Fern pulled potatoes out of the bin and began peeling them for the stew. Harry was out in the fields, as he was every day during the spring, summer, and fall. He lived for his work; it was all that mattered to him. Occasionally, Fern felt a twinge of guilt that Harry had spent his whole life on this farm, tied down with a retarded daughter rather than having a normal family, traveling a bit, seeing the country, playing baseball with a son—but the guilt was fleeting. Harry had made his own bed.

As far as the farm went, they’d been very successful. There was a solid bank account; Harry had new tools and a good tractor. They’d bought a car, and Fern no longer had to sew clothes for them to wear. They were probably wealthy, Fern thought, but Harry wouldn’t part with a dime that wasn’t absolutely necessary.

The furniture was in rags, none of the dishes matched, and they could certainly afford to take a little trip or buy some new things, but Harry wouldn’t even hear of it. He did bring modern plumbing to the house: toilet, bathtub and shower, a water heater for the kitchen. The rest he considered wasteful excess.

She picked up a fresh potato, one ear cocked toward the bathroom where Martha was bathing. Fern had picked up some fancy bath salts at Dave McRae’s store, and Martha sat and soaked among the bubbles until the water got cold.

The peach and apricot trees were heavy with fruit. Next weekend would be reserved for putting them up for the winter. Maybe Martha would help, watch, and understand some of it. Not a difficult process, but exacting if the fruit was to last. How will she ever get on after we’re gone? The thought sent chills all through Fern. She tried not to think about it, but the thought slipped in now and again. God takes care of his own, she thought. She’ll be just fine. The good people in town will take care of her.

Fern was on her fourth small potato when the gasp came from the bathroom. Fern’s heart froze, midbeat, as it always did when an unusual sound came from Martha. There was no other noise, but a few little splashes, so she kept on peeling.

“Mootheeeer!” A wail shrieked through the house. The knife slipped, skinning Fern’s knuckle; she dropped the potato and the knife into the sink, shoved the knuckle into her mouth and ran for the bathroom.

Martha was sitting in the tub, water around her hips. Her hand was covered with soap bubbles, and a look of delighted awe covered her face.

“Mommy. Look!” She held the bubbles up to the light. Fern knelt next to the tub, her eyes on Martha’s rapt face.

“Look!” Martha insisted.