Glamorous Illusions Read online

  I wanted to sink to the wooden floor and weep. I had trouble breathing.

  “But he’s only forty-eight,” I gasped out. Plenty of men died young, but not men as strong and virile as my papa.

  Doc simply stared back at me with his gray eyes, waiting me out, his lips clamped in a sad line, his eyebrows peaked in the center.

  “How long?” I managed.

  “A day. Maybe two,” he whispered back.

  “Why not tell her?” I asked, finding breath in my fury. Grasping for strength.

  “Because she needs to hope. Every family needs hope. And every family needs someone prepared to cope if the worst happens. I’m sorry, Cora,” he said, dropping his arm from my shoulders and turning to face me. “But you have to be that one. I hate to burden you so. But you’re a woman grown now—”

  “Yes,” I admitted, suddenly wishing I was eight again. “Yes. Fine. I understand. So we are to simply…wait?”

  He took a deep breath and straightened. “I’ll return in the morning. If he survives the night…who knows?” He offered a tentative smile.

  I took a breath. “So we need only get him through the night.”

  He shook his head slowly, caution in his eyes. “It’s often a mercy if the Lord chooses to take them sooner than later.”

  “How can you say that?” I said, my voice rising, sounding foreign, strangled. I turned toward him. “Get out. Get out!”

  He stared at me as if I’d gone mad. “Now, Cora,” he said, glancing toward Mama with concern, waving his hands in an effort to settle me.

  I opened the door. “My father is going to make it through the night,” I said. “Come tomorrow and see for yourself.”

  He licked his lips and then reached for his hat, tucking it atop his silver hair. He gave me a long, compassionate look. “I’m sorry, Cora.”

  I inhaled a stuttering breath, trying to calm myself. “Thank you kindly for coming to see to my papa, Doctor.”

  He turned and walked out. I quietly shut the door behind him, resting my head against it. I felt the wave of strength leave me as soon as he was gone, leaving me feeling weak-kneed and empty. Please, Lord. Please, please, please…

  “Cora,” Mama said softly. “What did he tell you?”

  I turned toward her, holding the cool metal knob of the front door behind me as if it would hold me upright. “We need to pray especially hard for Papa tonight, Mama. If we can get him through the night…” My voice cracked, and I brought my hand around my belly, the other to my mouth. Then I swallowed back the lump in my throat and stood straight. I forced a small smile to my face. “When we see the sun, he’ll be through the worst of it.”

  She knew I was lying. At least in part. That I was protecting her. But she didn’t seem to have the strength to do anything but cling to hope. Just as Doc Jameson had predicted.

  CHAPTER 3

  Cora

  I paced the floor all through the night. Mama fell asleep after midnight, curled up beside Papa, who was cleaned up and in his pajamas. Over and over she started awake, half rose, and placed a shaking finger beneath his nose, making sure he was still breathing. When I couldn’t bear to watch the scene unfold any longer, I quietly pulled the drapes around their bed, sealing off their room from the rest of the house.

  I begged God. For Papa’s life. For a few more days. For a chance to say good-bye. I chafed at the memory of Papa grasping the last dime from his coin purse and handing it to me for the train ride to school. It’d taken everything they had to send me to the Normal School in Dillon. They’d gone without, scraped by…

  Was it my fault, this? I glanced toward the threadbare curtain as doubt and fear assailed me. Am I to blame for his stroke, Lord? Make me suffer, then. Take it out on me! Not him, Lord, not him.

  In the early morning hours, I stood in front of the east-facing window, taking heart as a faint golden glow appeared on the horizon. I again padded over to my parents’ room and edged the curtain aside, watching until I saw the shallow rise and fall of my father’s chest. He’s alive. He made it through the night! Then I returned to the window, shivering in the morning cool but warming with hope as the sunrise spread a deep pink across the land.

  It was then I noted the scrawny, withered stalks of the winter wheat, stunted and struggling in the dry, lumpy furrows. It should have been harvested weeks ago. Not that it mattered. I’d seen good crops, and I’d seen bad. This was one of the worst.

  Concentrate on Papa, Cora, I told myself, my eyes returning to the sunrise. We can cope with the crops later. But could we? I knew my parents had borrowed against the farm to send me to school. What if this crop failed? And how would Papa bring it in? I’ll bring it in. If I have to handpick every measly grain head myself. I will not let them down.

  “Cora!” Mama cried.

  I turned and stared at the curtain, my chest filling with dread again. I glanced to the sun, which was just peeking over the horizon, too bright now to stare at directly. Please, Lord…

  “Cora!”

  “Coming, Mama,” I managed. I forced myself to walk across the small space between us and edged through the gap in the curtain…

  And found my papa sitting up and smiling. It was a lopsided smile, one side of his face desperately sagging, but truly, it was the prettiest sight I’d ever seen.

  “Papa!” I cried, rushing to him. He laughed softly and wrapped an arm around my shoulders.

  “Cora, honey,” he said, his words slurred.

  Mama wiped tears from her face. “It’s a miracle,” she said, shaking her head. “A miracle.”

  We sat there together for a long while, crying. Thank You, Lord. Thank You, thank You, thank You…

  Shortly thereafter, the women of First Lutheran began to arrive. Mr. Miller had succeeded in spreading the word of our situation around the church. I went outside to greet them, wanting Papa to rest, knowing they’d be full of questions and nervous conversation. When Mrs. Ramstad heard he’d made it through the night, she got all teary and fanned her face, even in the chill of morning. “Thank You, Lord,” she said. “My, my.” She handed me a basket of fresh-baked rolls. Mrs. Humphrey brought an egg casserole, patting my hand and telling me to eat “lots of it, honey, because goodness knows, you’re thin as a rail.” Mrs. Kessler brought bread, hugging me so tightly to her ample bosom, I thought I’d suffocate. Mrs. Reinbarger brought a roast and potatoes, seasoned and “ready for the oven by three.”

  All promised that their men were coming by to see to our farm as soon as chores were done on their own, and they made me promise to give their love to my mama, who wouldn’t leave Papa’s side for even a moment, and to send for them if I needed a thing. I was saying good-bye to Mrs. Reinbarger when Lorrie rode up the lane, astride a horse, next to Doc Jameson’s buggy.

  Lorrie politely waited for the doctor to tie up his reins and approach the porch before he came up. Doc’s eyes met mine. “He made it?” he whispered.

  I grinned. “He’s sitting up!” I crowed, wanting him to feel guilty for his gloomy warnings the night before.

  His gray eyes widened, and he shook his head in wonder. “I always knew your father was one of the toughest men this side of the Rockies,” he said. “May I?” He gestured toward the door.

  “Please,” I said, waving him in. I turned back to Lorrie, who’d paused halfway up the stairs, hat in hand. He was wiry and strong, about my height, with an unruly shock of Swedish-blond hair.

  “Cora, welcome home,” he said. “Not quite what you expected.” He lifted his hat toward the house. “Good news, though,” he finished awkwardly.

  “The best,” I said, unable to do anything but smile. “Evidence that God can see us through the darkest of nights.”

  “Uh, yes.” He glanced nervously over his shoulder, toward the barn. “Can I see to your chores? I imagine your cow is in need of a milking.”

  I frowned, ashamed that I was just now hearing her bellowing from the barn. “Oh! Yes, yes. Please. That would be so helpful. And
give the horses some fresh water and hay?”

  “Done.” He turned and walked down the few steps as I pivoted to head inside.

  “Thank you, Lorrie,” I said over my shoulder.

  “Not at all,” he mumbled, and rushed off across the yard. I stared after him. He really was a good man, a good neighbor. And even if I couldn’t return his feelings—if he indeed had an interest in me—I was thankful he’d come to help.

  The days passed, and Papa rapidly regained his strength, confounding Doc Jameson and frustrating Mama’s efforts to keep him at rest. He’d insisted, since that first day, on getting himself to the outhouse, using only a borrowed cane and dragging his left foot along. After a week, he turned Lorrie back before he was even off his horse, insisting we could see to the animals and farm on our own. It tore Mama and me up inside to see him stubbornly carrying on even as his body fought him. Helpless, we could do nothing but pray for the best, for God to finish His healing work in him.

  Papa leaned hard on me, and I had willingly picked up the milking, the mucking of stalls, the feeding. Now, sweat poured down my face and back as I pumped water into an irrigation ditch, desperately trying to save at least one portion of Papa’s winter wheat from drying up in the relentless wind.

  I wondered how this would end. If Papa would ever be well enough to manage the farm on his own. I paused, panting, and straightened, feeling every aching muscle in my back as I shielded my eyes to see what he was up to. He was in the far corner of the field, hoeing, hacking away at weeds that stole precious nutrients and moisture from the soil—from those stalks of wheat that hadn’t been sliced down by the wind and dry soil.

  I bent and studied a stray stalk near the water pump, a seed that had been cast too far to stand a chance in the nearest furrow but still stubbornly soldiered on, struggling to live, though the elements had cut away all of its leaves. I fingered the perilously thin head. Those in the field were faring little better. How many bushels would we salvage if we managed to even get a harvest?

  I’d seen Papa staring out at the skies with worried eyes each afternoon. Hoping clouds encircling the mountain peaks would edge our way. His concern over the weather wasn’t anything new, really. But there was a new weariness behind the eyes, a downturn around his mouth, beyond the effects of the stroke. Did he not have the money set aside to seed another crop? Should we not be plowing, getting ready for the spring wheat in the other fields, as late as it was to plant it?

  The rusty old water pump seemed to mock me. Every lift and press was a chore, the resulting squeal like laughter. It came to me then. What was niggling at me, down low in my heart. I was fretting about my future. Wondering how Mama and Papa would do without me when it came time for me to return to school. Wondering how we’d be able to afford it at all if the crops failed…

  Selfish, Cora Diehl. You’re being selfish. The Lord has given you the day. This day. With your papa alive—alive! And not only alive—up out of his bed. Moving and working. All that you prayed for. I shook my head, ashamed of myself. Forgive me, Lord. I am thankful. I am.

  I bent and grabbed hold of the pump handle, trying to find gratitude in my heart for the miserly spurts of water that emerged from its mouth, filling the trough that slowly flowed outward. It was hopeless, really. Could I water more than forty yards this way? I’d been pumping for a full hour, and the stream had yet to meet the end of the irrigation ditch and begin to spread—that hungry first channel sapping away every drop. So I went inside to get a bucket, deciding that delivering the needed liquid to the farther rows by hand would at least give them a chance at survival. I knew it made Papa feel better. Doing all I could.

  I settled into a rhythm in the task, praying in time with each pull and push, then walking the sloshing bucket to the next section. Make a way, Lord. Make a way for this water to sustain this field. And Lord? You know my heart. Learning, Lord. Teaching. I want to teach so badly… Please. Make a way. Make a way for us all. Make a way for this miserable wheat. Coax it back to life. Amen.

  CHAPTER 4

  Cora

  We watered. We weeded. We prayed. But in the end, we knew there wouldn’t be anything to harvest. Papa retreated inward, replying to Mama and me in monosyllabic words, blaming himself, even if every other farmer on the eastern slope had suffered the same outcome.

  And our fear grew. We had not plowed the north forty. Each morning, he made no move to hook up Sugarbeet to the plow, nor did he head to town for the sacks of seed I knew we needed. He took to walking the east forty for hours, treading the paths where the winter wheat had so utterly failed. Mama baked bread, taking loaves and the extra milk to sell to the mercantile every morning, returning with meager supplies. I fed the horse and chickens and pigs, mucked the stalls, milked, and helped Mama with the garden. But we were each waiting, really, in mute helplessness, unable to do more.

  One morning, Mama stood beside me at the east window, and we watched Papa. Dragging his left foot along, bending to pick up a handful of dirt, and then crumbling the clod, watching the dust fly away.

  “It’s like he’s visiting a grave,” I muttered. “We have to get the north forty planted, or the bank will be coming to throw us out of the house.” I was guessing, but by the look on Mama’s face, I knew I was right.

  “We can’t, Cora.”

  “Why not?”

  She turned to me, so pretty, even in middle age. So strong. “There’s no money for the seed. My bread and the extra milk are bringing in enough to buy the necessities, but no extra. Thank God we have a garden and animals to keep us fed.”

  I paced away from her, thinking. Then it came to me, the solution. “I have to go to town.”

  “For what?” she asked, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

  I ignored her question and just went to my part of the house, through the drawn curtain, and sat on my bed. Next to my bed was a nightstand with a deep drawer. After a moment’s hesitation, I reached in and pulled out the elegant box, running my fingers over the lid. JASPER’S, the logo read in a fine script. NEW YORK, NEW YORK.

  I flipped open the lid and wondered anew over the triple-strand pearl choker with the rhinestone clasp. Out of all the fine birthday gifts I’d received over the years from a nameless benefactor, this one that had arrived on my sixteenth birthday was undoubtedly the finest. Papa had teased me about a secret admirer. But I’d caught the worried glance he and Mama shared, the one they shared every year. I knew they knew something about it, but they wouldn’t tell me, no matter how much I pestered them. And I pestered them plenty that year. They simply gestured toward the crumpled packaging. “No return address, Cora. How are we to know who would send you such a thing?”

  It was extravagant. And beautiful. I’d tried it on so many times, lifting my hair, fantasizing about my hair in elaborate curls and a gown to match the necklace. Wondering and wondering about who had sent it to me and never coming to any suitable answers. Most of Mama and Papa’s relatives were dead or distant. And none of them were well-to-do.

  It was a treasure. My treasure. But really, where on earth would I wear such a thing? Once I had my teaching credential, I’d likely be out in the country. Even if I managed to find a position in one of Montana’s cities, there would be no ball or society function fancy enough where I could wear a necklace such as this.

  “Cora?” Mama asked, hesitating outside my curtain.

  “Please, Mama,” I said. “I can’t talk right now.” She’d only try to talk me out of it. But I was inexplicably sad to let it go. I shook the necklace in frustration. It felt foolish to be so attached to a thing. But it’d been such a sweet surprise, such a fun mystery… I’d spent nights dreaming that there was some wealthy, distant relative, and we would be his beneficiaries when he passed on, bestowed with a fine house, fine clothes, fine carriage…

  I took a long, deep breath. I was no longer a mindless adolescent, dreaming of escape. I was an adult. Life was good, but harsh and demanding, too. I snapped the hinged box shut and rose.
Quickly, I wrapped it in a handkerchief and tucked it under my arm, flinging aside my curtain. Mama was back at the east window, watching Papa. “I’ll be back soon,” I said.

  She didn’t turn. She didn’t respond at all. Even though I assumed she knew exactly what I was about to do.

  The bell on the mercantile door tinkled as I walked in, and Mr. Donnelly looked over his spectacles at me from across the counter. “Well, if it isn’t the other lovely Diehl. To what pleasure do I owe having both of you come to call in one day?”

  I grinned and pretended ignorance. “Papa’s been in already too?”

  Mr. Donnelly chuckled. “Now Alan’s a handsome man, but…” He lifted a brow, and then the merriment left his face. “How is he today, Cora?”

  “Stubborn as an ox.” I glanced around, making sure we were alone in the store. “But he seems to be stuck in a corral he can’t escape.”

  “Oh?”

  “We need to get our spring wheat in the ground. I’m guessing we can’t do that because Papa hasn’t been able to pay his bill to you.”

  The man’s eyes held a weary mix of regret and guilt and frustration. “You know it wouldn’t be right to discuss that with you, Cora,” he said.

  “I understand. Then I wondered if I might pay down his bill with this.” I pulled the box from under my arm and unwrapped it on the sleek, shiny wooden counter.

  He whistled lowly. “Jasper’s, huh?” He pulled it closer and flipped open the lid. He cocked his head and then turned so the necklace sparkled in the light from the front windows. “My, my,” he mumbled, lifting the pearls to his teeth to test if they were real. “My, my.” He turned back to me. “Where did this beauty come from?”

  I shrugged my shoulders. “Jasper’s, New York, just as it says on the box. I know nothing more than that. It showed up on my sixteenth birthday, with no return address. I never found out more.”

  “Well, it’s a treasure, to be sure. If we lived in Butte or Billings, I’d gladly take it off your hands but—”