Ruth got lost in the view from the porch. It was so wide and open that she couldn’t even keep her face sad like Paul had reminded the kids to do. She was too excited to see so much prairie and so much sky all in one place.

“Pete,” Paul said, tapping the boy’s shoulder. “Take off your hat, son.”

Pete removed his tall hat and held it in his hands against his belly. Vern and Paul did the same. They stood in a group before the faded front door like they were posing for a picture. Paul moved the three children in front; he and Vern stood behind them.

“Remember,” Paul whispered to the kids, “sad faces, really sad.”

“Like this, Paul?” said Reese.

“Not that sad, darling, we don’t want her to think we’re dying from the flu. Just starving.” Then he snapped his fingers at Ruth. “Ruth, honey, you even paying attention?”

Ruth was too busy taking in the view to make her face droop.

“Ruth,” said Paul. “Make your face sad.”

So Ruth frowned as hard as she could until her cheeks hurt and the muscles in her neck tensed and her lower teeth were showing. This was what she often referred to as her “pooping face.”

“Cut that out,” said Paul. “You look like you need wheat bran, for crying out loud.”

Ruth grinned so big that her whole mouth showed and her eyes squinted.

“Would you knock it off?” said Paul. “This is serious. We need this job. Now think of something sad or go back to the truck.”

Ruth let her face relax. She held Pete’s hand. His sadness hit her hard, and she wished she could take it away from him.

“Alright,” said Paul. “Everybody ready?”

Paul stepped forward and knocked on the door. Then he took his place behind the kids again. “Remember,” Paul said, “you’re hungry and sad.”

A woman answered the door. She was tall, gray-haired, and sophisticated. Her hair was pulled back in a tight bun, and her glasses were low on her nose. She wore a floral cotton dress, and it struck Ruth as curious because she herself had never worn anything but overalls. The woman did not wear a very friendly face. She looked skeptical and confused.

“Can I help you?” the woman said.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Paul. “Heard in town that you’re looking to hire a few hands.”

Forty-Eight
Saint Helen

The child rested on Helen’s chest. Helen did not sleep. She only stared at the baby.

The face of a baby, Marigold thought, is saintly. The baby’s tiny eyes were closed, his mouth slung open. His baby fingers and toes were so small. The first time she held Maggie against her shoulder she felt the same things she was feeling right now.

Helen whispered, “What should I name him?”

“Don’t know,” said Marigold. “But it’s gotta be something good.”