A Can of Peas

Chapter One

"You know, she'll have to sell the place now," Mrs. Biddle continued, "what with Roy gone. They hired my Bert over a month ago to do all the milking, ever since Roy's cancer got the best of him. A cryin' shame, a cryin' shame. I've seen it happen all too often. The man dies and the wife has to sell out, auction the equipment and move to town, even though she worked as hard as him to keep the place going. I remember," Lillian went on, "Cora Jorgenson, she was just devastated after Richard passed on. Heart attack in the middle of church, right after the benediction. They're Catholic, you know."

Peter didn't have a due who she was talking about. His mind was on his grandfather-gone three days-and finding his grandmother in the crowd.

"When Richard died, Cora didn't have much choice. The bank was pushing to foreclose, could hardly wait till Richard was buried to get their hands on it. So she sold that beautiful farm. It had been in their family for four generations. But then during the farm crisis they had such a hard time of it. Almost lost the place then. I don't know how your grandfather fared. He seemed like a levelheaded man, but then you can never tell."

Peter scanned the crowd, trying to catch a glimpse of his round-cheeked, gray-haired grandmother. Virginia had been so constantly surrounded by well-wishers that he'd had no chance to speak with her since he arrived in Lake Emily that morning. At least he'd been able to sit with her during the service, but there had hardly been an opportunity to talk then. Peter felt his wife, Mae, slip her hand into his. She was beautiful, her delicate figure draped in funeral black and a dark wool coat. Her long brown hair framed her fine-boned face and compassionate brown eyes. They'd been married all of six months. Six of the happiest months of his life, and then came the news of his grandfather's death.

"Couldn't she hire someone long-term? Like a farmhand?" Mae kept the conversation going. "To do the hard work for her?"

"Farmings all hard work, dear," Lillian scolded, then turned to Peter. "I suppose you'd know that-you visited the farm when you were growing up, didn't you?" When Peter didn't respond, she continued, "Oh, I suppose not-your father moved away first chance he got. Does he still play the fiddle? Boston. He was out in Boston for a time, wasn't he? Your grandma sure liked to brag about her David. He wasn't like my boys. It's a shame he didn't stick around after he finished high school.

"Besides .," she droned on. Lillian wore a blue polyester suit that was a good decade behind the times, with matching blue shoes, white hose, and a hand-knit shawl. She was a large woman, not heavy as much as big boned, with a sculpted, almost-pretty face betrayed by her overworked mouth. She was no doubt used to taking charge and keeping the menfolk in line. Peter had only met her on a couple of occasions before, but Lillian was a woman not easily forgotten. She'd come visiting whenever they were in town. Had probably diapered him as a baby. Maybe spanked him when his parents weren't watching.

Peter focused on Lillian's mouth, ignoring the words pouring out of it, wondering how she could be so oblivious of her effect on others. "A hired hand costs money. Virginia isn't one of those company farmers who have cash to throw around. What's the point of having a farm if you're paying someone else to work it? My Bert's been helping, but he can't keep that up forever. Farming's a family business, where everyone pulls together. Does for each other. That's what my boys would do ." Her words dangled in the air.

Peter followed her glance toward the old brick farmhouse where her sons, Albert and Alfred Biddle, stood talking, plates piled high with potato salad, Jell-O, and an array of hot dishes in hand. Peter had played with them on a couple of occasions as a boy. Their names, Peter's grandma had once told him, had been shortened to Bert and Fred shortly after they were born, when Lillian became outraged that theLake Emily Herald listed the twins in the birth announcement as "the Als." Most folks still referred to them as "the Als," especially when Lillian wasn't around. They were a little older than Peter, in their early thirties, single, living at home. They worked the farm with their father, who couldn't bring himself to retire. Bert wore spanking new denim overalls with a gray suit coat. He had dishwater blond hair that stuck out in a curly mess, with a permanent ringed halo from wearing his seed cap. Fred wore a snug dark suit with a wide tie. His hair was cropped short. Both wore black work boots.

"I don't really know what Grandma's plans are," Peter said, taking a bite of the lemon bar he was holding.

"She'll have to face it sooner or later," Lillian persisted, her voice trailing off. She turned to say hello to another neighbor. Peter took the opportunity to pull Mae away in a quick escape.

The wind blew, rustling the dried leaves on the ground around the snowball bush as they swirled upward, then settled down again. Peter recalled the white flowers that would hang in thick, pregnant clusters in a month or two, their beautiful bouquets complementing the dark green of the leaves. His confirmation picture had been taken in front of that ageless shrub. The same year his mother had died. Laura had been so proud of him. He could almost see her green eyes and proud face shining in joy as she snapped the shutter on the Brownie camera.

Peter lifted his gaze to the house, a two-story square farmhouse with intricate woodwork along the eaves and a porch that wrapped around three sides. The bricks were a yellowish tan-Chaska brick, Grandpa always called it. Red shutters and a matching scroll-worked screen door accentuated the home with a crispness that was classic turn-of-the-century farmhouse.

Peter's childhood memories lived here. At least the good memories of visits between all their moves from one place to the next. Reading on the front porch swing on warm summer days while the smell of Grandma's cookies fluttered to him on the breeze. The cicadas' buzz in August and September as he watched Grandpa Roy combine beans or corn in the field, surrounded by a cloud of dust that obscured the big tires so the machine appeared to be floating across the golden acres.

In the summer, flower beds would flow around the lawn like streams of color, wide and rounded. One thing Grandma always complained about was a square flower bed-"too predictable," she would say. Peter wished that the ribbons of pink and purple and gold crocuses were already in bloom. He needed their cheer today. They would be followed by an array of rich perennials, each timed perfectly to bloom in full when its predecessor petered out.

Peter could still see his grandfather, pipe hanging from his bottom lip as he read the paper out on the porch, or sitting on the old yellow Minneapolis Moline tractor, a proud grin on his face as he rode in the Fourth of July parade. When Peter stayed over, Roy would play checkers with him long after he was supposed to be in bed. Peter sighed. There were so many things left unsaid. He wished he had asked his grandfather what it had been like to live in the same town his whole life, to live through the Depression and a world war, what it was like to know his place in the world.

Peter's gaze shifted to watch friends and family across the lawn. He didn't know most of the names or faces anymore, but they each had in turn offered their condolences as they passed. He caught a glimpse of Jerry Shrupp-J. D., Peter's father always called him. He had been David Morgan's closest friend in high school. J. D. came, but Dad couldn't get back from another tour, Peter thought bitterly.

Mae touched Peter's shoulder, reminding him of her presence. "Are you okay?" She smiled sweetly.

"I'm fine. I was thinking about Dad ." He let his words trail off, then gazed into her face. He cleared his throat. "l wish he could've been here."

"I know." She gave his hand a squeeze.

The screen door slammed, and Peter's grandmother emerged from the house, a weary expression on her wrinkled face. She was shaking hands with a tall, stoop-shouldered man. Peter noticed that a yellow calico apron with a V embroidered on the pocket had found her since she arrived at home. She was likely cooking something in the kitchen again, waiting on others in the midst of her own suffering.

Peter knew with certainty that his grandmother was better equipped to deal with the grief, better equipped to carry on after the loss of her spouse, than his grandfather would've been. If she had died, Grandpa Roy would've died himself, if not at once, then bit by bit. Peter had seen it in his counseling practice countless times-widowers, lost men without a compass, searching for what to do, where to go with the tail end of their lives, alone with empty expressions and emptier hearts.

Couples who spent a lifetime together drew strength and courage from each other. It was a silent arrangement, typical of those who had survived the Depression, and especially of farm families. They received no fanfare of flowery thank-yous, but theirs was a steadfast surety. A surety that, together, they would keep life on the straight and narrow. Perhaps it came with age, with the wisdom of seeing decades pass and gray hairs emerge, when health failed and the window toward eternity seemed clearer, vulnerability less an issue of manliness than of necessity.

Peter caught his grandmother's gaze. She waved and made her way toward them.

They met beneath the old cedar. Its rough-barked branches had weathered with the years. The dried blades of the previous year's tiger lilies surrounded the base of the trunk and whispered coarsely in the breeze.

"Grandma, how are you holding up?" Peter said, bending down and giving her a long embrace. When he pulled back, he could see tears shimmering in her eyes. "We're all going to miss him."

She sniffled and nodded her head before reaching for Mae's hand. "He's where he longed to be now," she said. "With the Savior he loved so much."

Peter felt a lump grow in his throat, and he was afraid his own tears would begin again.

"I'm so glad you're here," Virginia said. "It was a nice service, wasn't it? Roy would've liked it."

Everyone said that at funerals, Peter thought.

"Everyone has been so kind," she went on. "I wasn't prepared for that-how kind everyone would be ." Virginia's voice trailed off. "Did you two get anything to eat?"

"Yes, plenty," Peter and Mae said in unison. Mae went on, "You didn't do all that cooking yourself, did you?"

"Heavens, no, dear. The ladies' circle brought most everything. Seems we were just together for your wedding," Virginia said wistfully. "It was so beautiful. Roy really enjoyed his dance with you, Mae."

"I can't believe it's been six months either." Mae glanced at Peter. "Roy danced a mean polka. I'm glad I had the chance to get to know him a little."

Virginia smiled up at her, her pale blue eyes tired and profoundly sad. Mae was a good head taller than the older woman, her slim, tan frame a sharp contrast to Virginia's ivory, double-chinned form.

"Seems to be the way things go these days," Virginia said. "Families only gather at weddings and funerals. We need more weddings in our family ." There was a long silence. "So how is your job going, Peter?"

Peter glanced uncomfortably at Mae, then said, "I . uh . I got laid off, actually. About a month ago. It was all very political. That's why we moved in with Mae's mom and stepdad. I would've told you, but with Grandpa so sick I didn't want to worry you."

"I'm sorry, Peter," Virginia said. "Have you been job hunting then?"

"I've had lots of interviews and a couple of good offers," Peter said. "To be honest, I'm glad for the break. Work was pretty cutthroat, everyone competing for the big-dollar clients. I'm not sure it's for me anymore. I don't know." Peter shook his head. "Maybe I need to buck up and take whatever comes my way-"

"No," Virginia said. "Money, there's no lasting value in that. You should look for your heart's desire."

"I guess I need to find out what that is then," Peter chuckled, "because sitting in a chair listening to rich people complain about how depressing their life is just isn't doing it for me." Peter paused and gazed across the empty fields at a farm in the distance. It reminded him of the miniature farm set he'd played with as a boy. Two red barns, one bigger than the other, and between them three indigo silos, a long, low hog shed in white, and a small bungalow farmhouse. "I'd forgotten how beautiful it is here," Peter said almost to himself, breathing in the dusty tang of early spring.

"Remember the time your grandfather taught you to ride that draft horse?" Virginia said.

Peter's lips lifted in a smile as the lost memory came flooding back. He was ten years old and eager to ride. His grandpa had lifted him onto the big, strong back and told him to hang on to the mane. The Belgian had glanced at Peter with a knowing look in his eye, and his grandfather slapped his rump with a solid whack. That beast had taken off across the field at a full run straight through the soybeans, with Peter holding on for dear life. Peter could still see his grandfather's amused expression when the horse came back to the barn door.

"I'm so glad you're here," Virginia said, breaking into his reverie. "It's good to be reminded that people care."

"I'm sorry that Dad isn't here," Peter said, unable to keep the disappointment out of his tone. "He should have been."

"I told him not to come-he has commitments to keep."

"But he's your son. You need him here."

"I'll need him more later, after everyone's forgotten. Don't be so harsh on your father, Peter. He's a good man. He hasn't been the same since losing Laura."

"Grandma, Mom's been gone fifteen years. How long are you going to make excuses for him?"

"He's my son. David got to see Roy before he left, and he'll be back soon enough. I know his thoughts are here." Then she smiled and patted Peter's arm. "Did you see the bouquet of roses he sent on the dining room table? They're yellow-my favorite. Besides, when he gets back, I'll need his help to get the old place ready to sell."

Peter looked at her in alarm. "Sell? What are you talking about?"

"I don't have much choice," she said in reply. "I can't run this place by myself, and I can't afford to let it rot.

Continues.