Waiting for Summer's Return (9 page)

9

T
HE WOMAN SAT SO
quietly on the seat as they traveled toward his home, Peter wondered if she’d fallen asleep. But when they passed the graves of her family, she suddenly straightened and looked toward the stones.

“Would you like to stop again?” he asked, sensing her desire.

“Can you spare the time?”

Although he had things to do at home, the stark longing in her voice made him decide to take the time. “Whoa.” The oxen came to a halt, stamping the ground and nodding their heads at this interruption. He helped her down, then leaned his back against the wagon to wait for her.

But she peered up at him. “Would … would it be too much to ask for you to come to the graves, too?”

Visiting the gravesite of a loved one was a private matter. Why would she want his intrusion?

“I could use a friend right now.”

Ah … the treatment in town had left her feeling alone. Staring at those graves would heighten the feeling. He nodded that he would join her, took her elbow, and guided her across the dry grass. As they passed the ash pile, her gaze drifted over the sooty mess. She sighed, and he remembered her comment that ashes cannot be put back together again. For a moment he wished it were possible.

She crouched before the jar of flowers. Her skirt and coat became dust-laden as they swished the g round. She reached out and rearranged a few drooping blossoms, her slender hands appearing to weave the stems together, the movements of her fingers as graceful as a dance. Then she rose to stand beside the graves, her hands clasped in front of her, her scarf waving beneath her chin in the breeze.

Such a dismal picture she created as she stood, unmoving, beneath a cloudless sky, the sun glinting off her dark hair. Her shadow slanted across the two smallest graves, his own shadow appearing to bolster hers. That seemed appropriate, and he shifted forward to bring his shadow closer to hers. From the cottonwoods, a turtledove called, its mournful cry a fitting song for this setting.

He looked at her bent head, wondering why she avoided the grave of her husband. The husband was even buried slightly apart from the children, as if she tried to keep him away.

Suddenly she broke the stillness. “Am I doing the right thing, Mr. Ollenburger?”

“I … I do not know of what you ask.”

She turned to face him. “Remaining in Gaeddert. Is it wrong of me to do so?”

Peter shrugged, his pulse pounding in his ears. “What makes you ask this?”

Her chin quivered and she set her jaw, stopping the trembling. “I don’t wish to create problems for you, but … In town … some women …” She shook her head. “If my being here will cause strife, perhaps I should move on.”

She stood close enough for him to touch, yet his hands remained in his pockets. “Strife.” He pondered the word. “Do you speak of trouble?”

She nodded, her eyes meeting his. “Should I leave?”

“Where would you go?”

Her pained expression told him she did not know the answer.

“Have you prayed about what is best?”

She quickly spun away from him. “I don’t pray anymore.” The uncertain tone had turned harsh.

“I think maybe again you should.”

He could see her dark eyes spark with anger as she whispered, “My prayers go unanswered.”

“No prayers go unanswered.”

She threw her right hand out toward the graves. “If all prayers are answered, then why am I standing here beside graves instead of beside living, breathing children?”

“The answer was no.” He watched her face harden all the more. Before she could speak, he went on. “
Frau
Steadman, the God I love and serve hears all prayers. He answers all prayers. Sometimes it is yes. Sometimes it is wait awhile. Sometimes it is no. He knows best.”

“
This
is best for me?” Her voice became shrill and loud. The turtledove’s song ceased as she railed at him. “How can watching my children die one by one be what’s best for me?”

Peter struggled to find an answer. “I know it is difficult to understand. Maybe … maybe it is what was best for them.” He, too, pointed to the graves. “They are now walking the streets of heaven. Their bodies are whole and strong. Their hearts are filled with joy.”

“While my heart is empty.”

From the trees, the dove began its hesitant song once more. Peter stepped forward, and the urge to touch her shoulder in a comforting manner was strong.

“
Frau
Steadman, I would like to speak to you as a friend. Will you listen?”

Though she held her shoulders stiff, she gave a little nod.

He offered a silent prayer for guidance before speaking. “For long weeks after my Elsa died, I questioned God, just as you are doing now. Why? Why did this woman who wanted so much to see America’s soil and see her little boy grow up under America’s freedoms have to die? Such a good woman she was. She deserved to see her dreams come true. Like you, I prayed very hard for my Elsa to be spared of the sickness. The day she was lowered into the sea was a day I want to forget.”

The woman turned to look up at him. “Do you now know why she was allowed to die?”

Peter pressed his lips together as he sought the best way to answer her question. “I cannot know for sure, although I know I will understand all on the day I leave this earth and go to be in heaven with my Maker. All questions will find answers then. For now, though, I think many changes happened for me with Elsa’s passing.”

He swallowed. “Before Elsa died, I was a poor father. I allowed Elsa to care for Thomas while I only worked. I felt I had much to prove, and by being the hardest worker, I could find favor. But when she was gone, Thomas depended only on me. A bond was forged that is very strong. Being close with Thomas …” He smiled. “It is a good thing.”

He shifted his feet, finding it harder to divulge these things than he had imagined. “Before Elsa died, I was not a man of strong faith. I go to church with my family, I say the mealtime prayers, but here, inside of me”—he touched his chest—“I do not feel the presence of the Lord. Then … Elsa is gone. I cannot rely on her. I had Thomas to look after, and Elsa’s grandmother, who also mourned. I must be strong for them. I learned to lean on my heavenly Father for strength and wisdom to face the days. A bond with the Father was forged. This helped me be a better earthly father for Thomas, too. I could not make it through the days without God.”

The woman turned her back once more as she appeared to struggle with what he had said. He knew she was lonely—she needed someone on whom to depend. His heart swelled with the hope she would seek God to fill that longing.

“You ask me if you should move on. I cannot answer that for you, but I can tell you this. While Thomas was home and healing, I prayed for a way for him to get his schooling. He is a bright boy who deserves good education. So I prayed.”
Frau
Steadman slowly raised her chin to look at him, her expression wistful. “And then I heard of you staying in the hotel, and I heard you might be a woman of learning. So I think, maybe this is my answer. I will ask this woman to teach my Thomas. And you say you will come. You are an answer to prayer for me.” He followed his earlier instincts and reached out to touch her shoulder, his fingers barely grazing her coat. “Though I am sorry for the circumstances that make you able to teach my son, I am thankful you are here.”

She stared at him silently for several moments before turning back to face the graves. His hand fell away from her shoulder.

“I want to stay in Gaeddert,” she said. “I don’t want to leave them.”

Relief swept over him. “Then we will pray.”

“You can pray. I’ll remain with you until Thomas is ready to return to school. Maybe by then I will know what to do next.” After one last lingering look at the graves, she turned toward the wagon. “I’m ready to go now.”

Peter followed her to the wagon and lifted her up. As he moved to walk around the back of the wagon, he heard another team approaching. He shielded his eyes from the sun and looked down the road. His heart skipped a beat. Coming toward them was the husband of
Frau
Schmidt.

The
thud-thud
of horse hooves and the creak of wagon wheels captured Summer’s attention. She twisted backward on the wagon seat to look down the road. A two-seat buggy rolled toward them, pulled by a single horse. She didn’t recognize the driver—a man with a gray-streaked beard and dressed in the austere garb of a minister. Mr. Ollenburger remained at the tail of his wagon as the driver approached. A change in his bearing—a sudden straightening of his shoulders, a quick intake of breath—caused the fine hair on the back of her neck to prickle.

Summer squinted against the sun, her heart racing although she didn’t understand why. Mr. Ollenburger removed his hat and held it in front of him. She couldn’t see his hands, although she suspected he was twisting the plaid wool cap into a pretzel.

The other man brought his buggy to a halt behind the Ollenburger wagon, set the brake, and glared down at Mr. Ollenburger. He said something in German in a deep, accusing voice. Mr. Ollenburger answered, also using the German tongue, but he sounded as gentle as always.

The man on the buggy tugged his flat-brimmed black hat lower on his forehead. The scowl lines around his deep-set eyes became more pronounced as he harangued Mr. Ollenburger in rapid German. He jerked his chin in Summer’s direction, and she instinctively shrank against the seat. Mr. Ollenburger flicked a glance toward her, frowned, and then took a step closer to the buggy, giving a lowtoned response.

Summer’s pulse increased as the men leaned toward each other, the conversation lively, both voices rising as if trying to out-do the other. The words flew back and forth so rapidly she would have had difficulty following even if they spoke in English.

Suddenly the man in the buggy reared back, his chin high, and grated out a stern question.

When Mr. Ollenburger answered
nein,
the man spoke again with angry tones, gesturing with one hand. His horse danced nervously, and Mr. Ollenburger reached out to stroke the animal’s nose, bringing it back under control. He then stepped closer to the buggy and spoke earnestly in a soothing tone, his hand curled over the edge of the buggy seat. But the man in the buggy uttered another harsh statement and yanked the reins, forcing the horse to make a sharp turn. Summer gasped as Mr. Ollenburger jumped back to avoid being struck by the buggy.

Mr. Ollenburger remained in the road until the buggy and its driver rounded the curve, disappearing from sight. His shoulders wilted momentarily, then he squared them. Placing the hat on his head, he strode to the wagon and heaved himself onto the seat.

“Well, now we go home. Giddap!”

The bright note in his voice didn’t fool her. The tightness of his lips betrayed his inner conflict. “Is everything all right?” Her voice quavered.

A chuckle sounded, but it lacked his usual enthusiasm. “
Ach,
that Schmidt. He
hellt fal fonn en kortet jebad onn ne lange wurst
.”

Summer stared at him silently.

His expression turned repentant. “I apologize,
Frau
Steadman. I spoke an insult about the man. I say he thinks highly of short prayers and long sausages.” He released a huff, his lips twitching into a lopsided grin. “An excitable man he is. So many problems with the hog butchering.”

“Hog butchering?”

Mr. Ollenburger gave a firm nod. “
Ja
. It was to be at my home. Now …” He shrugged, his cheeks mottling with pink. “Now I am not so sure.”

Her heart thudded against her ribs. It was because of her. She hadn’t understood a word that was said between the men, but she knew the exchange had been made because of her.

“Mr. Ollenburger—”

“I have been wanting to ask you about schools.” He kept his stare straight ahead. “My Thomas should have every opportunity for education. Can you tell me about higher education?”

She blinked twice, looking at his profile, then shook her head. Nothing ruffled this man. She envied his calm acceptance. If he was willing to set aside the angry exchange, she supposed she should be, too. She spent the remainder of their drive answering his questions about high schools and colleges—anticipated expense, types of courses offered, and requirements for entry. When they pulled into the yard, he set the brake then turned a serious expression in her direction. “And all of these school of which you speak … they are in the East?”

Summer nodded.

He heaved a sigh, his gaze somewhere past her shoulder. “Far from here.” Then he straightened and gave her a bright smile. “My Thomas deserves the best, so if the best is in the East … well, then, I think he will get to do some traveling.” He swung down from the seat and reached for her. “Come now,
Frau
Steadman. My boy will not be ready for these schools unless he is caught up on his studies. You go now and make him work hard.”

Summer stood on the stoop and watched Mr. Ollenburger turn the oxen toward the shack to deliver her purchases. She noticed a slight droop in his shoulders, and sadness descended on her. Although college was years away, the man obviously already mourned the separation from his son.

10

S
UMMER STEPPED THROUGH
the front door and came to an abrupt halt. Her heart leaped into her throat.

On the floor, backlit by a shaft of sunlight streaming through the window, a boy kneeled, meticulously arranging a stack of wooden blocks into a tall tower.
Tod?
A rush of joy filled her. But then the boy turned his head, bringing his features into view. No, not Tod. Thomas. Tod was dead. A fresh wave of sorrow washed over her. Never again would she see her son building with blocks or playing with his soldiers.

“Hello, Mrs. Steadman. Did you get all the things on your list?”

“What?” She shook her head, clearing the images of her son. “Oh, my list … Yes, I was able to get most items.” She forced her sluggish feet to move forward. “I see you’re building.” Bending down, she picked up a block. It was rough, obviously homemade, nothing like the fine painted set with pictures of animals and alphabet letters her children had owned.

“
Ja,
I like to build.” The boy grinned, his hair falling across his eyes. “Maybe someday I’ll build a mill even bigger than Pa’s windmill.”

“That’s a fine aspiration.” What might Tod have built if he had been given the chance to grow into maturity? Without thinking, she reached out in a tender gesture and brushed the heavy bangs away from the boy’s eyebrows. She heard a gasp, and only then did she notice the grandmother erect in her chair, observing the two of them.

Realizing what she had just done, she jerked her hand back and pressed it to her hip, rising clumsily. She sent another quick glance in the old woman’s direction, and the sharp scrutiny caused a lump to form in her throat. She turned back to Thomas. “But to learn all the tools of architecture, one must know mathematics. So come. Let’s get to your schoolwork, shall we?”

The boy gave a halfhearted nod and scooped the blocks into a crate. He reached to lift the box.

“No, you’ll hurt yourself.” The maternal care that filled Summer’s breast surprised her. She picked up the box and carried it to his room, and then she retrieved his books from the shelf. When she returned to the kitchen, she found the boy waiting at the table.

Summer battled her emotions as she seated herself across the table. Spending time with Thomas increased her aching desire to spend time with her own children. Her fingers still tingled from the contact with his hair. She would not be able to touch this child without paying an emotional price. Or, apparently, upsetting the grandmother.

Thomas and she spent the next two hours on studies. Thomas fidgeted, but he followed every directive given. It was a relief when the supper hour came and she could move away from the table, away from the boy, away from the memories of working with Vincent. She put Thomas’s books back on the shelf and reached for her coat.

“Mrs. Steadman, aren’t you going to eat supper? Pa rolled
kjielkje
last night for our supper.”

Summer paused at the door. “Your father rolled … what?”

“Kjielkje.”

“Kee-ilk-yah.” She wrinkled her nose. “Is that some sort of fish?”

“Fish? No, fish is
fesch
. Why would Pa roll fish?” Thomas seemed to think this was a good joke. He chuckled in a way that reminded Summer of his father.

Despite her earlier despondence, his merriment created a lightness in her chest. She found herself teasing, “Well, does one not roll fish in cornmeal before frying?”

The boy shrugged, his face still holding a wide grin. “
Ja,
that does sound good.” He rubbed his stomach. “You’re making me feel hungry. Would you like to learn a German poem called
Mie Hungat
?”

Summer took a step back toward the center of the room. Thomas’s twinkling eyes enticed her to join in his fun. “All right, Thomas. Teach it to me.”

The grandmother’s eyes sparkled as the boy assumed a pained pose—hands on stomach with back hunched.
“Mie hungat, mie schlungat.”
He straightened and rubbed both hands up and down on the bib of his overalls as he announced,
“Mie schlackat de buck.”
Throwing his hands outward and raising his eyebrows, he cried,
“Faudikje! Muttekje! Kome sei fluck!”

Summer hid her smile behind her fingers. “Very dramatic, Thomas. Now, what did you say?”

With a smirk, Thomas recited, “I’m hungry, I’m hungry, my belly is shaking. Papa, Mama! Come quick!”

Summer shook her head. “Well, I confess, it’s much more poetic in German. In English it doesn’t even rhyme.”

“I guess that’s why it’s a German poem and not an English one.” He went to stand beside the grandmother’s chair. “You have to stay and have
kjielkje
.”

The grandmother nodded, as if confirming Thomas’s words.
“Kjielkje,”
she said in her wavery voice, smiling in apparent satisfaction as she took Thomas’s hand.

Summer looked in surprise at the old woman. Had she just spoken to Summer? Yes, it seemed she had. But what had she meant? Only that
kjielkje
was planned for supper or that Summer should join them?

“Pa will be cooking them with potatoes and fried onions. I bet you’ve never had it before.” Thomas’s tone held a clear desire for her to stay.

Summer still had no idea what the dish was, so she was fairly certain she hadn’t had it. She knew it would please the boy if she agreed. Yet she hesitated. Although she had enjoyed the playful moments with Thomas, she had a strong desire to be alone. And, unlike the poem Thomas had just recited, she was not hungry. Her belly was shaking, but not from hunger. From sadness. She knew food would not make the empty feeling go away. Sitting at the table with Thomas and his father and grandmother right now—remembering how it had felt to sit together with her family—would be too hard.

Her gaze fell to the joined hands—one young and wide and smooth, one old and thin and wrinkled—and the realization that she did not belong here swept over her. “I’m sorry, but I must return to the
shariah
. I still have my purchases to put away.”

The boy’s face drooped. “May I bring you a plate of food later? And see what you bought?”

“You want to see what I bought?”

“Yes, ma’am. I haven’t been to town, except church on Sundays, since I fell out of the tree. Please?”

Summer could not deny this simple request when he looked at her with hopeful blue eyes. “That would be fine. You bring me some … kee-ilk-yah.” Tipping her head and lowering her brows, she added, “Are you sure this is something edible?”

Another laugh burst from the boy. The grandmother tugged his hand, and he spoke to her in German. The old woman released a chuckle, then said something in response, shaking her head at Summer.

“Grandmother says to tell you Pa’s
kjielkje
is much better than his bread.”

Was the woman now teasing with her? Summer sent a hesitant smile to the grandmother, and to her surprise the woman’s eyes softened. But she still kept her firm grip on Thomas’s hand.

Summer was beg inning to understand. The old woman had accepted her presence, but Summer must respect that there were boundaries. She looked at Thomas. “Very well, then.” She reached for the doorknob again. “I will entertain you later in the
shariah
. You bring a couple of tin cups, and we’ll have some tea together, also.” Then she paused, looking back. “Thomas, what does
shariah
mean?”

The boy raised his shoulders and answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “
Shariah
is shack.”

Shack. She sighed. She should have known.

“Boy, slow down. You will choke eating so fastly.”

Thomas paused, spoon full of fried potatoes and noodles hovering midway to his mouth. “
Fastly
isn’t a word.”

The reprimand reminded Peter of the one given by the woman. His neck grew hot, and he spoke more gruffly than he intended. “Now I get lessons from you? Whether or not it is a word, you know the meaning. Slow down.”

Grossmutter
raised her gaze from her bowl, sending Peter a look of disapproval.

Thomas frowned for a moment but resumed eating at a slower pace.

Peter gave
Grossmutter
a repentant look, and to his relief she nodded, accepting his silent apology. She went back to eating. He sought to appease his own conscience for snapping at the boy. “What for are you hurrying tonight? Did
Frau
Steadman give you homework to get to?”

Thomas shook his head, swallowing. “No, sir. But she said I could bring her a plate of food and we would have tea together in the
shariah
. I want to go before it’s dark.”

The heat in Peter’s neck increased. Tea together. She must have found the cup, then. Why had she not said anything to him? Could she feel offended that he bought her the cup? Or perhaps she misunderstood the reason for the simple gift?

He considered once more why he had purchased the teacup, examining himself for hidden motives. Was he seeking to win her favor? No, he did not believe so. His concern for the woman increased as they became better acquainted—her deep pain and feelings of loneliness affected him more each time he spoke with her. Although most people would look at his size and assume he was a tough man inside and out, his heart was tender. It pained him to see her distress, and he wanted to ease it, if he could. The gift, while impulsive, might remind her of the pretty things she had no doubt possessed in her previous home. He hoped it might comfort her.

“Pa, I’m done.” Thomas held up his empty plate. “May I take a plate to Mrs. Steadman now?”

Peter rose. “Yes. Heap it well with
kjielkje
. I will walk over with you to check her woodbox.”

Grossmutter
watched closely as Thomas filled a crockery bowl with the fried noodles, potatoes, and onions. When he turned from the pot, she instructed him to cover it with a piece of toweling. Thomas nodded and obeyed. He also took two tin cups from the shelf. “She asked me to bring cups for tea.”

If she had asked for cups, she had not yet discovered she had one already. So she wasn’t avoiding him at suppertime because of the gift. Peter’s stomach unclenched. Turning to
Grossmutter,
he assured her he would return soon. At her nod, he opened the door and followed Thomas out.

At Peter’s knock on the
shariah’s
door, they heard her call, “Come in.”

Peter gestured for Thomas to enter, then he ducked through the tunnel. When he stepped into the room, his heart set up a patter. Seated on the bed, the woman waited, her expression welcoming. She had tugged the blanket chest to the end of the bed and set the lamp and her teacup on it, creating a table. On the other side of the chest stood the small box he had left as a bedside table. This was obviously meant to be Thomas’s chair as the two enjoyed tea together. The teakettle whistled softly from its spot on top of the tinners’ stove. Peter felt like an intruder, and the feeling was reinforced when she leaped to her feet, her expression changing to surprise.

“Oh! Mr. Ollenburger, I didn’t … I thought …” Her cheeks flooded with color, and she covered them with slim, trembling hands. Then she seemed to gain control of herself as she dropped her hands, straightened her shoulders, and tipped her chin into a proud angle. “Please forgive me. I did not prepare for two guests, but Thomas and I can sit on the bed here, and you may use the crate.”

Peter snatched off his hat, shaking his head. “No,
Frau
Steadman. I only came to see that your woodbox was well filled. You and Thomas enjoy your tea as you planned.” He strode to the woodbox, peered inside, and gave a nod. “
Ja,
it needs filling. I will be back.” He headed for the door.

“Mr. Ollenburger?”

He stopped but did not turn around.

“Do I have you to thank for the teacup I found in my washtub?”

Slowly, he turned to peer at her across the short expanse separating them. Her dark eyes were wide, her cheeks wearing a becoming shade of pink. She cradled the cup in both slender hands. It took effort to force his head into a nod.

“Thank you. It’s very lovely. I—” She dropped her gaze for a moment, the golden highlights in her hair shining as the lantern light graced the side of her head. Then she raised her eyes, an expression of self-deprecation on her face. “It was kind of you to think of it and foolish of me to purchase a teakettle and no cups. It’s very difficult to drink directly from a kettle.”

Although she did not smile, her words seemed teasing, and Peter found himself sending her a quavering grin. “
Ja,
that would be messy, for sure.”

“I brought tin cups, like you said,” Thomas inserted.

She looked at him, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips. “Thank you for remembering.” She turned back to Peter. “So we have three cups, if you’d like a cup of tea.” Her cultured voice and her sweetly worded invitation seemed out of place in this dark, dank dwelling. Peter felt out of place, too.

He shook his head, holding up his hands—his big, callused, clumsy hands—and spoke with no small amount of regret. “I would only be a bumbler and create a mess of it.
Nein
. You two have your time. I will get that wood and leave you to talk.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turned and hurried out of the shack.

Under the dusky sky, he let his head drop back. He inhaled deeply of the evening air, clearing the tumbling thoughts that had assailed him as he’d stood looking at the woman. What odd feelings had kindled within him at the sight of her in the lantern’s glow, her graceful hands holding the fragile cup that did not fit in his
shariah
—or in his world.

Peter blew out his breath, creating a cloud that hovered around his beard briefly before disappearing. He spoke aloud as he moved toward the woodpile and began loading his arms. “
Lieber
Lord, I do not understand why the woman makes me feel so at once protecting and inadequate. How can I share your love with her when my tongue wants to turn into knots and refuses to spit out words?
Ach,
such a big stupid man I am. But you made me, and you love me, just as you love the woman. So somehow you find a way for me to make this all work out. Amen.”