A Mending at the Edge: A Novel (Change And Cherish)

by Jane Kirkpatrick

  “You don’t have your own door,” Kitty said.

  “Little foxes can spoil the wine. That’s what you said. But if small things can bring spoilage, then perhaps minor changes made each day can bring goodness to the wine too.”

  “I thought you were talking about doors,” Kitty said.

  “I’ll make day-by-day changes in my own life, so I won’t complicate another infant’s life in the way I have now tangled up…other lives.”

  Christine spoke further about the baby, Almira’s move, and her travel plans when that time came. She’d be gone for a time; she’d have to be. Almira’s departure would leave a gap in my days, as Christian’s and Matilda’s deaths had. As my sons’ leaving had. Christine was right: little things done daily could bring good changes. I’d been thinking of a bigger investment in change, having Christine’s baby to raise, but that was not to be. I sat listening to their words, thinking of brooms and making sweeps in front of my door. I had two doors to tend to. Family stood behind each.

  Let Us Get Together

  Running Squares. A piece from my own quilt made in honor of Christian.

  Blue fabric. My mother made a dress for me as a child using this material. She said the Germans discovered indigo blue, and we should be proud of our heritage. My mother brought it with her. I’m glad I have the fabric swatch at least, a fine reminder of the gift. It’s not enough to wrap my string of pearls in, though. Just a swatch.

  Calico with blue flowers and yellow centers. Matilda’s baby clothes. The swatch makes me think of Matilda’s quilt with the vibrant sun colors. With leftover material I made a sleeping dress for Christine’s baby. Maybe I should call it Almira’s baby in case someone should ever see this fabric diary.

  Christine planned to leave with Almira within the week. We talked of how we’d explain her absence and Almira’s too. “I’m mostly concerned about our parents,” Christine said. “They’ll be so disappointed in me if they know the truth, if they learn of what I’ve done. I’m not sure they’d forgive me.”

  Knowing my family, there might be strain. I was living evidence that something could strain and there could still be stretch in the tension. Christine’s leaving could trouble my parents, unless we created some story that would make it understandable to them and even to the Keil household. She wouldn’t be working there anymore.

  Then there was the father. I couldn’t help but wonder who he was, and I found myself picturing any number of men who’d find Christine’s company acceptable. But for all I knew, the father didn’t even live in the colony now. The bachelors came and went. I hoped that her earlier plan to travel toward Portland hadn’t been based on some string of interest in him she still clutched.

  Kitty had a few pennies saved from her potato harvest last fall. Christine, too, had resources from her savings from before she came to Aurora. We sewed a wardrobe for the baby, but in an effort to keep the secret, put the cloth aside whenever Louisa or Helena or BW or my own mother attended our house church. We considered offering ourselves to area farms to help with spring plantings for pay to accumulate the last that we’d need. But then Almira’s children sent money for the stage and fare for the ship that would take them on the Columbia River to the Clatsop Plains.

  “I had peacefulness about the final fare the last time I walked the puzzle path,” Almira said. “I knew what we needed would be provided.” She purchased the tickets to take them north. She was going back stronger and with a purpose, to raise another child well.

  The day of their departure, my daughters were at school. I thought of letting them come with us to say good-bye, but they’d said those words the night before, and I didn’t want them to miss any of their studies.

  I held Almira in my arms, then stepped back to take her hands in mine. I felt the stiffness of her knuckles. Martin’s creams had helped her, but not as much as I had hoped. “You have a safe journey now. Write when you can. Be sure to tell us about Christine. Maybe send a telegram and say ‘Strudel’ for a girl and ‘Kartoffel’ for a boy.” She nodded, hugged Kitty. I gave Almira a traveling desk that I’d built, using the same lumber that I’d had to make the curlicue addition to the porch supports. The inside was lined with the fabric that we’d pieced together to back Matilda’s Sunflower quilt. “Small pieces of fabric to help remind you of your time here,” I told her.

  “It’s been good time, Emma,” Almira said. “I’ve watched how you dealt with your sadness over your sons by finding ways to give to others. Your generosity to me, I can never repay you. I’ll remember the Diamond Rule. You are the sparkle in that rule.” I started to protest, but she silenced me with her finger to my lips. Her finger felt warm and tender. “I know. The rule grows from your beliefs. But still, you live the rule. I see it. I’ll remember.”

  For Christine, I’d sewn a wrapper from the yardage Karl had given me. I put tucks across the bodice and made it look somewhat opulent, with special stitches and a few tiny beads I’d put on the ledger book account at the Keil and Company Store. Those who might notice these two women would decide the larger of the two had gotten that way by overeating, indulging in life’s riches, rather than harboring a child beneath the folds.

  “You’ll visit our parents?” Christine asked as we loaded her bag onto the stage. “Tell them I’m helping Almira. They’ll understand that, won’t they?”

  “It’s the perfect story,” I said. “And not a lie either. In a few months’ time you can return and no one will be the wiser.”

  “Helena won’t like that explanation, I suppose,” Christine said. “Or Louisa either.”

  “Let me worry about them,” I said. “You get to the Clatsop Plains before that baby arrives.” The last I whispered, so that the other riders on the stage couldn’t hear, and neither could the driver.

  “You’ve been a good sister to me, Emma,” Almira told me. “I was a washbucket of nerves when I met you, not worth the soap it took to clean me up.”

  “You were never so worthless.” I laughed.

  “Yes I was. I slept and took and didn’t give much back at all for months.”

  “I had room and resources, thanks to the colony.”

  “Thanks to your faithfulness too,” she said. “I could restore my own.” She straightened her hat; a flourish of Clara’s blue feathers clutched the top and side of her head, making her look stylish and festive. Her skin glowed pink with the flush of a new adventure. If her husband saw her like this, vibrant and alive, he might well wish her back in his life, if not his bed.

  “You be careful now,” I said. “Don’t do anything rash when you see him.”

  She blushed. “What makes you think I’ll see him?”

  “Oh, they always show up. I’ve never understood why people think a divorce will separate one from a difficult relationship; it just changes the circumstances under which those conflicts appear.”

  Almira grimaced, and I realized my thoughtlessness. “I didn’t mean…I shouldn’t have said that, Almira. I’m sorry. I know you didn’t want to take that route. I only meant that men—”

  “I know what you meant,” she said. “It’s a sign of my grit that I can hear that and not wither away with the words. Especially because what you say is right. He is the father of my children, and I loved him many years. That’s the truth. And so is how that truth could be shattered, and everything I’d once loved vanish.” Christian came immediately into my head…followed by Jack. There’d be another encounter with Jack, I was sure of that. “When I do see my husband,” Almira continued, “I’ll remember that I don’t have to endure any of the humiliation he might bring. I can look for the small, good things that time might have allowed into our changed lives. And if there are none, then he can’t humiliate me unless I allow it. And I won’t.”

  Christine let out a rush of air, and I turned to her. “Are you all right?”

  “I just need to get off my feet,” she said. “They’ve swollen to the size of spittoons. If I don’t sit down soon, I’ll have to make a
nother trip to the privy.”

  Almira stepped up into the stage, then turned to take Christine’s hand. I pushed from behind. She truly had become a very large woman. She settled onto the smooth seat with a heavy hushed sound of the material swishing on leather. The scent of lavender rose up from the sachet pouch Christine wore. Almira squeezed in beside her. There were three passengers crowded together on the opposite side. Christine stared at them. She looked back at me with a grimace of someone who’d watched a snake crawl across her foot and was too frightened to shout. “It’ll be all right,” I told her. “It will.”

  “Let us go a May-ing, let us go a May-ing, one and all a joyous time,” Kitty began. She sang the round from behind me. Christine laughed then and let out a long sigh. Almira patted her hand. No one sang the second stanza.

  I hoped the jolting of the stage wouldn’t create an adventure for those passengers or, worse, cause complications for Christine. At least Almira had birthed babies in her life—nine in thirteen years—so she’d know what to do. Christine was in good hands, and so was Almira. Kitty and I stepped back.

  The driver closed the stage door. He pulled himself up onto the seat, lifted the lines of reins for the six-horse team, clicked his tongue at the animals, and off they went.

  I might never see Almira again, but she was a part of who I’d become. Christine was family, fostered into the Wagner clan, and I was certain she’d return; but Almira was family too. Family had enlarged to include those I’d served. I added it to my gratitude list as the stage rattled across the bridge, taking them to their new lives.

  Summer came on fluffy white clouds whose shadows played hide-and-seek with the fields. There were the usual changes in the months that followed. Keil agreed to a few more marriages but prevented others, and no one seemed to know why. He moved his workroom to the top floor of the gross Haus, sending the bachelors to bunk more closely together on the far side. In his workroom, he composed music along with several other colony men. A demand for traveling trunks increased, and furniture and workshops were built to accommodate the interest. We women painted them our colony blue, the color of the summer sky. The turners formed spool beds on a lathe, and people as far away as Seattle and San Francisco heard of our work and placed orders. Jacob Miller’s turned work on the church attracted attention each time we entered, and there was talk of building another Keil house for Frederick and Louisa, with Jacob doing the railings and the pillars.

  After Almira and Christine left, I took it upon myself to visit my parents daily. At first it was to tell them that Christine had traveled with Almira, that she wanted to see more of the territory and so had gone along.

  “I’m surprised the Keils would let her go like that,” my mother said. Jonathan was having breakfast there, and I realized that though he lived in a small house on his own, he must spend a fair amount of time with our parents. He had dirt under his fingernails, so he’d also been farming, a task added to his ledger keeping.

  “She’s an adult,” my father noted. “Guess he can’t tell adults much what to do. Unless they let him.” I took that to be a swipe at my allowing Martin to raise my sons, but I didn’t say so.

  “Now, Father,” Jonathan chastised. “Keil’s mellowed. You ought to give the man another chance, truly.”

  “I don’t despise the man at all,” my father said. “I like being in charge of my own destiny. But this place has become more an economic community than a religious one. Saddens me.”

  “Me too,” I said. “There are many in need of the Lord’s love expressed through communal ways. Ways that Christian believed in, and you.”

  My father grunted his pleasure.

  “I hope Christine comes back soon,” my sister Louisa said. “She always brought candies from the Keils’ house.”

  “I happen to have some peppermint sticks,” I said. “Would you like one?”

  She did, and that became my opening each time I stopped. It was a small act that brightened their day and mine too. Sometimes Kate and Ida were with me, and once Andy delivered a cone of medicine to my youngest brother, William, while I was there. With all the people around, I hoped no one would notice my awkwardness in my son’s presence. He was old beyond his years, my son, and chattered easily with my father about world affairs and local politics. He tipped his cap at me when he left and said, “Mother.”

  I don’t know why the gesture brought tears to my eyes, but it did. Maybe with more time, we’d find a path, or perhaps form a new one, one like Almira’s puzzle path, which required no decisions about right or wrong ways, just the courage to enter in.

  Helena and Louisa weren’t quite so forgiving of Christine’s departure. I invited them to the house church especially, offering dry plate cakes. They had to be served hot to stay crisp. While they brushed sugar from their faces, I told them that Almira had left and Christine had gone along to assist for a time.

  “Who told her she could leave without letting anyone know?” Helena said. Then, more kindly she added, “She has a lovely voice, and I thought she added much to the choir.”

  “She told me,” I said. “And it was time for Almira to go back. She felt that she should take care of old things, and Christine agreed to help her.”

  Louisa harrumphed. “Christine ate enough for two while she was here those last months. Honestly, she blew up like a mushroom. Took more than her share at the grain distribution. That’s what my dear Wilhelm said, though I don’t know how he’d know for certain. He didn’t attend the distributions.”

  “She baked for the colony,” Martha Miller said. She’d joined us, and though she didn’t know the details, she had a conciliatory way about her. She was neutral. Probably why the elections were always held at her father’s home. “So it might not have been that she ate it all.”

  “Maybe her time away will help her put things into better proportions,” I said.

  “Just as well that Almira’s gone,” Helena said. “I never liked those paths she had. It’s like something from the druids, walking in certain ways through the woods like that.” She shivered.

  “It’s simply a way of praying,” I said. “Didn’t you pray as you walked across the plains?”

  “We came around the Horn,” Helena corrected.

  “Ach, ja. I forgot. But didn’t you walk about the ship and pray? I find it restful. Almira and the girls do too, to walk those paths.”

  “Prayers aren’t supposed to be restful,” Helena said. “They’re supposed to humble us and make us think about the errors of our ways.”

  “‘I think myself happy.’ The apostle Paul wrote that. Surely one result of a prayer ought to be happiness and hope. Isn’t hope the whole message of our faith?”

  Helena whisked her hand at me as she said, “Ach, sometimes I don’t know where you get your ideas from, Emma. No wonder Wilhelm didn’t want the boys exposed so much to your thinking.”

  After all this time, her words still stung.

  I took a deep breath, offered her another cake. “Fortunately I had early years with them, and isn’t there another scripture that says if you raise your children up in the ways that they shall go, when they are older they will not depart from them?”

  “Ja, it may be too late.”

  “Or just enough time,” I said.

  I could hope.

  Christian arrived at our door one morning a few days after. “I’m running errands for the telegraph,” he told me proudly. I invited him in for breakfast. The girls were both up and dressed and welcomed him like a lost relative. Well, I suppose in a way, that’s what he was. He scooped up the cornmeal pancakes, added molasses and dried berries, and said, “’Member when I ground the corn for you, Mama?” I said that I did, and any time he wanted to come back and do that, he sure could. He beamed. “Do you still keep the water bucket cool in the root cellar?” he asked but didn’t wait for my answer. “This water tastes better than at Martin’s and Brother Keil’s houses. Oh, here’s the telegram,” he said, pulling it from his shirt.
He patted Po, whose tail pounded on the floor beneath the table.

  “I have a telegram? And you just now gave it to me?”

  “I was hungry,” he defended.

  I read it. “It’s from Almira,” I said. “Remember her?” Christian still scratched at Po’s head, shook the dog’s ears, and nodded yes that he did. “I remember Opal too,” he said. “Is she tied up out there?”

  “She’s in a pen,” Kate said. “We lent her out until Jacob got his own goat. But she has to stay tied now, or she’d come right inside here and eat everything on the table, dirty knees and all. She came upstairs once.”

  “In my room?” Christian asked.

  “Po chased her out. He grabs at her ears,” Kate said. “And we have to watch him with Clara too.”

  “She stayed with us,” Ida said, bringing us back to the telegram. “Almira did. She’s family, ja, Mama?”

  I nodded, then read to myself.

  “What’s it say, Mama?” Kate asked.

  “It’s about food,” Christian said.

  “You read it?” Kate said. “That’s not nice, is it, Mama?”

  “It’s nice that Christian can read, but you ought not to read other people’s private words,” I told him.

  “Not many words to worry over,” Christian said.

  “That’s not really your place to decide,” I said. “Kate’s correct. If you want to keep your job as a telegraph man, you’ll have to keep the words they give you very private.”

  “Strudel and Kartoffel. That’s all I remember, Mama. I won’t say it to anyone else, except when I want to eat it.” He grinned.

  In August, Barbara Giesy, my mother-in-law and widow of Andreas, passed away. She was old by the standards of so many women. She would have reached seventy-four in December. It spoke to the good care she’d had all her life, despite the hard work she was asked to perform. In her later years, Helena had tended her, as had her daughter-in-law BW. Andy acted as a pallbearer, and the band played the funeral dirge that Keil had composed for his Willie those many years before. The large bell began the funeral procession from John’s house, and then the next size bell, and then the smallest, the tolling going on until the casket reached the church. The bells pealed again when we headed toward the cemetery where she would be buried. I decided that day, as I stood off to the edge of the gravestones, that when I died I wanted to be buried here too, but not near the Giesy plot. Somewhere off to the side. Somewhere at the edge. Maybe with my daughters’ families. That’s where I belonged.