The Love Letters (23 page)

Mamma came and sat in one of the rockers, too, with Sally sitting herself down on the floor of the porch in front of her so Mamma could brush her long hair. Sally counted the brushstrokes in
Deitsch
as Allegro rested quietly, taking it all in till he must've spotted a squirrel. Then, with a great spurt of energy, he shot toward the meadow.

“Boston's got another letter for me to read,” Small Jay told his mother.

Mamma looked up. “Would ya like some privacy, Boston?”

“The more the merrier, as the saying goes.” Boston smiled over at Sally, who stopped counting and suddenly looked bashful.

Boston held out the satchel for Small Jay to retrieve a letter. “By the way, thank you kindly for the ideal spot on which to hang my worldly goods.” He chuckled a bit.

“You're welcome,” said Small Jay. “I thought it would be better, what with Shredder lurking about.”

Boston laughed again, then grew more serious. “I suppose you're right. I need to keep the letters safe if I hope to have them to jog my memory.”

Small Jay nodded, still hopeful that would happen. No matter what, he also enjoyed these glimpses into Boston's past life.

This letter began like all the others,
My dearest darling,
but it had been written nearly a year after the last, in the winter of 1962.
If I remember correctly,
Small Jay thought, wondering if he might not try some of Dr. Isaac's memory aids for himself.

Mamma tilted her head and had a sober look on her pretty face as Small Jay continued to read.

I have been taking time to sort through some of our musty old books upstairs, and I found a thought-provoking old poem that nicely expresses the way our marriage works. See if you agree, my dear:

“They were so truly one, that none could say

Which of them ruled, or which did obey:

He ruled because she would obey; and she,

In so obeying, ruled as well as he.”

Interrupting him, Boston asked Small Jay to read the poem again, word for word.

Small Jay did as his friend requested, then noticed Boston cover his face with his smooth hands. “What's a-matter?”

Boston remained silent for a long time, which made Small Jay's heart pump faster.
Is he sick?

Away in the pasture, Allegro was racing through the grass, a ray of sun shining down, making his black-and-white coat gleam. Small Jay wished Boston's pet was there with them on the porch just now, because the poor man looked like he needed some comfort.

Leaning down, Small Jay reached for cuddly Sassy, picked her up, and laid her carefully on Boston's lap.

Small Jay and his mother, and even Sally, exchanged worried glances. At last Boston sighed and placed both hands on the cat's back, stroking her. “This letter reminds me of Abigail's book collection,” he said quietly, his brow wrinkling. “What is such a thing called?”

Small Jay looked toward his mother. “Mamma, do you know?”

“A library, maybe?” she asked.

Boston's eyes widened. “Ah yes . . . and for a strange and wonderful moment, I could see that very comfortable spot in my mind's eye.” He described it for them: the wall-to-wall shelving rising from floor to ceiling, the fireplace on one wall. “There was even a beautiful ladder that matched the shelves perfectly.” He scratched his head, the cat still in his lap.

“What type of wood?” Small Jay asked.

Boston rubbed his beard and looked at the sky, clearly aggravated that he couldn't readily recall that detail.

“Was it oak or maple?” Small Jay suggested.

“No . . . I recall reddish hues.”

“Cherrywood, perhaps?” Mamma ventured.

Boston nodded emphatically. “That, my dear lady, is the correct wood. Thank you.”

“So Abigail had a cherrywood library,” Small Jay said, smiling.

“Now if we just knew who Abigail was, that'd be
wunnerbaar-gut
,
jah
?” Mamma said.

“
Jah,
” Boston replied unexpectedly.

“If ya keep talkin' like that, better watch out, or they'll make ya deacon,” Sally chimed in. “When ya get your new black suit an' all.”

“Oh now, you,” Mamma corrected her, laughing.

Small Jay finished reading the rest of the letter aloud, and when he was finished, Mamma asked if Boston minded if she looked at the poem.

“Help yourself, dear lady,” Boston said, motioning for Small Jay to hand it to her.

“Please, call me Ellie,” she reminded him, her eyes twinkling. She read the letter, her lips moving like she was reciting
it to herself. “Where's the envelope?” she asked when she'd finished and refolded the letter.

“If I knew, I might know where I'm from,” Boston said as he tucked the letter into his shoulder bag.

Just then Sassy started and hissed loudly. Small Jay turned and spotted Shredder on the hunt, crouching low in the grass just beyond the woodshed, waiting as he was known to do. Then, when his prey was in sight, he silently pounced and snatched a good-sized rodent.
Maybe a rat,
thought Small Jay. “Looks like Shredder's still around,” he announced.

While he was almost glad to see the old black cat on the prowl again, he also felt unexpectedly torn, much like he'd felt when he wrote the letter to Luke Mast that he'd mailed a little while ago. He felt the same way, too—arguing with himself—whenever he thought of Boston's finding his family. Boston's people would surely want to pull his friend away from here, back to his other life.

His real life.

W
hile Marlena bathed Angela Rose after a light supper of cold cuts, bread, and strawberry jam, she realized again how glad she was to have stumbled into Nat outside the meetinghouse that morning. She supposed Nat and she were a little unaccustomed to each other, having been apart for two weeks now.
Like a
wood stove
needs regular
polishing,
she thought, recalling how awkwardly he'd bussed her cheek there in the private haven near the honeysuckle vines. The encounter had been peculiar, and her excitement at meeting him had been lessened by his relieved reaction to the idea of Gordon's parents coming to take away Angela Rose.

Later, when she'd slipped the little cotton gown over Angela's head and was giving her a bedtime bottle in the kitchen, cuddling her more than usual, she mentioned to Mammi that she was going to sort through the box her mother had sent with them.

“Yet tonight, dear?”

Marlena did feel particularly spent from the emotional day. But she wanted to sort through the large box and get it over
with, though she didn't feel right admitting it to her grandmother. And there was a part of her that was also curious about the postcards from Olive, especially. “Do you remember the Hendricksons, Mammi?” she asked.

“I've seen Isabelle Hendrickson many a time at market over the years, and sometimes walking their dog up the road.”

“What do you know about her daughter Olive?”

“Just that she lives near Philly somewhere and teaches in an underprivileged neighborhood.”

“Her mother told you this?”

“
Jah
 . . . and they're ever so proud of her.” Mammi looked at her inquisitively. “Why're ya askin'?”

Marlena filled her in on what Mamma had said about the postcards, all the more eager to open the box. She also thought of asking Mammi's opinion of Gordon's aunt but decided against it. There had been enough talk for one day.

———

Marlena kissed Luella's drowsy babe before laying her down in the crib. She leaned over the railing to pat her soft little back, wanting to tell her many things, especially that her Mamma had loved her very much. “Maybe there's something in the box for you, a keepsake for when ya grow up,” she whispered.

When she was sure Angela was asleep, Marlena reluctantly headed downstairs to see what mementos her mother thought were important enough to pass along. Mammi had since gone to sit on the back porch for some fresh air, and undoubtedly to ponder the day, leaving Marlena alone in the warm kitchen with her awaiting discovery.

Ellie yearned for a tender relationship with her husband, like Abigail's with Boston. She had found herself listening with great interest today as Small Jay read the letter from Abigail.
Surely Boston's bride of many years.

Now Ellie tried to recite the poem about unity in marriage, remembering the last two lines especially well:
He ruled because she would obey; and she, in so obeying, ruled as well as
he.

The more she pondered the poem, the more she wanted to follow its advice, in hopes of creating a happier bond with Roman.

“
Kumm yetz
—Come now!” Roman called the children into the front room for family worship.

When they were seated, he took time to say that the Bible reading this evening would be from Luke in the New Testament and Proverbs in the Old. Then he began to read, “ ‘He answereth and saith unto them, He that hath two coats, let him impart to him that hath none; and he that hath meat, let him do likewise.' ”

Roman glanced at Ellie and held her gaze before turning back to the middle of the Bible to read from Proverbs, chapter nineteen, verse seventeen. “ ‘He that hath pity upon the poor lendeth unto the Lord. . . .' ”

Ellie noticed the verses he'd chosen were short and to the point and easy for even the youngest of them to understand. As Roman took the lead in kneeling and folding his hands to pray silently, she wondered if maybe he had chosen them purposely.
Bless our union, O Lord God,
Ellie prayed, departing from the usual rote prayer.
Wilt Thou soften my husband's heart toward me?

Afterward, the girls headed upstairs to dress for bed. But Small Jay lingered.

“What is it, Jake?” asked Roman, still seated.

“If we're supposed to have pity on the poor, like ya read, Dat . . .” He looked away, working his jaw now.

Ellie encouraged him by nodding her head.

“Well,” Small Jay went on, “if we follow the verses, then why isn't Boston sleepin' in a real bed, same as us?”

Roman drew in a quick breath and ran a hand through his hair. “Listen here, son, I've taken him to the doctor, and your Mamma's sewin' him clothes—she even went and bought him a straw hat like mine, to keep the sun off. The spot we gave him outside is comfortable, cooler even than in here.”

It sounded to Ellie like her husband was arguing with himself.

Small Jay's face fell. “I just thought—”

“There's little more we can do, son.”

“But what if he's an angel, and we don't know it?” Small Jay said softly. “The Bible says we can entertain angels without knowin'.”

“It's mighty clear that Boston's not an angel. Now, it's time ya took yourself off to bed.”

There was ever so much on Ellie's mind to say to Roman, but she held back. She knew all too well that he preferred she not speak up to him.

Roman waited till their son was out of earshot to say more. “What is it about this Boston? Why isn't anything we've done for him
gut
enough for our boy?”

She didn't have the heart to tell Roman what she thought—that Boston might be filling a place in Small Jay's heart intended for a father. “Well, he's never behaved like this with anyone before, comin' out of his shell an' all. Our son's maturing before our eyes, Roman. He wants to help Boston.”

“And
we
aren't? What more can be done aside from getting the police over here to cart him away?”

“I know you, dear, and you'd never do such a thing.”

Roman bowed his head into his knees. “
Nee,
” he murmured.

She remembered the poem, likely Abigail's way of affirming whoever the letter was meant for. Ellie tried now to adopt the same tone as Abigail. “Roman, you were awful kind to take Boston to see Dr. Isaac today. Very kind.”

Roman's face looked more relaxed when he looked up and met her eyes. “I didn't mean to . . .” He tugged hard at his beard, making his bottom lip protrude. “I don't know . . . I guess it really isn't just Boston stayin' here that's so trying.”

“What then, love?” She felt certain she knew the whole of it—what was eating away at him.

Roman rose suddenly with a groan and walked the length of the house to the kitchen. She could hear the water running in the pump sink and wondered if her husband was washing his hands or running water over his head.

Marlena found what Mamma had chosen to pack of Luella's ever so surprising: several cape dresses, along with aprons, too. “Things my sister stopped wearing when she left home,” Marlena said to herself.

There were also bright-colored floral and striped dresses, and even a few scarves, as well, all modern and in the latest style. And two sets of embroidered pillowcases Luella had sewn as a girl.

The postcards and letters Mamma had mentioned were in the bottom of the box, secured by a rubber band. Seeing how thick the stack was, Marlena removed the rubber band and
flipped through them, glancing at the back and seeing that each was written to Luella from Olive Hendrickson. Marlena could hardly believe she was looking through Luella's personal mail.

After putting them in sequential order, she began to read. It seemed that each time Olive and her family were on vacation, Olive sent a postcard to Luella. In some cases, there were letters with postcards tucked inside. Only occasionally were the messages written from Olive's home—those featured details about school grades, plans for college, and a note about meeting a boy . . . and later, the joyful message:
I'm getting married. How I wish you could come to the wedding!

One of the last letters in the pile described Olive's tour of the Loretto Chapel in Santa Fe, New Mexico. A postcard of the chapel was enclosed. Olive and her family had been deeply touched by the story they were told of a passerby on a donkey, who'd ended up staying in the chapel for months to build a staircase for the choir loft—one with no visible means of support. Before the anonymous man's arrival, everyone had thought it would be impossible to fit a staircase into the small space.

I really felt something, Luella. Something real and powerful—like I was seeing the result of a miracle. Anyway, I stood in the middle of all those tourists and found myself lifting my heart to heaven. I can't explain what I was feeling, but seeing that work of art, and being told that the creator of the incredible staircase was an answer to many prayers—you know he disappeared, never to be found?—well, I'm telling you, it stopped me in my selfish tracks. Okay, I'll just say it: The story made me want to believe in God with everything in me.

Do you have any idea what this means?

Marlena reread the postcard and wondered if Olive's experience was something akin to how the people must have felt seeing the angels near the Brownstown church steeple. She considered Olive's reaction to that miraculous staircase, not forgetting what Mammi Janice had told her:
“Wise folk never reject the possibility of
miracles.”

Not many months after the Santa Fe letter and postcard, Olive wrote again:

I want to help those who need it most, Luella. Life's too short not to make a difference in this world. My husband and I have decided to commit to giving a year to missions, if we're selected.

P.S. I've never felt so happy!

Marlena stared at the postcard. “Luella never mentioned her continuing friendship with Olive,” she whispered, picking up the brightly colored dresses. What could she do with these worldly dresses, and the Amish ones, too, especially since Luella had been much taller and thinner than Marlena? She wondered if any of Olive's correspondence had rung true for her sister. Had the more recent letters and postcards made any impact on her life?