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.”
His arms full, he returned to the shariah and used the toe of his boot to knock. Thomas opened the door to him, and Peter dumped the wood into the woodbox with a series of clunks. “Well, I leave you to your tea. Thomas, not too late, ja? We have church tomorrow, and a bath you still need.”
“Yes, sir.” The boy seated himself on the crate and picked up his cup as if he had been to tea parties all his life.
Peter smiled. This woman truly was a godsend. She could teach the boy not only his studies, but how to be a gentleman in a world away from the Ollenburger mill. With her help, he would feel at ease in big cities and social gatherings. And although pain stabbed, a gratefulness filled his heart that Thomas would become more than his father ever hoped to be. He reached out and touched his son’s hair. “Enjoy your tea.” He turned to leave.
But once more, the woman’s voice stopped him. “Mr. Ollenburger, before you go, may I ask a favor?”
“Ja, you can ask.”
“I purchased fabric for new dresses, but as you can see”—she held out her hands to indicate the setting—“there is no place for me to lay the fabric for cutting. I also do not have scissors. May I borrow a pair of scissors and use your kitchen tomorrow to cut out my dresses?”
“While you are with us, you make yourself at home. You are doing us a favor. We will help you as much as we can.”
“Thank you. I’ll only use my free time for sewing. I won’t take study time. Thomas needs my attention then.”
“That will be fine. Well …” He fiddled with a button on his shirt. “I go now.” He waved at his son. “I will see you at the house soon, Thomas.”
Thomas barely glanced up. “Sure, Pa. I’ll be in soon.”
The voices of the woman and his boy engaging in easy conversation filled his ears as he walked back through the darkness toward home.
11
SUMMER STEPPED OUT into a crisp fall breeze on Sunday morning. The sky still wore streaks of pink and yellow in the east, with gold-rimmed wisps of clouds hovering on the horizon, but overhead a proud robin’s-egg blue promised a pleasant day. The landscape stretched endlessly in all directions, with no buildings in sight other than those belonging to the Ollenburgers.
For a moment she experienced a pang of melancholy—as if she were the only person left in the world. Then she heard a cardinal sing from one of the barren bushes beside the outhouse. The sound lifted her spirits, making her feel less alone. The grass beneath her feet crunched as she walked to the house, and the cold stung her nose as she inhaled. She hurried her steps.
She entered the pleasant warmth of the house. It seemed less welcoming without its occupants, who had rumbled away in the wagon a short time ago for church. For a moment she faltered. Did she want to spend her morning here alone? Then she spotted a square basket on the table.
She peered into it and found scissors, chalk, a tin thimble, a tape measure, a card of needles, two cards of buttons—one of brown, one of black—and several spools of thread. Her heart turned over. Had this been Elsa Ollenburger’s or her grandmother’s sewing basket? It was obviously laid out for her use. Immediately she hung up her coat, spread out her fabric, and got to work.
Although her sister-in-law had always purchased ready-made garments or visited a seamstress, Summer enjoyed sewing. Most of Rose’s and Tillie’s dresses had been made by Summer’s hands. Rose, too, had displayed a knack for creating things from fabric and floss, and Summer had encouraged her fledgling efforts.
She felt sadness build as she thought of Rose, but she didn’t try to push it aside. She wanted to remember everything about her children. As she slid her blue dress on top of the black muslin, using the finished dress as a pattern, she deliberately conjured images of Rose: Rose seated beside the parlor fireplace, stitching on a sampler; Rose on the swing Rodney had hung for the children from the apple tree in the backyard, her head hanging back, her dark braids nearly dragging on the ground; Rose in the flower garden, skipping in pursuit of a butterfly …
Before she knew it, she had all the pieces for both dresses cut, stacked, and ready to be stitched into a finished garment. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten today. She set aside the fabric pieces and crossed to the stove. A pot rested on the rear burner, and she lifted the lid. Her nose twitched with appreciation. Fried potatoes and onions with scrambled eggs, still warm. Fried potatoes seemed to be a mainstay of the Ollenburgers’ diet. She added another log to the stove to keep the fire going and dished up a serving of potatoes.
She ate, standing beside the stove, then placed her plate and fork in the wash pan that rested on the dry sink. She noticed three plates, forks, and cups already waiting to be washed. Without a second thought, she dipped hot water from the reservoir on the stove, washed and dried the few dishes, and stacked them back on their shelf.
She turned, and a trio of photographs hanging on the wall opposite the front door captured her attention. She went over to them, tipping her head to examine them one by one. In the largest photograph, which was oval-shaped, were the images of a serious-looking man and woman. She noted a similarity in physical appearance between the man in the picture and Mr. Ollenburger, although Mr. Ollenburger’s eyes seemed to reflect more warmth. These must be his parents, she presumed.
The two smaller photographs were obviously of the same person, although the woman looked to be in her early teens in one and her mid-twenties in the other. She had a pretty face, Summer acknowledged, with eyes that seemed to harbor a pleasant secret. The woman’s face was full and round, with dimpled cheeks and a sweetly upturned mouth. This must be Elsa. Suddenly Summer felt like an intruder, and she turned away.
She glanced around with a frown creasing her brow. The photographs, she observed, were the only personal items decorating the room. Although she thought the plain appearance should make the room feel cold, the memory of the warm, contented man and boy who lived here with the old woman kept the house from feeling bleak.
Turning to the photographs again, a wave of sorrow crashed against her heart. Just before leaving Boston, she and Rodney had taken the children to a photographer and had a family portrait made. She had carefully packed the gilt-framed picture within the folds of her grandmother’s quilt. The fire had surely consumed it.
She touched the oval wood frame around the portrait
of Mr. Ollenburger’s parents. How she wished she still had the picture of her own family. She could hang it on the wall of the shariah. Then she almost laughed—a gilt-framed photograph hanging in that decidedly ungilded shack? The soot-stained bit of parchment from the Bible seemed to fit better. Perhaps she could frame that.
“I have things to do,” she reminded herself sternly. She stomped back to the table and picked up the needles and thread she had purchased. She glanced at the grandmother’s chair, draped with a heavy knitted blanket. It seemed the most comfortable place to sit, yet she hesitated. She had come to think of that chair as the old woman’s throne.
Summer shook her head—she couldn’t sit there. Settling into one of the straight-backed chairs instead, she threaded the needle and reached for the pieces that would form the skirt of one of her new dresses. But her hands stilled, her gaze drifting to the window, where sunlight streamed through, painting a golden path across the wood floor.
Despite the yellow sun lighting the panes, the window still appeared barren. What a difference a simple curtain would make. She looked at the blue dress crumpled on the floor beside her feet. The hem was ragged from dragging in the dust of the trail, the elbows shiny from repeated wear. Yet the skirt was still usable, although dusty. She held it up, shook it out, and measured it against the window. Her heart lifted. Yes, it would work.
She could sew simple panels in less than an hour. Mr. Ollenburger had done much for her—she would return the favor by creating window dressings for his house. Surely she could find a hammer, tacks, and some string to hang the curtains before he returned home. Eager to do this small deed, she picked up the scissors and began to snip.
Peter had never been given to anger, but he admitted the tightness in his chest was caused by pure righteous fury. He wished to strike out at something—someone. He didn’t, though. Grossmutter sat in the wagon on a pile of old quilts, her chin drooping toward her chest as she dozed, and the boy drowsed against Peter’s shoulder. So he kept his fingers curled around the whip handle and called soft commands to the oxen, keeping the wagon on the smoothest parts of the road to avoid jarring either of his passengers too much.
Ach, Lord, it is good to have simple tasks on which to focus. It helps keep one’s actions in check.
He could not understand people. In his village in Russia as a boy, he had often worried over the actions of some who lived in nearby houses. Why did they look down their noses at, or hold themselves aloof from, the fishmongers who peddled their wares in the early morning? Only because their clothing was different or they lived in another village? Why should this matter? He had assumed that when he was a man, when he had gained more wisdom, he would understand. Now he was a man, and still he questioned.
How he had relished his time in Kleine Gemeinde. Sitting in his familiar spot in the little church, Thomas attentive on the bench beside him, his ears filling with the verses of hymns sung when he was a boy in the comforting tongue of his beloved German, and then basking in the goodness of the Word of God read from the Holy Bible in Reverend Enns’s strong voice—those had been pleasant moments.
But then the service had ended and his neighbors had approached, their expressions judgmental, their words harsh. Even as he, Grossmutter, and the boy had visited neighbors, as was their Sunday custom, partaking of faspa and sharing town news, it had seemed all the people were concerned about was this one woman. He had repeated, “She is only tutoring my boy,” so many times that he feared he would be reciting it in his sleep tonight.
Why must the presence of one needy woman create such conflict? Peter sighed, his breath stirring his beard. Thomas twitched, his head slipping forward. Peter reached out his arm to keep the boy from falling. Thomas startled awake, his blue eyes blinking in the sunshine.
“Oh, I must have fallen asleep.” His voice sounded croaky, as if he had been sleeping a long time, although it had only been a catnap.
Peter chuckled. “Ja, you have been sleeping. Not much company you are.”
Thomas rubbed his eyes with both fists. “I don’t know why I’m so tired. I didn’t even get to play this afternoon at the Penners’. When will I be able to play again?”
“When the doctor says the danger to your ribs is over. You follow what he says—he knows best.”
Thomas sighed. “Yes, sir.” He shifted in the seat. “Pa? I got mad at Rupert today.”
Peter raised his brows at the boy’s sheepish expression. “Oh?”
“He said we shouldn’t let Mrs. Steadman stay at our place. He said she could cause trouble.”
Peter’s chest tightened. He wished the boy had been spared this discord. “Well, Rupert just repeats what he hears his parents say. He knows no better.”
“But she’s been real nice to me,” Thomas said, puzzlement in his eyes. “She let me put as much sugar as I wanted in my tea last night, but when I said that to Rupert, he ran off and told everybody she was teaching me to be like a person from Boston.”
Peter recognized the same confusion in his son as he had so often felt. He wished he had better answers for him. “Ja, she has been nice to you, and you remember that.” He called, “Haw,” guiding the oxen to the left as he sought words of explanation. “Thomas, you remember last year when the men in fancy suits came to Gaeddert to talk about the railroad?”
“Yes, sir. They sure caused a ruckus.” He smiled.
Peter chuckled ruefully. “Ja, they did, for sure. Do you know why?”
Thomas tipped his head. “People were scared if the railroad came through Gaeddert, it would bring strangers into town who didn’t believe the way we do.”
“That is right. Fear of strangers, of new thinking, of changes that might come, kept us from welcoming the railroad. So a station was made in Hillsboro instead. Now when someone from Gaeddert has goods to sell or he needs to order from the catalog, he must travel to Hillsboro to make use of that railroad train. Do you think we did the right thing?”
“I don’t know.” His brow was crinkled in thought. “It’s an extra trouble to go to Hillsboro if you need the train, but maybe it kept trouble from coming to town. Was it the right thing?”
“I do not know the answer to the question, either, boy. I only know it was fear of change that made the town choose not to have the railroad here. And I think fear of change is what makes the town speak out against Mrs. Steadman.”
“But she’s only one lady! And she hasn’t changed anything.” He folded his arms across his chest, his lower lip trembling. “They’re just being so … so …”
“So mittel?”
Thomas huffed. “Mean doesn’t seem like a bad enough word. Rupert acted like Mrs. Steadman was going to make the whole town fall apart!” Worry showed in the pinch of his face. “Do you … do you think you shouldn’t have asked her to help me?”
Peter clucked to the oxen, then quietly quoted a Bible passage he’d memorized long ago. “‘Und der König wird antworten und zu ihnen sagen …”’
The boy sat in silence for several long minutes, working his jaw back and forth. “I know Jesus said whatever we do to people we meet is the same as doing it to Him. But what if Rupert is right? And as long as she’s here, everybody is mad at us.”
Peter gave his son’s knee a squeeze. “Then we must pray for the people in town, that they will lose their fears. Prayer changes things, ja?”
Thomas didn’t answer.
Peter’s “whoa” brought the oxen to a stop in front of the house, and he hopped down. He helped Grossmutter from the back and guided her to the stoop. Thomas sat scowling on the wagon seat. Peter sighed and returned to the wagon.
“Get down careful—do not jump. Change out of your good clothes. I will be in after the oxen I see to, and we will read together, ja?”
Thomas held to the sides of the wagon and lowered himself cautiously to the ground as Peter climbed in on the opposite side. Before the boy entered the house, Peter called, “Son?”
Thomas squinted up at his father.
Thomas’s face clouded. “But I can’t ride the wagon every day, and I wanted the pigs’ tails!”
Sorrow pressed Peter’s chest at his son’s obvious disappointment. “I am sorry, son. I tried to tell them still to come, but they would not listen. They will not come here while the woman lives in the shariah.”
Tears trembled on Thomas’s lashes. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing.
“Do you want me to send her back to town?”
Before Thomas could answer, the door to the house opened, capturing Peter’s attention. The woman stood framed in the doorway as if she belonged there. Although she did not smile, Peter saw eagerness in her eyes.
“I’m glad you’re back. I have a surprise for you.” She licked her lips, glancing at Grossmutter, who stood on the stoop. “Come see the change I’ve made to your house.” Thomas looked at his father with fear in his eyes.
Thomas rolled to his side. He was tired, but sleep wouldn’t come. Too many thoughts cluttered his mind.
That tea Mrs. Steadman had given him had sure been good. Grandmother and Pa didn’t let him drink tea. Or coffee. Pa said it would stunt his growth. And Grandmother didn’t let him have much sugar. But Mrs. Steadman had let him put three spoonfuls of sugar into his cup, just the way he liked it. He smacked his lips, remembering the sweetness of the warm liquid.
Mrs. Steadman was nice. Sometimes she wouldn’t let him end his studies early, but Pa said that meant she was a good teacher. He was probably right about that. She was a smart lady, for sure. And a good cook, too. Thomas released a long sigh, thinking about the supper she had cooked for them. She called it shepherd’s pie, even though it wasn’t like any pie he’d had before. Still, he’d liked it.
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