Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  “Remain here, Frau Steadman. I check on Thomas and Grossmutter, and then I will take you to the shariah.” His long-legged stride carried him across the ground quickly. He disappeared inside the house while Summer shivered on the seat. In a few minutes the door swung open again and Mr. Ollenburger stepped out, followed by a smaller replica of himself.

  Summer noticed a shadowy figure, stooped over and leaning on a cane, hovering in the doorway. She assumed this was the grandmother of whom Mr. Ollenburger had spoken. She squinted into the waning light, attempting to see the woman’s face, but Mr. Ollenburger and the boy stopped beside the wagon, and his voice pulled her attention away from the older woman.

  “Frau Steadman, this is my son, Thomas. Thomas, say hello to Frau Steadman.”

  “Hello, Mrs. Steadman.”

  Summer’s lips trembled as she peered down at Thomas. Mr. Ollenburger had said the youngster was sturdy and dependable, bright and handsome. Just one look at him proved the father had spoken the truth. Thomas was as stocky as her Vincent had been slender, as blond as her son had been dark-haired. But in his eyes she saw the same light of intelligence that had brightened Vincent’s serious face. Oh, Vincent, I miss you, son! It isn’t fair that you’re gone and …

  The door clicked, and Summer glanced at the house. The woman had gone back inside without a word. How odd that the older woman had not greeted her the way the boy had.

  “I take Frau Steadman to the shariah.” Mr. Ollenburger placed a wide hand on the boy’s shoulder. “I must take the wagon so I can move out some barrels and boxes, or she will not have room to turn around in there.”

  Thomas’s face lit up. “May I help you, Pa?”

  “Nein, son. Doctor said no lifting yet.”

  The boy’s eagerness wilted. “Yes, sir.”

  “But would you fix Frau Steadman some bread with jam and bring it to the shariah?”

  “Yes, sir!” He spun toward the door.

  “Verlangsamen sie!”

  Mr. Ollenburger’s order resulted in Thomas slowing his pace. The big man heaved himself back onto the wagon seat as his son stepped onto the stoop.

  The boy waved. “I will bring that bread quickly, Pa.”

  “You do not run when you bring the bread.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you, Thomas.” Summer forced a smile while her heart cried. What a nice boy. What a good friend he would have been for my Vincent.

  With firm calls to “gee,” the oxen were coaxed into turning the wagon, and Summer waited until they were in motion before speaking again. “He seems to be a fine boy.” Her throat felt tight.

  “Oh, ja, a very fine boy. He should give you no trouble. But if he does, you tell me. I will deal with him.”

  “I’m sure we’ll get along well.”

  “He will be hard to hold down. Poor Grossmutter has had a time holding him down. It is good he will have something to fill his days, that he’ll be able to study again.” He angled his face sideways to look at her. “The boy is tired of the sitting still. But he must. The ribs must fully heal.”

  Summer recognized the warning tone. She nodded. Nothing would happen to this boy. The image of the old woman in the doorway flitted through her mind. “Mr. Ollenburger, your grandmother …”

  He released a heavy sigh. “Ja, Grossmutter … A blessing she has been to Thomas and me. And a blessing we have been to her, for sure. She has had much sickness in past years, and things have become hard for her. Her hands”—he held up one of his own hands, seeming to examine it with sorrow—“are much bent from … I think you call it arthritis, but she does what she can. She wishes to be useful still. The English language she cannot speak. When first we came, she refused to try. And now? I think she believes that saying of old dogs cannot learn new tricks.”

  He sighed again, and his tone took the quality of one speaking more to himself. “Not much does she speak even in our language anymore—not to me. She does speak yet to Thomas. He is her light….” Then he straightened, shooting her a quick glance. “Do not take offense if she does not speak to you.”

  Summer thought about spending the day inside that house with the old woman watching. Silently watching. She shivered again. “Are we almost to the shariah?”

  He pointed with a thick finger. “It is right there.”

  Summer saw, through the murky light, a triangular-shaped dwelling about fourteen feet across on its bottom and ten feet to its tip. It appeared to be only the roof of a house, with its walls swallowed by the ground.

  Mr. Ollenburger called, “Whoa,” and the oxen obediently halted. The man hopped down, his heavy boots thumping against the hard ground. “I will light a lantern and then take you in.” He strode to the unusual structure and ducked into what seemed to be a narrow tunnel attached to one side of the triangle. Moments later he reappeared, a lantern in his hand giving off a cheery yellow circle of light.

  He set the lantern on the ground beside the wagon, the yellow circle shrinking until it barely touched his feet. She placed her hands in his and allowed him to help her down. The moment her feet touched the hard ground, he released her to reach into the back of the wagon and retrieve her carpetbag. “Come.” He lifted the lantern and led her to the tunnel. “Watch your step, Frau Steadman. Only dirt makes the stairs. You could slip. I will cut some planks to make them safer for you tomorrow.”

  She realized as she stepped into the tunnel that the triangular building was like a wooden tent placed over a pit. He handed her the lantern and began shoving crates and barrels aside to make room in the center of the floor.

  She raised the lantern and looked around, her heart falling in dismay as she saw what she had chosen over the hotel room. Shariah certainly could not mean “house”—it must mean “hovel.” The entire dwelling was no more than twelve by fourteen feet—smaller than the parlor in her Boston home. Simple wood beams held up a slanted ceiling of wide planks that met at a peak in the center. Each end of the building was also constructed of planks standing up and down. Only the center part of the shelter was fully serviceable since the side walls were a scant three feet high. No windows existed in the little hut, and since the foundation was simply hard-packed dirt, it felt cool and smelled dank. Another shiver shook her frame.

  Mr. Ollenburger paused in his shifting of boxes to give her a worried look. “You are cold, Frau Steadman. A way to bring heat here for you I must find.” He scratched his chin. “When we moved into the house, we took the cookstove with us. But there is still a vent hole for a stovepipe, which I covered with a tin can pounded flat. This keeps the rain out. I will see what I can rig for you tomorrow. I must also fix a bed.”

  “I would appreciate a source of heat,” Summer inserted, “but you needn’t fix a bed. I have a bedstead in my wagon.”

  Mr. Ollenburger looked at her for several quiet seconds, pursing his lips, which caused his chin whiskers to splay forward. He cleared his throat. “Ja, well, tonight you must make a pallet on the floor—there are many blankets here.” He moved to a trunk in the corner, ducking to avoid hitting his head on the slanting ceiling. When he raised the lid, Summer saw a stack of thick woven blankets. He looked at her, an apology in his eyes. “It is not much….”

  He was right. It certainly was not much. But what else did she have to look forward to? She forced a light tone. “Remember, Mr. Ollenburger, I have spent many weeks in a wagon or a tent pitched outside. It is a treat to have a roof over my head again.”

  Her words must have been convincing, because his face relaxed into a smile. He moved to the center of the room, straightening his back and looking upward. “Ja, it is a roof. It is no masterpiece of carpentry, but it will shelter you.”

  She let her gaze drift around the small space. “When these boxes have been removed and my own belongings have been brought in, it will feel more like a home. I’ll be fine.”

  His brows came down into a worried scowl. He fiddled with his hat, his ears glowing bright pink. Something was clearly wr
ong. Just as she opened her mouth to question him, Thomas entered through the tunnel, a paper-wrapped package in his hands. He offered the package to Summer with a shy smile.

  “Here is your sandwich, Mrs. Steadman. Strawberry jam on wheat bread. Pa bought the bread from the restaurant in Gaeddert. If it was bread Pa made, you wouldn’t be able to eat it.”

  Peter gave his son a playful cuff on the back of his head, chuckling. “Ja, the boy is right, for sure. My baking is not so good, but you see we have not starved.” He clamped a hand on Thomas’s shoulder. “Remember, son, this is now Frau Steadman’s home. You must knock before you come in next time.”

  The boy nodded, sending Summer a sheepish look. “I’ll remember.”

  Peter strode to the door. “I will take out a few of these boxes to give you moving around room. The rest can wait until morning light. Thomas and I will leave you to your sandwich and bed.” He picked up the nearest box and stepped through the tunnel with it, Thomas on his heels.

  Summer sank down on a short barrel, placed the packet of bread with jam in her lap, and looked once more at the dismal little dwelling that was her new home.

  It would be bearable if only I weren’t alone. Why did they all have to die?

  Peter leaned over and placed a kiss on Thomas’s tousled hair. “Guten nacht. Schlop die ’zunt, son.”

  “You sleep well, too, Pa.” The boy pulled the covers to his chin.

  Peter left the door ajar so he could hear his son’s breathing. He crossed to the wooden table in the middle of the main room and sat down. Grasping the heel of his right boot, he worked the boot free, dropped it with a muffled thud against the braided rug beneath the table, then freed his left foot and dropped that boot with its mate. He wiggled his toes and leaned back in his chair, releasing a long sigh.

  The rough tabletop had been cleared of dishes but still wore a spattering of crumbs. Peter swept his hand across the surface, sending the crumbs to the floor. He looked toward the dry sink and spotted two tin plates and a mug—not enough to require a trip to the well for dishwater. It could wait until morning. There had been a time when crumbs on the table and dishes in the sink would not have been acceptable, but with Grossmutter’s advancing arthritis stealing her ability to do simple chores, the house sometimes reflected a lack of care. Peter did not much like this, but he did not have the time to do all the household chores as well as the outdoor duties. He hoped the woman would not find their crumbs offensive.

  A light snuffling sounded from Thomas’s room, followed by the deeper, more rumbling noise of the old woman’s snore. Peter smiled. The one time he had told Grossmutter she snored, her expression of indignation had convinced him he had better not mention it again. He did not mind the snoring. The sounds were comforting.

  Elsa always used to say if she heard him snoring, she knew he was near. It felt good to have the boy and the old woman near. His smile faded into a frown. The woman alone in the shariah must be finding it hard to sleep. No snores, no snuffles, no company at all. How long had it been before he’d slept straight through a night after Elsa’s passing? He could not remember now, although he was sure it had been weeks—well after the ship had delivered him and the boy to American soil.

  Peter yawned, stretching. Tomorrow would be a full day. His mind sorted through the tasks awaiting him with the rising of the sun. While the woman worked with Thomas, Peter must chop some saplings to build a rope bed on which the woman could sleep, haul all of the remaining boxes and barrels to the barn and store them in the loft so the woman had room, find a way to bring heat to the shelter so the woman would not freeze when the snows came, fix the steps so she would not fall … and sometime during the day he must take her to where her family had camped and show her she no longer had belongings.

  His chest ached with dread as he considered the last task.

  She had already lost so much. He rested his elbow on the table edge and propped up his chin, searching for words that might comfort her tomorrow when she discovered what had been done to her wagon and the things inside it. For sure, belong ings could be replaced. That was true, yet it seemed unkind to say so when belongings were all one had to call one’s own.

  “Lieber Lord im himmel,” he prayed aloud, slipping into his comfortable German dialect, “I ask that you be with me tomorrow when I must show poor Frau Steadman that all her things are gone. Prepare her heart to accept the loss. Help her understand why the burning was needed. Thank you that my Thomas has a teacher. Let my Thomas also teach her to love again, for only with the opening of one’s heart can joy be restored.” He yawned, his ears popping with the stretching of his jaw.

  “Ach, Father, I am a tired man. I must sleep now. Let the sleep bring me strength for what awaits me tomorrow. Amen.”

  4

  SHE’S AWFUL SKINNY, PA.”

  Peter looked at his son. “Skinny? What is this?”

  “You know—too thin. Skinny.”

  Peter nodded. “Ja.” He sat at the table, eating his breakfast of cornmeal mush. The early morning breeze slipped through the open front door. He liked the smell of morning in the house, but very soon they would need to keep the door closed to hold out the cold. Grossmutter held a shawl around her shoulders this morning. Maybe he should close the door now.

  “She doesn’t look very strong, either.” Across the table, Thomas scooped another bite and swallowed.

  Peter shrugged. “I do not know that a person must be muscled to have smartness.”

  Thomas gave a light laugh, one arm wrapped protectively across his middle. “No, I reckon not. Mr. Funk is pretty skinny, too, but he’s a good teacher.”

  “There you are.” Peter lowered his brows and pointed his spoon at Thomas. “You will give Frau Steadman the same respect you have always given your Mr. Funk. Just because you study at home is no reason to play.”

  “Oh, sure, Pa. I know.” The boy blinked in innocence.

  Grossmutter reached out with her gnarled hand and tapped Thomas’s wrist. She pointed to his bowl.

  Thomas sent her a smiling nod. “Ich esse, Grossmutter.” He ate two more bites, as he had promised, before turning to Peter. “She looks sad, too.”

  Peter set his spoon aside. He wondered how the woman had slept last night on the hard dirt floor of the shariah all alone. “Ja, she is sad.” And sadder she would soon be when she discovered she no longer had a wagon and things to call her own. “She has lost much, son. We must be patient while we wait for her to smile, ja?”

  Thomas looked across the table with a thoughtful expression on his youthful face. “Pa, how long did it take for you to not feel so sad about Ma dying?”

  Peter stroked his beard, considering Thomas’s question. This was one moment he was glad Grossmutter did not understand the English. “There are days, son, when the sadness still sits like a stone in my chest. Sadness comes sometimes when I look at you and think how proud she would be of you.”

  Thomas paused in his eating. His chin quivered. “Would she be proud of me, Pa?”

  “Ach, but yes,” he said, reaching across the table to tousle Thomas’s hair. “Who could not be proud of a boy like you? Even when he falls from trees!”

  Thomas grinned. “Oh, Pa.”

  Peter picked up his spoon. “Finish your breakfast, son. You will have studies to do and you will need a full belly for your brain to think.”

  “Excuse me.”

  Peter turned in his chair to see Frau Steadman in the doorway. He rose, his eyes involuntarily sweeping from her toes to her hair. She wore a different dress than the blue wool. This one was the same green as the leaves of the cedars that grew along the Cottonwood River. Like the blue one, it hung loosely. As Thomas had said, she looked skinny. But she had obviously made use of the well. Her face was shiny clean and her dark hair damp where it was swept back from her face. The circles under her eyes did not indicate a restful night for her.

  He smiled a greeting and held out his hand. “Please, Frau Steadman, come in. Sit down.
I will get a bowl for you for mush.”

  She entered the house, her focus touching first Thomas then Grossmutter before returning to him. “I honestly couldn’t eat a bite.”

  Peter did not want to argue with her, yet he could not allow her to starve to death on his property. “If mush does not appeal, I can go to the henhouse for an egg.”

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Peter clamped his jaw, worry and irritation mingling in his chest. She must eat, but he could not force her. Lieber Lord, what do I do? An idea struck, and a grin tugged at his cheek. Instead of addressing the woman, he turned to his son and shook his head with great sadness. “I am sorry, Thomas, but no lessons for you today.”

  “Pa?”

  “Disappointed I know you are, son, but I cannot allow Frau Steadman to teach you.”

  The woman moved forward one step, her skirts sweeping the floor. Her dark eyes snapped. “Why not?”

  “We agree—trade schooling for room and food. I cannot accept the schooling if you do not accept the payment. So …” He shrugged at Thomas. “No lessons today.”

  Thomas understood. While his eyes sparkled, he pushed his lips into a pout. “But I’m so far behind.”

  “You will have to study on your own, son.” Peter touched Thomas’s hair and brought forth a sorrow-laden sigh while Thomas played along, slumping his shoulders in disappointment. Peter peeked at Frau Steadman. Would it work?

  She glared at him with narrowed eyes, her lips pursed in irritation. Finally she threw her hands outward. “All right. I’ll eat.” She crossed to the table and pushed Peter’s empty bowl aside, seating herself with a straight back and raised chin. “But don’t think for a moment I don’t know what you’re up to. And I won’t always be so easily manipulated.”

  “Ma-nip-u-lated.” Peter scowled. “I do not know what this means.”