Bitsy says I worry too much. “The Lord will provide,” she says. “Like with Twyla and Mathew. They needed a home, and the Lord provided.” And maybe she’s right. Yesterday we received a gift I could never have imagined.

“Do you know how to make a sweet persimmon pie?” Bitsy asks me. “A little sugar, a few eggs, and a nice crust with lard . . .” We are planning our supper of pie, pie, and more pie, along with some cold milk, as we wind our way home from the river, where we’ve picked a basket of the soft orange fruit.

Rounding the corner of the barn, riding double on Star, the first thing we see is a shiny black sedan just outside the picket fence. My thought is, it must be the law again, but Bitsy doesn’t think so.

“Company,” she comments, sliding off the horse and leading her to the water trough by the spring. “It must be Miss Katherine. I thought she was in Baltimore.”

“Or William back to haunt us,” I quip, recognizing the Olds-mobile I once drove when Hester and I took Katherine to the B&O station, only it looks a lot better than last time. The black metal gleams, and the chrome has been polished.

I run up the porch and throw open the door, expecting to see Katherine and the baby waiting for us on the sofa, but there’s no one there. “Katherine?” No response. “Katherine?”

Funny. Maybe they went for a walk.

Bitsy joins me on the steps, setting the basket of persimmons down. “Where’d they go?”

“Beats me.” I pick up a small box with a ribbon sitting on the rail. “What’s this?” We both raise our eyebrows, staring down at the gift, and I call one last time, not wanting to spoil our friend’s surprise. “Katherine?!” There’s still no answer, so I tear the package open.

A gold key on a gold key chain with the Masons’ symbol on it and a note in a fine woman’s hand falls out. Carefully, I unfold the linen stationery and read aloud while Bitsy picks up the key.

Dear Patience and Bitsy,

I didn’t get a chance at Mary’s service to thank you properly for all you have done for me and little Willie. I truly believe I owe my life to you and to Mary too. That may seem dramatic, but William’s drinking and outbursts were escalating, and if I hadn’t gotten away, I have no doubt that someday I’d have been beaten to death.

I told you, Patience, that he’d threatened to commit suicide before. I shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but he threatened and pleaded right up to the end. The last time we talked by phone, a few days before his suicide, he said we were married forever and if I didn’t come home I’d regret it.

I told him firmly that his life was his own. My life was mine, and I would never come back. That’s why he killed himself, I’m sure of it. Before I left Liberty, I told all this to Sheriff Hardman, and I think he accepts it. The last thing I want is for Thomas to be blamed.

Enclosed in this box are the keys to William’s car. I want you to have it. Mr. Linkous, the lawyer handling what’s left of our estate, said he would find a driver and bring it to you when he got it fixed.

Thank you again with all my heart, Katherine and Bitsy and Thomas too. I will never forget you. You gave me hope. You gave me my life back.

Love,

Katherine

I fold the letter, put it back into the envelope, and let out a sigh. “You never know, do you?” My companion isn’t so reflective. She leaps off the porch and heads for the auto.

“Let’s take her out for a spin!” She cranks up the engine and revs it to life.

An auto of our own! I run my hand along the black metal. It’s not new, maybe ten years old, but never would I have expected such a gift. Like royalty, with the windows open, we drive down Wild Rose Road, around Salt Lick, into Liberty, and home again, a big circle.

Looking back, our hour-long excursion in our wonderful wheels wasn’t the greatest idea. We sputtered home on an almost empty tank and ended up having to push the Olds into the barn.

If we had been watching the multiple brass gauges and dials, we would have noticed the E for empty. Obviously, Bitsy and I will have to bone up on our motoring skills before we take the auto out again, and that may not be for a while. Katherine, in her expression of gratitude, had forgotten that we have no money for gasoline. At ten cents a gallon, it is out of our reach.

September 17, 1930. Moon behind clouds and I have lost track.

Frost on the garden. Baby boy, Morgan, 7 pounds 4 ounces, to Sojourner Perry, aged 18. No vaginal tears, No problems. She will go back to Kentucky when her lying-in is over. Baby took to the breast right away. The family gave us $3.00 for coal or for hay.

September 24, 1930. Harvest moon, not one week later, another baby.

Sojourner’s little sister, Harriet Perry, delivered a baby girl, Dilly, only 5 pounds. Looked about a month early but breathed and cried vigorously. Mrs. Miller got right in there with warmed blankets, and I’m sure the baby will be fine.

Harriet didn’t want to breastfeed, but with such a tiny baby I told her she had to or Dilly might die. After she tried it, she was okay. Mrs. Miller, the reverend’s wife, gave us another $2.00 and a cord of wood.

38

High Tea

This afternoon when I went to the mailbox, I was surprised to find a plain square envelope addressed to Patience Murphy in tiny handwriting. We get so little mail, I tore it open right in the yard.

“Look at this.” I hold the pale pink note card, decorated with a border of roses, up to Bitsy, who sits at the table shelling the last of the dried beans. It’s an invitation from our neighbor Mrs. Maddock. Kind of a surprise; she never seemed to like me until I had lunch with her and Mr. Maddock at the church. I put on a high-toned accent and read the note out loud: “Mrs. Sarah Rose Maddock requests the company of Patience and Bitsy for tea on September 29, 1930, at two P.M.”

“I can’t go.” That’s Bitsy.

“Why not? We can take a few hours off the farm.”

My friend looks down. “I have a quilting bee that day at the Hazel Patch Chapel.”

“Quilting bee! How come you didn’t mention it? I like to quilt.”

“I stopped telling you about things at the church a long time ago because you never want to go. And anyway, afterwards I’m going to meet Byrd.” She says this with a shy smile.

Though I was younger than my friend when I first got pregnant, I’ve been concerned about Bitsy . . . I clear my throat. It’s not like I’m Saint Patience, but this has to be said.