Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  And her bread was good, too. Fluffy in the middle with a light brown crust, just the way Thomas liked it. Pa couldn’t bake bread like that. Mrs. Steadman did lots of things right. But he thought about those curtains she’d made—changing how their windows looked—and his heart beat a little quicker when he thought about other things she might change around their house.

  He scrunched up his face, remembering how riled he had gotten at Rupert today. When Rupert had talked mean about Mrs. Steadman, Thomas wanted to punch him good. Only Pa’s warnings about not hurting his ribs had made him walk away instead of hitting Rupert. Now, thinking about how the hog butchering would be someplace else, he got mad all over again, and he punched the air.

  A pain stabbed his side with the forceful motion, and he grimaced, rolling to his side and cradling his ribs. Tears pricked his eyelids. Mrs. Steadman had been nice to him. He wanted to like her. But she was making trouble, just like Rupert had said. Should he stand up for her or should he ask Pa to send her away? What was the right thing?

  Pa seemed to think they should keep Mrs. Steadman here. Pa was usually right. Was he right this time? Thomas thought about it long and hard, shifting around on his bed in restlessness until his ribs ached and his covers were tangled around his legs. With a sigh, he wiggled his feet and managed to straighten out the sheets and quilt again. Then he lay still, staring at the ceiling.

  He sure had liked that tea. But was it better than getting the pigs’ tails? That was the last question that flitted through his mind before sleep took hold.

  12

  SUMMER, THOMAS, AND Grossmutter spent most of the following week alone. Mr. Ollenburger loaded the four hogs, which had been growing fat in their pen for the past six months, in the back of his wagon on Monday morning and headed to the Josts’ place. Thomas explained to Summer that the whole community gathered together to butcher all of the hogs, turning the butchering into a week-long celebration. There were contests for which hog produced the most lard, which hog had the biggest ham hocks, and which man could cut the meat away from the bone the fastest with the least waste. Each evening the participants feasted on fresh pork and cracklings, a delicacy Thomas insisted was not to be missed.

  The boy had seemed resentful for hours after he told Summer of the week’s events, and it had taken some subtle coaxing from her before he finally admitted that he had been looking forward to hosting the hog butchering this year. “Pa said I’m big enough to watch the meagrope.”

  Summer recalled Mr. Ollenburger’s comment about m words as she asked, “What is a meagrope?” Her r did not roll the way Thomas’s did as she pronounced the word. “It’s a big boiling pot where you render the lard. You have to keep the fire hot, but not too hot, and keep stirring the fat. You have to make sure the cracklings don’t swim, because that means the fire is too hot. It’s an important job, watching the meagrope.” His bright eyes snapped with an anger Summer didn’t understand. “And whoever hosts the hog butchering gets the tails.”

  “The tails?”

  “It’s fun to sneak up and pin a tail on someone when he isn’t looking.” He scowled. “But now I have to wait until our turn comes around again.”

  Summer had questioned why the hog butchering had been moved, but the boy remained stubbornly silent. His refusal to answer gave her all the information she needed. The butchering had been moved so the townspeople would not be reminded of her presence. While she regretted that Thomas must suffer disappointment due to the town’s ignorance, she had no desire to move on from this place. As long as her children were here, this is where she would remain.

  She suspected her presence was creating more than just disappointment for Mr. Ollenburger. He hardly spoke when he returned each evening. Since he’d already eaten with the others who were butchering, he would greet his son and then retire to his bedroom. He gave the excuse of being tired from the work of butchering in addition to his regular chores, many of which Thomas still was unable to perform, but Summer suspected there was another reason he hid away.

  Twice she had caught the big man fingering the hem of the curtains she had made from her blue dress, an unreadable expression on his face. Although he had thanked her for the kind gesture of dressing his windows, she wasn’t convinced the change pleased him. She had approached him to ask if he would prefer she remove them, but before she could speak, he had begun asking questions about the boy and his studies, and her question had gone unasked.

  As if worry about Mr. Ollenburger’s withdrawn behavior wasn’t enough, she and Thomas entered a troubling time of hills and valleys. Although he had sometimes pouted, he had always followed her directions. Now he occasionally defied her, doing sloppy work or peering at her through narrowed eyes that made her feel like an intruder. She remembered Mr. Ollenburger telling her to let him know if the boy gave her trouble, but the man’s distant behavior made her hesitant to approach him. Besides, there were also times when the boy was very cooperative, almost apologetic. Vincent had never behaved so erratically, and Summer simply did not understand Thomas’s mercurial mood changes.

  So the week dragged on with Summer attempting to follow their routine of study and conversation in hopes of turning Thomas around. She shared a bit of her past with him, avoiding speaking of her children but telling him about Boston. Thomas did express interest in the big city and how it differed from the small Kansas community in which he lived.

  At the end of each day, Thomas read aloud from a novel called Tattered Tom. He seemed to find the idea of a girl named Tom amusing, and he openly admired the girl’s spunk in caring for herself on the streets of New York. Summer listened with an ache in her heart so intense she feared it would crush her. Thomas’s animated reading of the story reminded her so much of Vincent. If she closed her eyes, she could almost hear her son’s voice reading aloud.

  While Thomas read, Summer finished her dresses and busied herself with baking bread and canning the last of the tomatoes from the Ollenburgers’ garden. The grandmother did her part, as best as her crippled hands and slow-moving hips would allow. Although Summer still fought moments of uneasiness around the older woman, she felt she was slowly gaining favor. At least the woman’s sharp eyes seemed to have lost their initial distrust, and a smile occasionally crinkled her face.

  On Friday afternoon of the long week, Thomas closed Tattered Tom and sighed. “Pa will be finished with the butchering today. He’ll bring home hams and sausages and bacon from the smokehouse. I put potatoes in the oven, so we’ll have jacket potatoes for supper, and Pa will probably fry sausage.” The boy rubbed his stomach. “Mmm, I can almost taste it already.”

  Summer set aside the history book she had been reviewing for next week’s lessons. “Don’t forget the bread I baked. That will go well with your potatoes and sausage.”

  “Enne noot schmakt dee worscht uck one broot.” Mischief sparkled in Thomas’s eyes. Grossmutter chuckled from her chair.

  Summer raised her brows and peered down her nose at the boy, pleased to see him in a playful rather than brooding mood. “Now, Thomas, you know I don’t speak a word of German. What did you say?”

  “I said sausage tastes good even without bread.”

  “Does that mean you don’t want my fresh-baked bread with your potatoes and sausage?”

  “Sure I do.” He rose to his feet. “And we can make supper a real feast for Pa after his week away.”

  Thomas’s enthusiasm encouraged Summer. Perhaps his misbehavior had been because he missed his father. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Well, we’ve got the potatoes, you baked bread, Pa’s bringing the sausage. For a treat, Pa loves sliced onions with vinegar, but he hasn’t eaten any since you came. He didn’t want to offend you with the smell of it.”

  The boy was probably right—the odor of onions and vinegar would no doubt singe her nostrils. Suddenly, though, it seemed important that Mr. Ollenburger be given a hearty welcome. Perhaps it would improve his somber disposition.

  She sto
od, cradling the history book against her chest. “If your father would consider onions and vinegar a feast, then he shall have it. I’ll put your books away, and we can get started slicing.”

  She and Thomas were both raining tears, brought on by the strong fumes from the onions, when the door opened. Thomas dropped his knife and hop-skipped to the door with his arm tucked against his ribs. “Pa, you’re early!”

  Mr. Ollenburger gently pulled the boy against him in a hug, then cupped the boy’s cheeks and looked at him, concern creasing his brow. “What for are you crying?” His gaze raised to meet Summer’s, the furrow between his eyes deepening. “What has happened?” He looked to the chair, where the grandmother held up her gnarled hands and shook her head, apparently attempting to offer assurance.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Pa. It’s onions.”

  Mr. Ollenburger seemed to wilt with relief. Summer felt a wave of sympathy for the real fear he had experienced. She swept away the tears with the backs of her wrists and held up a thick slice of onion. “Yes … see? You grow powerful onions in your garden, Mr. Ollenburger.”

  “Ach, the greater the tears, the better the flavor, so you know these are good.” The comment sounded more like the old Mr. Ollenburger, and Summer felt gratified to see the change. Shrugging out of his coat, he crossed the floor, took the slice from her hand, then ate it in one bite. He waggled his brows. “Only thing better than fresh onion is fresh onion in vinegar.”

  She held up the vinegar jar. “I have it here, ready to go.” At his look of surprise, she added, “Thomas said you especially enjoy eating onions and vinegar.”

  “Ja, I do.” He laced his fingers and pressed them to his stomach. “But I warn you, it will smell like a whole roomful of stout Germans when I am through.”

  Laughter bubbled upward, spilling out and filling the room. With a start, Summer realized the sound had come from her. She covered her mouth, a feeble attempt to gain control, but it was impossible. The size of the man belied the playfulness under the surface. He looked like a hairy oversized boy at the moment. Summer couldn’t hold back her amusement.

  “You laugh at me, Frau Steadman?” Mr. Ollenburger touched his chest, his face twisting into an offended pout, yet his eyes sparkled merrily.

  The laughter felt wonderful—cleansing. As it continued, though, she suddenly realized it was her first laughter since Rodney fell ill. Laughter poured forth, but her children weren’t here to witness it, enjoy it, or join in.

  Without warning, the sounds of mirth turned to choking sobs. Dropping the knife, she spun from the dry sink, from the onions, from the man who stood in shocked silence, and ran out the door without her coat. Halfway to the shariah, pounding steps caught up to her, and a large hand grasped her arm, bringing her to a halt.

  “Frau Steadman, you must stop.” Mr. Ollenburger’s voice thundered through the evening calm. “What for do you run away like this?”

  She pulled free of his grasp, hugging herself as the evening air chilled her limbs. “I-I had to get away. I had to leave the laughter.”

  The man’s bushy brows lowered. “But laughter, it is good for the soul. It did my heart good to hear a laugh find its way from your belly. Why must you leave the laughing?”

  “How can I laugh when my children are dead?” Summer nearly choked on the words. Her body shook so badly her teeth rattled. “I shouldn’t laugh. I shouldn’t ever feel happiness again!”

  “That is nonsense.” Mr. Ollenburger took her shoulders and turned her toward the house, protecting her from the wind with a heavy arm across her back. “Why should you try to never have laughter again? Did you die? No, you are alive. So be alive! Laugh if you want to, cry if you must, let yourself feel.”

  They reached the stoop, and he guided her through the door and into a chair. She buried her face in her arms, trying to shut out the words that continued to fall in Mr. Ollenburger’s deep authoritative voice.

  “Our good Lord in heaven made us to feel. He gives us time to weep and time to laugh. But He does not want us to remain in weeping. In his book, in Psalms, He makes a promise. You stay here. I show you.”

  Her face still hidden, she listened to his footsteps thump away then return. The chair screeched against the floor, and a large hand touched her arm.

  “Sit up here, Frau Steadman. You see these words yourself.”

  Slowly she raised her head, focusing on the open Bible on the table in front of her. To her surprise, Grossmutter had left her chair and stood on the opposite side of the table, leaning forward to peer at the Bible, too.

  Mr. Ollenburger pointed with his thick finger. “See here? You read it.”

  Summer frowned at the words. “I can’t read this. It’s German.”

  He grimaced, then turned the book to face him. “This is the book of Psalms, chapter 126, verse five. ‘Die mit tränen säen, werden mit Jubel ernten.”’

  “Ja, ja.” The grandmother tapped the page with a wizened finger.

  Peter held his hand out to Thomas. “Son, come tell Frau Steadman what I read.”

  “You know the words.” Thomas stood several feet away, as if afraid to approach.

  “Ja, I know the words.” A hint of impatience colored Mr. Ollenburger’s tone. “But Frau Steadman wants them from you.”

  Summer realized he was asking the boy to translate so she wouldn’t question his honesty with her. She also realized how foolish she had been, assuming Mr. Ollenburger was illiterate. Though the man couldn’t read English, he was obviously able to read German. How her assumption must have shamed him.

  Thomas stepped forward and leaned against his father. His eyes on the Bible, he translated, “They that sow in tears shall reap in joy.”

  “Ja.” The grandmother looked at Summer. Tears winked in the old woman’s eyes, bringing a fresh rush to Summer’s eyes.

  “God keeps promises, Frau Steadman,” Mr. Ollenburger said. “You must to believe the joy will come. But you must look for it.”

  “Look for it?” Summer let the question burst out. “And where do you suggest I look? Should I dig up the graves of my children?”

  Mr. Ollenburger raised his head and thrust out his chin. “I find it in the teaching of this book.” He placed his hand on the Bible, giving the worn pages a gentle caress. “And you will find it there, too.”

  The old woman also flattened her wrinkled hand on the pages of the Bible, her gaze boring into Summer’s as if attempting to deliver a message. But Summer didn’t understand it any more than she did the German lettering in Mr. Ollenburger’s Bible.

  Summer shook her head. She would never find joy there. She couldn’t even read the words. The hopelessness of the situation struck her anew, and she lowered her head. “It’s useless.”

  “You will find it,” he insisted, misinterpreting her meaning, “if your heart is open. So a way must be made for your heart to be open. I must change part of our bargain.”

  Summer lowered her brows. “Are you planning to manipulate me again, Mr. Ollenburger?”

  “No manipulate. Only say this—if you teach my son, you must go to church with us. Church, like laughter, is good for the soul.”

  13

  SUMMER SAT ON a wooden bench—a hard, backless, uncomfortable bench—and waited for the service to begin. People filed in, filling the other benches. Mr. Ollenburger and Thomas didn’t sit with her. Mr. Ollenburger had forewarned her that the men and women divided to sit on opposite sides of the church, so she wasn’t surprised when the two Ollenburger men seated themselves across the aisle from her.

  Although the grandmother sat beside her in her slumped-forward pose, the other women chose benches in front of or behind her. She found this arrangement acceptable. She had no desire to speak to people who had openly avoided her elsewhere in town. She recognized the two women from the store, but neither so much as looked in her direction.

  Mr. Ollenburger had referred to the church as Kleine Gemeinde and then told her it meant “little church.” His heritage believed
a small congregation would become like family, so small congregations were encouraged. If a population outgrew the Kleine Gemeinde, the congregation would split and form a second church body.

  Summer thought this sounded good in theory. She so needed a family. In reality, though, she knew it would never work for her in this place. How would these people become family when they were unwilling to reach out to her in friendship? They had ignored her needs while her children were ill. They had ignored her needs following her family’s deaths. With the exception of Mr. Ollenburger, the community had made little effort to treat her with kindness. Family? Not with these people.

  Then there was the church itself. Why, how could one even call this simple wood-slatted building a place of worship? The only thing that set it apart from the other buildings on the block was its small steeple—one that did not contain a bell but simply acted as a perch for the crude wooden cross pointing toward the heavens.

  She compared the Kleine Gemeinde’s sanctuary to that of the towering two-story brick-and-mortar church she and Rodney had attended in Boston with his parents. Where were the stained-glass windows and carved woodwork? No highly-polished cherry lectern stood on a dais at the front of the sanctuary; only a plain, boxlike podium rested on the wide-planked floor. She scanned the bare walls, mindful of the absence of statues or paintings depicting the life of Christ. Summer could find no beauty on which to feast her hungry eyes. How could a sanctuary so devoid of beauty be good for the soul?

  A minister wearing a simple black suit stepped behind the podium and raised his hands. A hush immediately fell, all eyes shifting to the front. He gestured, uttering a string of unintelligible words, and the congregation rose as a whole. Summer jumped to her feet, confusion making her heart pound.

  Mouths opened in song, the tune unfamiliar to Summer and sung in a language she couldn’t understand or speak. No piano or organ underscored the four-part harmony created by the congregants, yet she found the synchronization of voices pleasant to her ears. Her heartbeat slowed to a comfortable rhythm, the starkness of her surroundings melting away as she became lost in the beauty of the songs.