Talk of the Town (19 page)

The room fell silent. Alice wanted to leave, but she was afraid these two might never breach the walls that separated them if she didn’t do something. “Maxwell?” she prompted.

Her young friend turned his head and looked at her. “I don’t want him here because you made him feel guilty. And I don’t want your pity.”

“It’s not pity I feel,” Alice told him. “I’m very fond of you.” She smiled down at him and then continued, “You’ve been to church with us. You’ve begun to learn that a large part of being a true Christian is forgiving. Can’t you consider forgiving your father?”

“I didn’t think it would be so hard.” He sounded like a sulky child.

Alice smiled, silently praying that her young friend’s heart was as big as she believed it to be. “Maxwell, your father is here, asking you to give yourselves a chance to start over. Do you or do you not wish to accept?”

She could have heard a pin drop in the silence that followed. A hollow feeling began to gather in her stomach.

“Yes,” Maxwell said. He looked at his father and offered a hand. “I accept. I would like to come home to live for a while, Father.”

The elder Vandermitton closed his eyes for a moment. Then he moved across the room, ignored his son’s outstretched hand and gathered him into an embrace.

Alice slipped out of the room with tears in her eyes. With a little luck and a lot of prayer, perhaps the two men would be able to let go of the past and become a family again.

Chapter Sixteen

W
ith Maxwell in good hands, Jane, Clothilda and Ethel decided to begin their hunt for people with the Muller name following lunch on Friday. After another fruitless pass through the cemeteries they already had visited, they drove to several small churches in the surrounding countryside.

The first two churches were tiny, rural parishes, both of which fell under the ministry of one part-time pastor. The clergyman and his wife, who acted as secretary and treasurer for both churches, happily shared their records with the women, but none of the old rolls showed either the Muller or Moeller name.

“You know,” said the pastor, a small man who had served the parishes for more than fifty years, “that name rings a bell. Used to be a feller over near Merriville that showed up occasionally at the farmers’ market. I’m thinking his name might have been Muller. The oldest cemetery in the county is over there too.”

“Thank you,” said Jane as the three women climbed back into her car. “Ladies, I guess our next stop is Merriville.”

“There’s a little church on Main Street, as I recall,” said Ethel, “That would be a good place to start.”

It was a short drive to Merriville. Ethel’s accurate memory directed them straight to the church, and they were pleased to see a car in the parking lot.

Opening the door to the dim interior, Jane called, “Hello. Anyone here?”

“Why, hello.” A woman of about Ethel’s age walked toward them with a youthful step. Her hair had been allowed to turn a striking silver and was cut in a very chic, extremely short style that was charmingly disordered. Up at the altar was a bucket full of glorious spring blossoms that she apparently had been arranging for an upcoming service. “I’m Violet Rabb. May I help you?”

“We hope so,” Ethel replied. After making introductions, she explained Clothilda’s quest to Violet and asked, “Would it be possible for us to see the church’s records from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries?”

The woman’s face fell. “Oh dear. I am sorry to tell you, but our first church burned to the ground in 1837, and everything before that date was destroyed. You are most welcome to examine what we have, though.”

Jane could see that the other two were as disappointed as she, but she nodded when Ethel politely said, “Thank you.”

“Muller,” said Violet thoughtfully. “I am trying to recall where I have seen that name before. I’m fairly certain it appears in our post-fire records, but that’s not the thing that’s teasing my memory. Ah, well.” She threw up her hands and then beckoned. “Come with me. I’ll think of it eventually.”

They followed her to a surprisingly modern little office with a computer system, fax and huge color copier. Violet dropped into the chair in front of the keyboard and quickly called up a list on the monitor.

“We have all our old records since the fire computerized now. Tell me how to spell the name and we’ll see if there are any listed.”

Clothilda gave her the information, and a moment later squealed in delight as three lines popped up on the screen.

“Three Mullers,” said Jane. “This is the most luck we’ve had yet. Thank you so much.”

“I’ve remembered where I saw this name. The oldest cemetery in the county is about ten miles down the road. Some of the graves date back to before the Revolutionary War. I’m sure there are Mullers in there.” Violet hit a button and printed out two copies of the information on the screen. “Computers are amazing, aren’t they?”

“Yes, but so confusing,” said Ethel. “However did you become so comfortable using one?”

“I took a class for adults that they offered at the high school,” Violet said. “I can give you the information if you’re interested.”

Ethel shook her head. “No, I think I am content to let Jane do any computer things I need done. I don’t want to start all over learning a new skill at my age.”

Violet’s eyes twinkled. “We’re only as old as we feel.”

Jane could see a light in Ethel’s eyes that meant a “difference of opinion.” Hastily, she said, “Thank you so much for your help. We’ll check out that cemetery.” She gave the papers to Ethel and before her startled aunt could recover, Jane hustled them out into the sunny parking lot again.

Ethel eyed her niece narrowly. “Don’t think that escaped me, Jane Howard. I know I was ‘handled’ in there.”

Jane smiled innocently. “Sorry. I didn’t think we had time for an extended discussion.”

“
Humph
.” Ethel turned and got into the car without further argument.

Jane smiled as she slid into the driver’s seat. It was not often that one got the better of Aunt Ethel. She might write down the date so she wouldn’t forget it.

Alice came home from the hospital around three on Friday afternoon. Maxwell’s father intended to stay with Maxwell through dinner until visiting hours were over, at which time he planned to come to the inn for the night. She had felt comfortable leaving the two men together, and she certainly had things to do at home that she had neglected during her time at the hospital with Maxwell.

She could hear Louise in a lesson with one of her older students who got out of school before the little ones. As she walked into the kitchen to get a drink of water and to check through the mail she had brought in with her, Wendell greeted her with a plaintive meow.

“It’s not dinner time,” Alice told him as he rubbed along her ankles, nearly making her trip. But as she looked down at him, her heart was pained to see how thin he was. What a hard time he must have had. “Oh, all right. I’ll give you a little something to tide you over until Jane comes home and feeds you your dinner.”

Tomorrow, she promised herself, she’d make up some of the little packets of treats that Jane gave Wendell. If she kept them in her room, she could let him snack occasionally until he regained his weight.

It was after three and Jane was ready to begin the trip home. But Clothilda and Ethel badly wanted to check out the little cemetery that Violet Rabb had mentioned.

So Jane turned left instead of right and drove several miles down the road. Two more turns as Violet had directed brought them to a small, winding road along a pretty creek. Cows grazed in a nearby pasture. Several ducks were serenely gliding across the water.

The cemetery was next to a small church that had closed its doors. Jane pulled off onto the grassy verge and parked, and the three of them began to wander among the gravestones.

“Wow!” said Jane. “Here’s one man who died in 1802.”

“Look at this.” Ethel pointed to a large stone with a number of smaller ones at its foot. “This man had two wives—not at the same time, of course—and at least eleven children who died in infancy and childhood.”

Jane stood over the sobering reminders of an earlier time when illnesses like Maxwell’s routinely killed people. “How very sad. I can’t imagine.”

“Very bad,” said Clothilda. “Very, very bad.”

“I wonder how many survived to adulthood,” Ethel said. “One of my grandfathers had more than twenty children, although I believe fewer than half of them lived past their first few years.”

They hadn’t been there ten minutes when Clothilda called, “I have found one! Many ones!”

Jane and Ethel hurried to her side. There, in the soft spring grass, were headstones bearing the names of several Muller family members who had passed away many decades before.

“Gracious sakes alive!” Ethel pulled the folder of information from under her arm and opened it. “Look. There’s Georg. And Jacob. And their wives.”

“There are more over here,” Jane said from around a broad old tree, kneeling. “Looks like their children. Infants and ones who died young are here.” She stood and glanced around. “The second son is over here, but I don’t see any others. I wonder why the youngest brother isn’t buried here.”

“The youngest was only eighteen when they emigrated from Germany,” Ethel reminded her. “He could have fought in the Revolutionary War and died who knows where, or married and moved far away.” She pulled out large sheets of blank white paper and pencils and distributed them to Jane and one to Clothilda. “Let’s get busy, girls. Start rubbing.”

As they worked, Clothilda said, “Jane, Ethel, thank you so very much for helping me with this. I still wish to find living Muller-name people, but this, this is very good start.”

“You’re welcome.” Jane thought Clothilda seemed a bit more emotional than the discovery warranted. “Are you all right?”

Clothilda smiled. “I am very all right. For many years I have wanted to make trip, but it was much money.” She began to chatter in German, apparently lacking the vocabulary to express herself in English, and Ethel started to translate for Jane.

“She thought maybe she was wrong to spend so much money, but now she is hopeful. She really wants to find living descendants, to talk with them about… about a rare genetic disorder in the family. Her granddaughter has this disorder. It is a form of dwarfism and causes a wrist defect, she says. It’s nothing fatal, but she wonders if anyone in America has had it and if American medicine has discovered any treatment they aren’t aware of.”

“A wrist defect?” Jane said.

Clothilda nodded. “Floppy.” She held up her arms and bounced them loosely, letting her hands flop up and down in an exaggerated fashion. Then she began to speak in German again.

“The skeletal structure of the wrists is bad, things are not connected,” Ethel went on. “The child lives a relatively normal life but she has little grip strength. It affects her ability to do a number of routine tasks, such as opening jars and containers, carrying or holding anything heavy such as a laundry basket, opening heavy doors, driving long distances. She also has difficulty completing tasks that require manual dexterity, such as painting walls, playing piano or working at the computer.”

“I see,” Jane said. “And you hope someone in this family has it and has been able to find a cure.”

Clothilda beamed. “Yes. Probably not to happen, but I think this… passed from generation to generation.”

“Ah.”

“Well,” said Ethel, “we are running out of time today, but the next time, we shall start in Merriville. We’re only a few miles from there, and they have a lovely old brick library there that may have records or other information that would be helpful.”