Everyone chuckled, and Dave put his hand on Martha’s head. “She’ll be fine, Fern. We’ll all see to it.” He reached in a jar and brought out a candy stick which Martha promptly stuck in her mouth, sucking loudly.

“Thanks, Dave.” With her daughter in tow, Fern continued through the other shops in town. The reception was much the same. Everyone seemed cooperative, but how could she be sure? Trust, she told herself. Trust.

When they finally got back home, as tired as Fern was, she continued to make telephone calls. She called Mrs. Martin, the woman who worked with the 4-H. Of course, Mrs. Martin said, she’d be delighted to keep up Martha’s garden as a project. She called Penelope Wiggins, whose daughter had gone to beauty school. Of course, said Mrs. Wiggins. Priscilla would be delighted to come and take care of Martha’s hair. Priscilla doesn’t remember, of course, the fever she had that called you out of bed in the middle of the night, but I do. I’ll remind her. She’ll be glad to do it. Thank you very much, said Fern.

Fern’s mortality was closing in on her. Never had her own death seemed more real. It was coming closer; she could feel it. She knew what health looked like and sickness, and death, and she felt the black cloak descending on her increasingly fragile bones, and the thought was almost comforting.

After she’d made all the calls she could think of, she remembered the animals in the barn. They hadn’t been tended to since yesterday morning, when Harry had done it. Was that only yesterday? Oh dear, his funeral is tomorrow. There’s so much to do. Must find someone to tend the animals, or to take them away. Martha was afraid of the barn.

Fern rested for a moment, then went to the barn. She shoveled and hosed, then spread new hay. She checked the feed for the cows and horses, and when all was done, she got the stool and sat down to milk.

The easy rhythm of the milk in the pail began to ease Fern’s mind. There was just so much to do, so much, so much. Find someone to take the animals . . . and what else? Everything else. How could she leave her daughter? Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Why hadn’t she sent her away as Harry had begged her to do so long ago, then have normal children who would be taking care of her in her old age, instead of this? Oh, please, God, take care of my . . .