Waiting for Summer's Return (7 page)

“Mr. Ollenburger, would you like to sit in on Thomas’s reading lessons? I could teach you at the same time.”

The man’s face flooded with color and he reared back, his jaw clamped. He spun away from her, presenting his rigid profile. “The boy needs your teaching. I do not.” All warmth was gone from his voice.

Guilt washed over Summer for creating his discomfort. “Very well. That-that’s fine.” She gathered up the papers and books strewn across the table. “I made sandwiches for lunch. You must be hungry.”

He turned back, seeming to deliberately relax his stiff shoulders. “
Ja,
I am hungry. I will not wait to be asked twice.”

While Peter sat at the table and consumed a pile of roast pork sandwiches, he observed the interactions between his son and
Frau
Steadman. Never did the woman smile, but she looked at the boy with attentiveness when he spoke, and the boy hung on her every response.

Grossmutter
watched them, too. Occasionally she sent a look in his direction, and her brows would rise, as if communicating,
See what is happening here?
He sensed her disapproval. He wished he had visited with her before bringing
Frau
Steadman to the house. Tonight he would take her aside and explain why he had chosen to invite the woman to their home.
Grossmutter
’s love for Thomas went deep. He knew she would accept the woman’s presence once she understood how much good the teaching would do their boy.

Thomas and the woman discussed a book called
Ivanhoe
. The only hoe with which Peter was familiar was the one he used to eliminate weeds in his vegetable garden, but Thomas seemed to know of what the woman spoke. The boy contributed his thoughts, speaking of medieval castles and murderous maraudings and Robin Hood.

Medieval? Marauding? Peter’s chest tightened with pride and anguish—pride in his son, anguish at his own inability to join in the conversation. When would his foolish head absorb all these words and meanings? Murder he knew, from the Good Book. But so many other ideas were beyond his limited vocabulary.

And the woman knew it. When she had offered to teach him, all shreds of pride had flown out the window. How horrible to be a grown man yet unable to grasp the meanings of words that came easily to others.

“I am finished. Please excuse me.” Peter’s voice boomed louder than he intended. When the woman startled and looked at him, he felt heat building in his neck. He cleared his throat and forced a softer tone. “I will spend most of the afternoon at the mill, readying it for winter. If you need me, ring the bell, Thomas.”

“Sure, Pa.”

Peter carried his plate to the sink as the two began discussing Sir Walter Scott. Peter’s heels dragged as he headed toward the mill, his heart heavy. Peter’s lack of education didn’t matter to the boy now—Thomas was young and still saw his pa as all-knowing. But how might that change in another year or two? The boy’s knowledge daily grew by leaps and bounds, while Peter probably would never know more than he did now.

He kicked at a dried tuft of grass. “I will not hold him back,” he vowed aloud. “The boy will have all the education he wants. He will be more than me, for sure.” Reaching the mill, he stood for a moment, his gaze following the path of the stilled paddles that caught the wind and turned the gears that powered the grinder. A simple concept, yet so necessary for the people of this area. The mill provided well for his family. All the farmers came to him at harvest time. With only one grinder, it took time to turn their wheat into flour, but the wind-powered mill had not disappointed anyone.

Peter boosted himself onto the platform and entered the mill. The area inside was snug, with just enough room for him to move around and see to operations. It was a one-man mill. Thomas wanted to one day be a miller, too. When that day came, they must either build another windmill or make a bigger mill and power it with something besides wind or water. Maybe they would use one of those steam engines that chugged locomotives across the land and pushed boats upstream.

From its spot in the corner, Peter retrieved a half-filled can of sheep tallow and a brush made of strips of cloth tied to a sturdy stick. He dipped the brush in the tallow and painstakingly coated each gear as his thoughts continued.

If Thomas gets an education, then he will know about such things as steam engines. What a team we will be, the boy and me
. Peter knew allowing Thomas to become educated would be considered radical by many in town. Education beyond elementary school was not encouraged. The Mennonites stayed together, planted their fields, purchased their goods from one another, and tried to live in peaceful harmony. If their children were sent away for education, they might encounter evil influences or be coaxed into a different type of life.

Peter wondered about these threats as he pasted gears with tallow. The Bible said to train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. He and
Grossmutter
were training Thomas right. Should he worry about what the boy might encounter outside of Gaeddert?
But no, this is America, not Germany or Russia. No one will force him to join military. We have freedoms here, including freedom to learn more and more
.

But then his hands stilled, his brow furrowing with worry. If the boy got an education, would he still want to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a miller? Peter’s father and grandfather had been millers—three generations of Ollenburger millers in three different countries.
Grossvater
in Germany,
Vater
in Russia, and now Peter in America. Nothing else had Peter ever known. But the boy … In this land of many opportunities, what might await Thomas?

Peter put aside the can and brush and covered the can with a piece of oilcloth. Then he wrapped burlap sacks around the gears, his heart heavy. Giving his boy the education he deserved might lead him away from Kansas and this mill. Even so, though, Peter would not hold Thomas back.

He should ask the woman about institutions of learning. A learned woman such as herself would know which places were best. She would also know what kind of cost would be involved. The boy was already nearly ten years old. If, as
Frau
Steadman said, he would be ahead of his classmates, he might be ready for this higher education earlier than most. Peter must be prepared.

Whatever was best for Thomas would be done. Elsa would approve, and Peter would have it no other way.

7

W
HEN PETER RETURNED
to the house in late afternoon,
Grossmutter
’s bedroom door was closed. Perhaps she was taking her afternoon nap. Thomas and
Frau
Steadman sat at the table, each with tablet paper in front of them. Thomas held a pencil, while
Frau
Steadman had a pen and inkpot.

He closed the door with a soft click. The woman glanced up, her gaze meeting his for only a moment before returning to her task. Her hand looked slender and graceful as it dipped the nib into the ink, then guided the pen across the surface of the paper. He shifted his attention to Thomas, who rose from the table and crossed the floor to press himself beneath his father’s arm for a hug.

Peter savored the hug, holding the boy longer than usual, his hand cupping the back of his son’s head. It saddened him to think of the day the boy would be too old to greet his papa with a hug at the end of a day.

“Mrs. Steadman is writing a letter. I gave her some of my tablet and your pen.” The boy’s eyes seemed to question whether he had done the right thing.

The woman paused for a moment, her back stiff.

“That is fine, son. You know welcome
Frau
Steadman is to use anything she needs while she helps you.” To his gratification, her shoulders relaxed and her hand began to move again.

Thomas raised up on tiptoe, quirking a finger for his father to lean down. “Her husband’s parents don’t know her children are gone, Pa. She didn’t have a way to let them know after her wagon was burned. Can you mail her letter for her?”

Peter straightened with a jerk. Why did he not think of such things? He needed to learn the important questions to ask. He gave Thomas a nod before crossing to the table, his hat in his hands, to stand beside the woman.

“
Frau
Steadman, a good host I have not been to you.”

Her head came up, her dark eyes settling on him with an expression of puzzlement.

“Too long it has been only the boy,
Grossmutter,
and me. I forget what things are needed by others. Sorry I am that I did not ask you what things you could use.” He rubbed his dry lips together as she continued to gaze at him silently. “You-you have paper and pen there. You make list of the things you need, and I will see they are gathered.”

The woman finally nodded, the puzzlement fading. “Thank you. I have considered some things that would be helpful. I’ll make a list.” She raised her small chin in a defiant manner. “I don’t expect you to purchase the items, however.” She paused for a moment, her rebellion faltering. “But-but it will require your wagon for me to get into town.”

The opportunity to visit with the woman about Thomas’s education suddenly presented itself. Peter nodded, sweeping his hair with his hand. “
Ja,
a ride into town. I will take you. When will your list be done?”

Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell in a silent gesture of uncertainty. “Tomorrow morning, I suppose.”

Peter nodded again, hoping he did not appear too eager. “Tomorrow will be fine. First thing after breakfast, we will go.” He turned to hang up his hat and coat and paused when another idea struck. “
Frau
Steadman, would you like to stop at the graves? To put down some flowers for your family?”

Tears flooded the woman’s eyes. The fervent gratitude shining there made Peter determined to take her to visit her family’s headstones as often as she needed until her heart healed.

Thomas returned to the table. “There’s still a whole passel of strawflowers growing behind the outhouse. I can pick some.”

Peter sucked in his breath. Would the woman find offense in being offered flowers that grew in such a location? But warmth appeared in her eyes.

“Thank you, Thomas. Perhaps your father will find a jar for water. We’ll put them in the jar so they’ll still be fresh tomorrow.”

Thomas peered up at his father. “May I go now, Pa? Supper’s not fixed yet.”

“Go, boy. But walk.”

Thomas shot his father an impish grin, then walked toward the door as if slogging through cold molasses.

“Sie sind ein schelmischer junge!”

Thomas laughed, his arm protecting his ribs, and headed out the door.

Peter turned to find the woman staring at him in confusion.

“What did you say?”

Sympathy he felt for her then. How often he was confused when unfamiliar English words were spoken. He would not leave the woman wondering. “I tell the boy he has too much energy, and then I call him—” He scratched his head, searching for a word to convey his meaning. “What say you when someone is too playful for good sense?”

The woman’s face puckered in thought. “Ornery? Or mischievous?”

“
Ach,
another
m
word.” Peter shook his head. “Why are so many hard words starting with
m
?”

A muscle in
Frau
Steadman’s cheek twitched, and Peter wondered if she was holding back a grin. “Hard words start with
m
?”

“
Ja
. You said one yesterday—manipulated. Today at lunch there were more.” He frowned, trying to remember the correct pronunciations. “Medieval and marauding. I do not know these. Now mismismusvis.” He struggled to make his tongue form the tricky word.

“Mischievous.” Her expression and tone were kind.

“Mis-chie-vous,” he repeated. “This means to be …?”

“Ornery or silly. Playful.”

Peter considered this. “Playful.
Ja,
that suits my Thomas.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. The woman moved her tablet to give him room on the table. Half of the paper was covered with lines of ink, but he couldn’t read any of it. Leaning his forearms on the table, he focused on the subject of Thomas. “My boy—he has not been … mischievous while with you, has he? I want him to not be silly when he works on studies.”

“Oh no, he’s very diligent.” She must have read the confusion in his eyes, because she added, “He is serious about his studies. He doesn’t play.”

Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “This is good.
Ja,
this is good.”

“He is particularly talented with arithmetic. He’s well beyond the fourth grade level. I would say at least two years ahead.” She leaned back. “It’s good that he’ll be in a classroom again before too long. I’m sure his teacher will have more knowledge of the advanced mathematics. My education was not strong in mathematics. I am not able to help Vincent in that subject as much as I would like, either.” Her face clouded. She lowered her head. “I must stop doing that.”

“Doing what?”

“Speaking of my son as if he were still alive.” Her voice was so soft, Peter nearly missed it. “I can’t seem to accept that he and the others are gone. When I think of them, I think in the present tense. But I must begin thinking in the past tense.”

Peter did not understand the word
tense,
but he understood past and present. “It takes time.” It seemed as if he had said that frequently in the past days. “It was many weeks before I got up in the morning without thinking of what Elsa and I would do with the day. I wanted to keep her in the present, I think, so I would not forget her. Now I know how foolish that was. How could I forget someone so special as Elsa?”

“Do you think that’s why I do it? Because I’m afraid I might forget them?”

Peter would not pretend to know all of what she felt. He only knew what he had felt. “I do not know, but I do know this: You will never forget them. They will live on in your heart forever. Forever young, forever yours. No matter how far in the past they become, a love for them will live on inside of you each day.”

Summer sat in silence, digesting what Mr. Ollenburger had said. Having lost his wife, he could understand her own loss. Yet in her opinion, her own loss was deeper, harder. To have a child die was to lose not only the child but the adult the child would have become. While she never wanted to forget her children, she resented they would always be young. They should be able to grow up, to fulfill hopes and dreams. While Mr. Ollenburger would see that happen with Thomas, Summer would never be allowed that privilege with her children.

It was her own fault. She had uprooted her children from their safe, familiar home.

Swallowing, she took up the pen. “I must finish this letter, and then I will make my list. I appreciate your willingness to take me to town tomorrow.”

The man rose. “
Bitte schoen
—you are welcome. Now supper I must think about. When the boy comes back, he will want to fill his belly. Always his mind is on food at this age.”

Summer completed her letter and began her list while Mr. Ollenburger fried sausage, potatoes, and eggs for a simple supper. Thomas came in, his arms laden with pale purple flowers that resembled bachelor’s buttons. His beaming face above the thick bouquet brought tears to Summer’s eyes. How often had Rose come in from play with her sticky hands holding frazzled clumps of flowers and her sweaty face wreathed in a smile? Oh, how she missed her children!

She swallowed her sadness. “Thank you so much, Thomas. Why, you must have picked every remaining flower.”

“I didn’t leave very many, but these strawflowers come back every year. There’ll be more in the spring. I’ll pick you more then.”

His guileless words pierced Summer’s heart. She wouldn’t be here in the spring. Thomas would be back in school, and she would no longer be needed.

Mr. Ollenburger produced an empty canning jar from beneath the dry sink and splashed a dipperful of water into it. Thomas placed the flowers in it, and Summer put the jar in the middle of the table. Blooms spilled over on all sides into a haphazard display of color.

As they stood admiring the bouquet, the middle bedroom door opened and the grandmother emerged, leaning heavily on her cane. She spotted the flowers and a smile broke across her face. She hobbled to the table to cup a drooping bloom with her bent fingers, turning her smile on Thomas.

“Die blumen sind fÜr mich?”

It was the first time the old woman had spoken in Summer’s presence. She looked at Thomas, who appeared shame-faced. He turned to Summer.

“Grandmother wonders if the flowers are for her.”

The boy seemed so concerned about hurting his grandmother’s feelings that Summer longed to smooth his cheek. She clutched her hands to her skirt. “Tell her they are for her. You can pick the remaining ones for me tomorrow morning for the graves.”

The boy turned to his grandmother and nodded, his hair flopping with the motion.
“Ja, blumen fÜ r sie.”

The old woman clucked, stroking the blooms with her crippled hand, her eyes sparkling. Summer did not regret the decision. She turned to see Mr. Ollenburger watching her with approval shining in his eyes. He shifted his gaze to his son.

“Thomas, your hands must be washed. Then the table must be set so we can eat.”

The boy rubbed his stomach as he moved toward the washbasin on the dry sink. “Oh good! I’m hungry!”

Mr. Ollenburger sent Summer a smile that said, “I told you so.” And Summer came very close to answering it with a smile of her own.

The next morning Mr. Ollenburger hitched up the oxen right after breakfast, as he had promised. Summer had donned her blue dress for the trip into town. It was the less dusty of her two remaining gowns. Her list included fabric—black muslin for two dresses. Her heart mourned; her attire may as well reflect it.

Mr. Ollenburger helped Summer into the wagon, his large hands retreating from her waist the moment her feet were secure. When she was seated, he handed her the jar of flowers Thomas had picked just minutes before. She cradled the jar with both hands, inhaling deeply of the wonderfully sweet scent that emanated from the blooms.

When he was aboard, he picked up a lap robe and draped it over her knees, his work-roughened hands careful to avoid contact with her skirts. He appeared coarse with his thick beard, shaggy hair, and simple work clothes, yet his behavior was always that of a gentleman. Summer appreciated his solicitousness.

In her reticule she carried the folded letter for Rodney’s parents. As the wagon rolled down the dusty road toward Gaeddert, she wondered if Horace and Nadine would respond. In all likelihood, they would not. Furious with their only child’s decision to leave, they had demanded Rodney at least leave Vincent with them so the boy could have a decent upbringing. How her heart had melted with relief when Rodney had declared they would all go. Now, however, guilt pricked her conscience. Had they left Vincent behind, he would still be alive. Horace and Nadine had lost their whole family, too, the day Rodney and Summer left Boston.

“
Frau
Steadman?”

She gave a little jump. Mr. Ollenburger pointed, and she twisted her head. The familiar stand of cottonwoods waited, the row of graves nearby. He leaped over the side of the wagon, took the flowers, and helped her down.

She took the jar and moved toward the graves, her skirts stirring dust. The ash pile was much smaller than the last time she had been here. The endlessly blowing wind had scattered the remnants of her belongings across the landscape. Her heart clutched with the thought. So much of her was here now, on this prairie called Kansas.