Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  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

  SUMMER 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.”