Harry was a problem. No, not really a problem; they just lived with a totally different outlook on life. Harry believed in a vengeful God; Fern believed in a loving God. Their differences of opinion always resulted in the same argument.
“I’m going over to the Nielsens’ after lunch today.”
“Someone sick?”
“Nat. He’s got a fever.”
“And you’re going to cure him.”
“I’m going to do what I can.”
“What if he’s supposed to have a fever?”
“I’ve been given a gift, Harry. I’m supposed to use it.”
“To change the world.”
“Not to change the world, to ease the suffering.”
“There’s got to be suffering, Fern. It’s the natural way of things. You take that away, and there won’t be any joy.”
“God doesn’t want suffering.”
“It’s up to him to put it here or remove it.”
“Well, and he put it here, and put me here to remove it.”
“That’s crazy talk.”
“Harry, I don’t understand. I don’t understand why my hands heal people. Maybe it’s so they’ll take a closer look at God. But I really don’t understand why you’re so against it.”
“Because it ain’t right, Fern. It just ain’t right. And the longer you do this, the more credit you take for it, the harder we’re going to get it.”
When Harry talked this way, a terrible look came across his face, his lips turned back into a kind of a grimacing smile, his eyes winced to slits and Fern’s blood ran cold.
Eventually, Fern learned not to discuss it. The arguments made them both feel bad. Harry learned, too, and tried to accept his wife’s preoccupation as a cross they had to bear. He delivered scathing looks her way whenever she went to visit someone sick, and he would moon around in a dark cloud of despair and a feeling of impending doom for the rest of the day and the night.
Their casual talk was only of farm things and news of the community, things without controversy.
The talk in the community centered on Fern. Details of her miraculous healings were told and retold until they were blown all out of proportion. People stepped out of her way in town—they viewed her with a mixture of fear and respect. They never hesitated to call on her, though, when in need.
When she and Harry went to town together, he scowled at the way everyone treated them. He would become angry and silent. Fern could almost hear his teeth grind. In his fondest dreams, he hoped he and Fern would be looked upon as good Christian folk, salt of the earth, pillars of the community, but instead, he felt he was some sort of freak, a specimen in a bottle, something interesting to look at.
But he kept it to himself as much as he could.
Fern had come to know most of the people in the community, had visited their homes, had held their babies. The vision of Fern riding in a buckboard became a standing symbol of good on its way to conquer evil.
Then the community had something new to talk about.
Doc Pearson was seen around the Mannes farm frequently in the spring. The quilting bees and church socials were filled with excited speculation. Once Doc’s diagnosis was confirmed, he told his wife.
“Morning sickness.”
Mrs. Pearson grabbed her shawl and went to the neighbors’, and soon everybody knew. Fern was pregnant.
A hundred hands flew to work, making quilts, diapers, knitting booties and caps. Here was a way they could all show their appreciation to Fern without one of “those looks” from Harry. It was plain that Harry didn’t think too much of Fern’s work, and thought less of the gifts. But the baby . . . well, Harry couldn’t say anything about that.
And what a child they would have! Fern with her small, dark looks and Harry, what a handsome boy. Their baby would be a perfect angel, happy and delightful, and it would bring Fern and Harry together in a new way.
The whole town of Morgan, Illinois, was pleased. This would be their baby.
As soon as her pregnancy began to show, Fern stayed at home. Visitors came daily, bringing little treats for her, and loads of advice. Eat this, drink that, don’t think about bad things, stay away from loud noises. Do this, don’t do that, here, let me help you, sit down, put your feet up. Fern gained weight. And more weight.
She laughed readily, enjoying the attention. Her healing work was reduced to a minimum, emergencies only, and the friction between her and Harry disappeared.
The doctor said the morning sickness was good—it meant the baby was well seated. But Harry worried. When the sickness passed, as Doc said it would, and the baby grew steadily and rapidly, Harry lost all his foreboding and looked forward to the birth with exuberant enthusiasm.
He built a cradle, and a crib. He painted the new room pink and blue, and the ladies all decorated it like a nursery.
Fern sat in the overstuffed chair and knit and grew larger. She waddled around the house, doing little more than cooking, and toward the end of her pregnancy, her feet swelled up, and she moved barely at all. She just sat and grew.
Christmas came and went. The baby’s room was filled with toys and stuffed animals and quilts and blankets and clothes. Fern would wander through the room, fingering all the handmade things and she would feel surrounded with love, so grateful for all that she had been given. This new life in Morgan was stranger than anything she had ever imagined, but it was a good life. Long ago she had stopped grieving for the old days in the white house on the tree-lined street.
After Harry went to work, she would slip off the huge dress Addie had given her and stand naked in front of the mirror. She was amazed. Her thighs looked like hams, and her belly like a pumpkin. Her breasts were swollen, huge, and they sat atop her stomach. Itchy, sore red welts striped her sides. It was not pretty, but it was certainly fascinating.
And she, too, dreamed about the future of their child. Could every mother feel this way about her children? She couldn’t imagine that. Surely no child was as special as this one. Did her mother feel this way about her? Did Addie feel this way about her kids? How could she ever let them grow up and move away? This baby would grow up with the blessing of God. Surely it is a chosen child, born to one who has his direct healing powers. She would spread her fingers over her swollen stomach and feel the baby, an active child, and wonder would flow through her entire being.
The winter had been mild, with less than three feet of snow. Fern prayed the weather would hold until the baby came, to make it easy for the doctor and midwife to attend. They’d settled on names: Martha for a little girl, Harry Junior if it was a little boy. The time was close. Fern just waited.
The weather didn’t. The most disastrous blizzard in anyone’s memory hit the Midwest in early January. It swept up huge mountains of snow, covering the north side of all buildings. The weight of the wet snow collapsed structures and homes. Some people were killed in the collapse; others froze to death as they wandered outside afterward. Livestock froze, water pipes burst—the toll in Morgan was heavy. The storm raged, a complete whiteout for three days. On the second day, Martha was born.
This time, this morning in January, with the baby so close, Fern watched, helpless, back aching, as Harry went out the door, one hand tight on the lifeline stretched to the barn. She would wait, heart pounding, until she again heard footsteps on the porch. Of all there was to this life, she hated most his treks to the barn during a storm. She hated to see his brown coat disappear before he’d taken three steps. She knew it took a long time to see to the animals, break the ice in their troughs, feed them, shovel, sweep, and spread new hay. She had it timed in her head, but every time he walked out the door, time stretched. She had to consciously chant to herself, “Patience. Patience.”
She picked up her knitting. A little yellow sweater hung from the needles. She would knit four inches before she would worry. Four inches. She took each stitch deliberately, resisted the temptation to measure after each row. Her needles were rhythmic, clicking in time to her heartbeat.