She smiled again to herself in the darkness.
A porch swing,
she mused.
I’ve always wanted a porch swing—like at Granna’s.
Yes, she would have a porch swing. That was one thing she would insist upon.
————
It was hard to wait. Mrs. Berdette did not seem to be able to bring herself to actually leave her little home. Berta chafed. Then fall moved into another winter, and Uncle John insisted that his sister not spend the cold gray months alone.
Still she did not accept the offer of the developer. Nor did she have her yard sale and pack up her treasures. Eventually she took only personal items and allowed herself to be moved in with Granna.
“I’ll take care of things in the spring,” she assured Berta, but Berta secretly wondered if her mother would ever be able to break her ties to the farm.
The winter was an especially cold one, and Berta found herself feeling more and more confined in her little room. At times she even considered joining the family for meals in the big dining room, but in the end she continued to deny herself that small pleasure. It would be admitting defeat—and need. Berta’s pride would not allow her to do that.
Stubbornly she carried on. She wondered if she was becoming more and more like her fellow worker. She arrived in the morning, said her curt “good-day,” walked through the hours in silence and solitude, said her “good-evening,” and went on home with a book tucked under her arm.
But Berta did make one resolve. She would not become a total hermit. She would at least seek some release from her self-inflicted prison on Sundays. And she would insist on tending to her own physical needs by eating properly and getting some exercise.
Berta assigned herself some blocks to walk even on the nippy days. She made the walks more interesting by studying the houses as she passed briskly by. When winter finally ended—as winters always must—she knew every residential area of the town and had already picked five small houses as “possibilities.”
She began to secretly hope that one of those families would decide, for one reason or another, that a move was in their best interest.
Why get anxious?
she reprimanded herself.
Mama still hasn’t parted with the farm.
She wondered if she would have to add her voice to her uncle John’s and try to get her mother to make the proper decision.
————
One afternoon Berta looked up from her desk at the library to find her mother standing mutely before her, looking cautiously around as though she might be escorted away if she dared to open her lips within the hallowed halls.
A flash of fear filled Berta. Her mother had never visited the library before. Was something wrong? But no, she didn’t appear to be disturbed.
“Hello, Mama,” she said in a soft voice, not just to greet her mother but to indicate that it was all right if they spoke to each other.
Her mother nodded, the feather on her bonnet waving gently. It reminded Berta that it had been a long time since her mother had purchased a new hat. Her father would have been chagrined.
“Come in to the side room,” invited Berta, rising and leading the way. Her mother followed wordlessly.
Apart from looking pale and drawn, her mother appeared to be fine.
Perhaps it was just the long, cold winter,
reasoned Berta.
She likely hasn’t been out since—
“How are you, Mama?” she asked as she closed the door behind them and indicated a chair.
Her mother smiled for the first time. “It’s good to see you, dear,” she answered. “I hardly get to speak to you at church. Your uncle is always in such a hurry to get on home.”
Berta nodded. It had been a long time since they had really had a visit.
“How’s Granna?” asked Berta. Her grandmother had not been able to get out to church over the winter months.
“She’s doing quite well,” replied her mother. “Her arthritis bothers her. She doesn’t dare go out in the cold.”
“And Glenna?”
“She is well. Parker is terribly busy, but she keeps occupied with the church and friends.”
Berta took the other chair, relief coursing through her. It was not bad news that brought her mother to town.
Mrs. Berdette drew off her gloves and played with them absentmindedly. Berta did not know what to say next.
“We’ve just closed the deal on the farm,” her mother said suddenly. “Your uncle John and I just came from the bank.”
Berta could only stare. She had waited all winter for the news, and now that it had finally happened it caught her off guard and totally unprepared.
“I need to be out by the middle of the month,” her mother went on. “I guess that means I will need to get ready for a yard sale.”
She stopped for a breath, her eyes on Berta’s face. Berta still did not dare to speak.
“I was wondering if there is anything—furniture maybe—that you’d like. Anything for your new house? There’s no need for me to be selling it if you can find use for it.”
Berta nodded.
“I was wondering,” asked her mother, “if you’d mind—I know that it’s an imposition, but I was wondering if—just for a couple of weeks—if you’d consider coming on home—to help me sort through things. You know how dreadful I am at making hard decisions. … ”
Slowly Berta nodded as her mother’s voice trailed off. What a wonderful relief that would be. What a pleasure to be out of the stuffy little room and back out into the crisp country air—the open windows—the space to move about.
“I—I could do that,” she said calmly.
“I—don’t wish to—”
“No—no, that’s fine. I don’t mind. Really.”
Her mother smiled. “That’s such a relief, dear,” she said with tears in her eyes and reached out to run her hand down Berta’s cheek in her familiar way. “You don’t know how I’ve dreaded facing it alone.”
“I don’t mind,” Berta repeated.
“My dependable one,” Mrs. Berdette said softly. “What would I ever do without you?”
Berta could not reply. She felt confused. Choked with emotion.
———
The next weeks passed very quickly. Berta could hardly wait for each day at the library to end so she might get home. It was strange. In some ways it was almost like old times to be back in her own room—back with her mother in the little kitchen—back by the fireside as they sorted through another box of memories.
Yet it was so different. Glenna was missing. Glenna with her silvery laughter—her exuberance—her sparkle. The bedroom seemed so empty—almost lifeless without Glenna. Berta could hardly bear the silence.
And the clutter about them in the little house that had always been so neat and tidy was a constant reminder that things were changing. The sorting and packing was difficult to do—not just for Mrs. Berdette but for Berta, as well.
Berta did make decisions about pieces of furniture and kitchen items that she would like for her own little home—once her purchase had been made. It would have been so much easier to decide if she knew what her home would be like.
Mrs. Berdette also made decisions—on behalf of Glenna. “She always favored that bureau,” she said, or, “That was her favorite chair. Remember how she used to curl up in it?” And, “That is the one thing of her father’s that she said she would treasure most.”
And so evening by evening and room by room, they went through the house, sorting, saving, agonizing, discarding, until one by one each room was cleared and the day of the approaching sale came closer.
“I don’t think I want to be here, dear,” said Mrs. Berdette. “Do you mind? I think I’ll just have your uncle John take me back to Granna’s.”
Berta felt that she understood. She nodded in agreement. She really wasn’t sure if she wished to be there, either.
“Perhaps Uncle John can store your things until you have picked your house,” her mother went on. “I know that I’ve been unfair asking you to tend to my needs before looking after your own, but I don’t know how I ever could have done it alone.”
She lifted a hand to Berta’s cheek again.
“It’s fine,” murmured Berta. “I don’t mind. Really. I’ll find a place soon enough.”
But inwardly she was most anxious to get herself settled. She could hardly wait to have a home of her own.
———
Berta felt agitated. The summer was slipping by too quickly. She was having a difficult time finding just the right house. It appeared that none of the homeowners of the five little “possibilities” was interested in moving. Berta felt agitated. And then, just as she felt about ready to give up, a new opportunity presented itself. It was a home that she had walked by on countless occasions and had not even considered before. But when the sign announcing that it was for sale appeared on the front lawn, Berta decided to take a closer look.
It wasn’t perfect—but Berta decided that it would do. It didn’t have a porch swing. In fact, it didn’t even have a porch. But perhaps she could have one built on, she decided.
She set in motion the purchasing of the little place, and when things were finally settled, she had Uncle John bring the furniture items from storage. Then she began her shopping to complete her “nest.”
Her mother seemed to take great interest in the purchase and insisted on coming to town to take a look at the new home. Then with renewed vigor, she insisted on becoming involved in curtain sewing and decorating. Berta was surprised at her own lack of resistance. She actually welcomed the assistance. She had so little time before another winter would be upon them, and she did want to have her little place homey by the time the weather shut her in again.
She ordered the porch—and the swing—and the builder promised her that he would have it done before the warm days of autumn left them.
“You’ll be swinging on your porch before the leaves turn,” he promised. “Able to enjoy the fall colors from right here.” He waved his hand to indicate the empty spot where he stood—where the new porch was assigned.
Berta nodded calmly, but inside she felt great excitement. She could hardly wait to get settled in her own place.
So she hired the carpenter, accepted the help of her mother, and spent her short lunch breaks busily combing the shops to make her final purchases.
Granna even got involved, sending in jars of homemade preserves from her pantry shelves to stock cupboards, and store from her garden produce to fill containers in the cool cellar. Aunt Cee sent a warm comforter and even Glenna mailed a lace runner for the buffet that had come from their shared farm home.
Berta felt so much excitement that she could not refrain from sharing it—just a bit.
“I’ve found a little house,” she told Miss Phillips, her voice well controlled, “so I will be moving from Mrs. Cray’s.”
The older woman looked up from the book she was scanning and pushed her small glasses farther up on her nose.
“I do so appreciate your help in finding Mrs. Cray’s place. It was just what I needed,” Berta went on, as though that excused her breaking their silence.
Miss Phillips nodded.
Berta shifted to her other foot and picked up another library book. She was about to move on when Miss Phillips surprised her by asking, “A house?”
“Yes,” replied Berta. “A small one—on Cedar Street.”
Miss Phillips nodded.
“On your own?” she asked as Berta was about to move off again.
“Yes,” replied Berta as she hesitated for the second time. “On my own.”
Miss Phillips nodded again and pushed further at her glasses.
“That’s nice,” she commented and returned her eyes to her book.
Berta stepped away then.
They did not speak again until Miss Phillips was drawing on her gloves at the end of the day. Berta was tidying up the check-out desk and making a final assessment of the day’s lending.
“It must be nice—to have a whole house,” the older woman mused, almost to herself.
Berta nodded. “I am looking forward to it,” she said, and in spite of her firm control, her voice trembled with excitement.
The woman turned as though to go. “I envy you,” she said simply, then reached to pick up her latest reading material.
Just as she reached the door she turned back one last time. “Don’t forget to lock the door,” she cautioned, and she left Berta to do as bidden.
Glenna’s letter said things were going well. Parker was wonderful. But she missed her family. Still, she was so happy for Berta. So pleased that she was nicely settled in her own little house. Mama had written that it was so cozy—so convenient to the library. She could hardly wait to see it herself.
Berta read the letter, then reread it. She realized that she would enjoy showing her younger sister through her little domain. She pictured them sitting before the open fire, teacups in hand while she presided as hostess of the home. The picture pleased her. She did wish Parker had not taken Glenna so far away from home.
Berta missed her mother. Even though her visits to the family farm had been few, she still felt an emptiness knowing that her mother was not close enough for her to walk out for a chat if she felt the desire. Her grandmother’s farm home was too distant to make it a reasonable walk. And it seemed that her uncle John was too busy to make the trip into town for social visits only. Berta did wish that her mother was nearer at hand. She was even tempted to invite her mother to move in and occupy her guest bedroom, but each time the thought occurred she remembered that her mother was already busy caring for her grandmother.
One day after closing the library—and carefully locking the door—Berta did take a walk back out to their farm site. As she turned into the lane, what met her gaze filled her with dismay. Gone was the little barn—the hen house, the root cellar—even all traces of the country garden and the trees and shrubs her father had carefully planted and diligently tended. Gone was the country home with its curtained windows, its wide porch and welcoming door. The outside clothesline, the backyard playhouse—everything that Berta had known since a small child.
In place of all she had known was scarred earth and empty acres, waiting and ready to receive—something. Berta did not know what the developer envisioned for the space he had prepared. She did not wish to know. What did it matter? He had destroyed so much that was good.