kitchen. “We won’t get it all done today, but we’ll get a good start.”
It started to rain before Papa and Bernie returned from looking over the property. They went right out again after lunch. When Rikka awakened and fussed, Mama nursed her and then told Clotilde to play with her doll and keep Rikka entertained. Mama got on her knees and scraped hunks of congealed grease off the inside walls of the oven and dumped them into a bucket. “Who could cook on a stove like this? Pigs!”
When Mama finally finished, she built another fire in the cookstove. By then, Hildemara had finished sweeping and been put to work scrubbing the floor. “Back of the room to the front door, Hildemara. Don’t start in the middle. Use both hands on that brush, and put your back into it!”
At last they could pump water into the kitchen sink and not have to tote buckets from a well. And the house was blissfully warm with two fires going. No more wind and rain coming in through canvas seams.
Papa and Bernie returned at dusk and hung their coats on hooks by the back door. Papa pumped water into a bucket and took it out to where he and Bernie washed in the cold January wind. Mama opened cans of pork and beans. “Find the plates in the trunk, Hildemara. Lay out the blue blanket and set things out. When you’re done with that, put another shovel of coal in the stove.”
Exhausted, Bernie sprawled in front of the potbelly stove. Edgy, Papa paced. Mama glanced over her shoulder. “How do things look?”
“Nothing has been pruned in years.”
“Good thing it’s winter, then. You can start now.”
“Some of the trees are diseased, some dead.”
“Anything that might affect the rest of the orchard?”
“I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ll find out.”
“If you have to pull out the trees, we can plant alfalfa.”
“Twenty trees at the most, but alfalfa is a good idea. There’s room enough to grow what we need for two horses in the strip of land alongside the road.”
Bernie sat up. “Are we getting another horse, Papa?” His eyes gleamed.
“No.” Mama spoke before Papa could answer. “We are not getting another horse. Not yet. We’re getting a cow, and you and your sisters are going to learn how to milk her.” She looked up at Papa. “You’ll need to build a henhouse first thing. I’m going to buy a rooster and half a dozen hens.”
“We can’t do everything at once. The windmill needs repairs. I’ll put up a shower house in spring. We can mount a tank on top. Good reserve, and the sun will warm the water.”
“Warm showers can wait. The cow and chickens come first. Milk, eggs, and meat, Niclas. We all have to be strong enough to work. I’ll start laying out a vegetable garden tomorrow.”
Papa and Mama took the bedroom. Baby Rikka in her crib and Hildemara, Bernie, and Clotilde on cots slept in the living room. Hildemara lay curled up as content as a cat in front of the fire, even with rain pattering against the roof and windows.
Mama came out of the bedroom just as dawn lightened the horizon. She swung her shawl around her shoulders and went out the back door, heading for the outhouse. Papa came out a few minutes later, pulling up his suspenders. He took his coat from the hook and went outside. Hildemara heard Mama and Papa talking outside the back door. Mama came back inside alone, bringing a rush of cold winter air with her. She started the fire in the stove and pumped water into the coffeepot. She opened the potbelly stove and stoked the fire.
“I know you’re awake, Hildemara. Get dressed, fold up your cot, and put it on the front porch.” Mama shook Bernie awake.
“Where’s Papa?”
“Working.”
And they would be, too, when Papa finished building the henhouse and hutches for the rabbits Mama wanted to buy.
* * *
It was a long, cold, two-mile walk to school, and it rained most of January. Bernie didn’t care that his pant legs were caked with mud, but Hildie stood in line with her classmates, mortified and waiting for Miss Hinkle, the new teacher, to say something about her mud-soaked shoes and socks and the dirty hem of her coat and dress.
“I hear you have a new home, Hildemara.”
“Yes, ma’am. It’s on Hopper Road.”
“Congratulations! That’s a long way to walk in the rain. Take off your shoes and socks and put them by the heater.” A few, like Elizabeth Kenney, had nice clean shoes beneath pairs of nice yellow galoshes they lined up by the door. Relieved, Hildemara saw she wasn’t the only student who had shoes and socks to dry.
It was still raining when school let out. Hildemara felt damp to the skin despite the rain slicker and hat she’d kept pulled down over her head. Mama shook her head when they came in. “You look like drowned rats.”
Hildemara sat silent through dinner, too tired to eat. Mama leaned over and put her hand against Hildie’s forehead. “Finish what’s on your plate and set up your cot. You’re going to bed right after dinner.” Mama scooped more potato and leek soup for Papa. “We need a table and chairs.”
“We can’t afford furniture.”
“You’re an engineer. You can figure out how to build a table and chairs and a bedframe. I already ordered a mattress from a catalog at Hardesty’s General Store, and a sofa and two chairs.”
Papa stared at her. “Anything else?”
“Two reading lamps.”
Papa paled. “How much did all that cost?”
“The floor is clean, Niclas, but I’d rather eat at a table. Wouldn’t you? It would be nice to have a comfortable place to sit and read in the evenings after a long, hard day of working in the vineyard and orchard.” She cut off a piece of freshly baked bread. Slathering it with apricot jam, she held it out as though making a peace offering. “It isn’t enough to just live inside a box with a woodstove.”
Papa took the proffered bread offering. “Seems to me a lot of money is going out and nothing coming in.”
Mama looked at him for a tense moment, mouth tight, but she didn’t say another word.
For some reason, winter always made Mama pensive and quick to anger. Sometimes she would sit and stare into space. Papa would sit beside her and try to draw her into conversation, but she would shake her head and refuse to talk, other than to say January brought back memories she would rather forget.
Hildemara’s birthday was in January. Sometimes Mama forgot that, too. But Papa would remind her, and she would go through the motions of celebrating. Long, cloudy days made Mama go quiet and cold like the weather.
* * *
A month after they moved onto the property, Papa mounted a big brass bell next to the back door. When Clotilde reached up to pull the cord, Mama slapped her hand and told her to listen to Papa. “This is for emergencies only,” Papa told them in a grim voice. “It is not a toy. You ring it only if someone is hurt or the house is on fire. When I hear it, I’ll come running. But if I come and find someone rang a false alarm, they’ll have a very sore bottom.” He pinched Clotilde lightly on the nose and looked from Bernie to Hildemara. “Versteht ihr das?”
“Ja, Papa.”
Hildemara lay in bed that night imagining all the terrible things that might happen. What if the potbelly stove caught on fire? What if Clotilde tried to put coal in and fell in headfirst? Hildemara smelled smoke. She saw flames coming out the windows and licking up the outside of the house. Crying out, she ran around the outside of the house. She tried to reach the bell cord, but it was too high. She jumped, but still couldn’t reach it. She could hear Mama and Clotilde and Rikki screaming.
Mama shook her awake. “Hildemara!” She put her cool hand on Hildemara’s forehead. “Just a dream.” Pulling her shawl around her shoulders more tightly, she sat on the floor. “You were crying again. What were you dreaming this time?”
Hildemara remembered, but didn’t want to say. What if speaking it aloud made it come true?
Mama stroked her hair and sighed.
“What am I going to do about you, Hildemara Rose? What am I going to do?” Standing, she leaned down and brushed a light kiss against Hildie’s forehead. Pulling the blanket up, she tucked it in firmly around Hildie. “Pray God gives you better dreams.” She crossed the room and quietly closed the bedroom door behind her.
* * *
Papa hired four men to help him prune the almond trees and make burn piles in the alleyways between the rows. Then they went to work pulling up old posts and putting in new ones on which they strung wire. They pruned the vines and tied the healthy shoots, wrapping them so they wouldn’t freeze.
While Papa and Italian day laborers worked on the orchard and vineyard, Mama worked on the house. Every room got a fresh coat of yellow paint. The windows had flowered chintz curtains. The mattress, sofa, chairs, and standing lamps arrived. Her trunk became a coffee table. Papa built the bedframe. When he said he was too busy to make a table and chairs, Mama walked to town and ordered them from Hardesty’s catalog.
Papa put his head in his hands when she told him. She put her hand on his shoulder. “It cost less than if you’d bought the materials and built them yourself.” He got up and left the house.
Mama didn’t have much to say for the next few days. Neither did Papa.
“We should build a big porch bedroom along the back,” Mama said over dinner.
“We’re not spending another dime. It’s going to be months before this place produces anything but weeds, and we have to pay taxes.”
Not even Bernie talked after that.
Hildemara could hear Mama and Papa talking in low, intense voices behind the closed bedroom door. “Well, what did you expect? It would be easier having your own place?” Papa’s voice stayed low, indistinct.
The next evening, Mama turned their world upside down. After grace, she scooped meat loaf, mashed potatoes, and carrots onto a plate and gave it to Bernie to pass to Papa. When everyone was served, she prepared her own plate. “I have a job at Herkner’s Bakery. I start tomorrow morning.”