Hannah's Joy

by Marta Perry

William did that, as well, Hannah realized, and the words he’d said yesterday seemed to echo in her mind again. He was struggling his way toward some form of independence.

  Still holding the notebook, she walked into the bakery kitchen, which was still warm from the heat of the large ovens. They could sit at the table—a homey, familiar situation, with the comforting aroma of bread-baking still filling the air.

  She set the chairs at right angles to each other. The little she’d learned of William’s home life, the encounter with his brother Isaac, his stammer . . . those factors certainly suggested that making decisions for himself was a struggle for William.

  And what is your excuse? A small voice in the back of her mind voiced what she knew was true. She had done her own share of drifting, of letting others make up her mind for her. Her parents, her teachers, Travis, Megan . . . even Aunt Paula, in a way.

  She glanced at the monitor on the counter, its light flickering a little when Jamie moved, rustling the sheets in his crib. She was the only one responsible for Jamie. She had to make decisions for both of them.

  Hannah moved restlessly, hands working on the back of the chair. What if she made the wrong decision, the way she had when she’d hired that babysitter? What if she let her son down again?

  Travis had been her rock. Now he was gone, and she had been left to go on alone.

  Her throat tightened, and she shook her head, impatient with herself. Now was not the time to dwell on her doubts. She had a job to do.

  The swinging door moved, and her nerves jumped. It was time—

  But it was Aunt Paula, holding a handful of envelopes. The postman must have just come.

  Her aunt held out one envelope, her expression clouded. “This just came. For you. It looks like it’s from Jamie’s grandfather.”

  Hannah held it for a moment, studying the return address. Arizona, where Robert Conroy had settled after retiring from the army. He wrote so seldom that she couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen his handwriting.

  “I should leave you alone . . .” Aunt Paula made a movement toward the door.

  “No, it’s all right. Stay.” She stared at the envelope, reluctant to move.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Aunt Paula prompted her.

  Hannah blew out a breath. “Yes, of course.” Somehow the return address seemed to bring Conroy’s stiff, frowning presence into the room. They’d met only twice . . . once when Travis took her to visit after they were married and again at the funeral. Robert hadn’t seemed especially approving of her on either occasion.

  She ripped open the envelope and unfolded the single sheet she found inside. The note was brief.

  I thought you’d want a copy of this. I heard you hadn’t been back to the cemetery.

  His name was signed in angular black letters that seemed vaguely angry.

  She picked up the photo, knowing what it must be and reluctant to see it. She handed the letter to her aunt.

  “It’s not much of a letter, that’s for sure.” Aunt Paula sounded miffed, as if the rudeness had been directed at her. “What does he mean?”

  Hannah turned over the photo. Smooth, even green grass carpeted the ground, dotted with straight rows of white crosses. She could read the lettering on the one nearest to the camera.

  The photo wavered in her fingers, and she thrust it at her aunt.

  “It’s where Travis is buried.” She tried to sound calm, tried to sound like a mature woman who’d dealt with loss and could cope with being left behind.

  But inside she knew it wasn’t true, and the pep talk she’d been giving herself was a mocking echo in her mind.

  * * *

  He shouldn’t have come. William turned to the bakery door, the words repeating themselves in his mind. This was a mistake. Someone would see him, would start to talk.

  And they’d remember. Sometimes he thought no one in Pleasant Valley ever forgot anything.

  The bell jingled as he opened the door, the familiar sound calming him. After all, what was so unusual in his coming here? He came to the bakery most days, enjoying the welcoming aromas and the sight of the loaves filling wire baskets. No one would think anything of his being there.

  The tables were empty at this hour, and no customers lined up in front of the counter. Naomi Esch smiled at him from behind the glass-fronted case that held pastries. “Hannah is back in the kitchen.” She nodded toward the swinging door. “Go on in.”

  Naomi probably knew why he was here, but her face didn’t hold any open curiosity. Naomi was a sensible woman, not a blabbermaul like some.

  He moved between the tables, pushed open the swinging door, and stepped into the kitchen. And stopped. Paula stood close to Hannah, her arm around the younger woman. Hannah held a paper crumpled in her hand, and her brown eyes were bright with tears.

  “Th-this is a b-bad time. I’ll g-go.” He turned toward the door, relief mixing with pity. Hannah was having trouble, and it seemed as good a reason as any for him to back away from this commitment.

  “No, don’t.” Hannah said the words before he could push the door open. “I’m all right. Please, sit down.”

  He hesitated, but Paula nodded at him.

  “That’s right, William. Chust sit now. I’ll leave you two alone.” She patted Hannah’s hand and went quickly back into the bakery.

  “You d-don’t w-w-want me here—” he began.

  “Sit down.” Hannah almost snapped the words and then gave him a watery smile. “I’m sorry, William. I am upset, but I’d rather work. It will take my mind off things. Coffee? Iced tea?”

  He didn’t want anything, but he suspected fixing it would give her a moment to calm herself.

  “Ja, tea would be gut.”

  Hannah turned to the refrigerator, maybe glad of a reason to hide her face for a moment. She took her time over getting out glasses and putting a few cookies on a plate.

  William sat in the chair she’d indicated, his gaze drawn by what lay on the table. Even without touching it, he could see what the photograph showed—her husband’s headstone. The picture lay next to a torn envelope, which meant she’d just received it. No wonder she was upset.

  Hannah put glasses on the table. She picked up the picture, shoving it into the envelope, her fingers fumbling with it.

  Questions formed in his mind, but he wasn’t going to ask them. He took a long swallow from the glass of tea.

  Hannah slipped the envelope into the pocket of her skirt and sat down. Her lips moved in what was probably meant for a smile.

  “You know, William, sometimes your silence says a lot.”

  He wasn’t sure how to answer that, so he didn’t.

  She let out a little sigh, clasping her hands around the glass. “The picture was from my father-in-law. Jamie’s grandfather. I . . . I hadn’t seen the permanent marker until now.”

  “I’m s-s-sorry.” Seeing it must have brought her grief.

  She nodded, moving her glass in little circles on the tabletop. “Travis is buried in a national cemetery. They . . . It was a military funeral. His father had been in the army, too, so he took care of the arrangements.”

  “It w-was g-g-gut that you h-had h-his help.” At least, William thought it would be. But there had been an undertone in Hannah’s voice when she said the words. Maybe they had disagreed about the arrangements.

  “I think he’s upset that I haven’t visited the cemetery since then.” The words seemed to burst out, as if Hannah couldn’t hold them back. “He hardly says two sentences in his note.”

  William had never met the man. He couldn’t even guess at his motives. But this was upsetting Hannah.

  He couldn’t touch her to comfort her. He’d have to use words, and he wasn’t good at that. Inadequate, as always.

  “M-maybe he�
�s a m-man of f-f-few w-words. Like me.”

  A smile tugged at her lips, chasing some of the sorrow away. “Maybe so. Well, that’s not why we’re here. I’m glad you said yes, William. I’m looking forward to working with you.”

  If he was going to back out, this was his last chance. But with her gaze hopeful on his face, he couldn’t do it. Instead he nodded.

  “Right, let’s start, then.” She opened a notebook that lay on the table. She hesitated, her hands flat on its pages. “I feel as if I ought to say this again. I never finished my studies. I’m not certified, and if you . . .”

  He shook his head to stop her. “Y-y-you told m-me before. It’s f-f-fine.” He wanted to say more, to reassure her, but as always, he didn’t have the words. But she was smiling, so maybe she knew.

  “Good.” She blew out a breath. “Now, I’ll bet people have tried to help you by telling you to relax, or take a deep breath, or start over again.”

  He nodded. He’d heard that plenty of times. He’d tried, but none of it worked, and he’d ended up feeling like he’d failed.

  “I know.” She was looking at him with a kind of gentle sympathy in those soft brown eyes. “It just made you feel worse, didn’t it? People like that are trying to help. They don’t understand that those techniques aren’t usually successful.”

  He looked down at his hands, clasped around the glass. “D-d-does a-anything?”

  “Yes, it does. You have to believe that.” She reached out and touched his wrist, and the warmth of her fingers startled him. She might be able to feel his pulse thud against her palm.

  A moment passed. Hannah’s gaze moved, as if she’d lost her place and was looking for it. Then she took her hand away.

  “There are some techniques that work with most people who stutter. Not a cure, exactly. Just something to make it easier to say what you want.”

  He nodded to show he understood, not sure he believed that anything would really help, but willing to try.

  “I want you to put your hand on your stomach.” She laid her palm against herself to illustrate, and he copied her. “Notice the way you’re breathing, small breaths, slow and relaxed.”

  He listened intently, trying to hear what she’d indicated.

  “That’s a good way to start lessening the stuttering. It seems odd, because you feel as if you want to take a deep breath to talk. If you keep breathing slow and relaxed, you won’t have the breath for long sentences. But you don’t want to talk in long sentences anyway, do you?”

  She smiled as she asked the question, and he smiled back. Hannah’s face was intent, her eyes alight with interest, and it made him feel good to see her that way, after she’d been upset.

  This was something she cared about, and it was giving her pleasure to work with him. “Now we’re going to practice some breathing exercises, learning to move slowly into the words. Don’t be fooled. It’s hard work to concentrate,” she warned.

  Hannah was as good as her word. She led him through the exercises, her voice gentle, praising him sometimes, making him repeat sometimes, but always with that quiet patience.

  By the time they’d practiced for an hour, William was as tired as if he’d been cutting hay. He felt as if he needed to duck his head under the pump to clear his mind. He was about to suggest they quit when the small white monitor on the counter came to life with a bit of static and a whimper.

  “Mama, Mama, Mama.” Something rattled, as if Jamie were shaking the crib bars. “Mama!”

  Hannah smiled, closing the notebook. “When he’s awake, he wants up. We’ll have to stop for today. But I’ll see you Thursday?” She made it a question, as if wanting the assurance that he’d be back.

  “Ja. D-d-denke.” He hesitated, not wanting to say more, but needing to. “Jamie.” He jerked his head toward the monitor. “Bringing h-h-him up w-well is the b-b-best memorial to your h-husband.”

  Hannah’s eyes filled with tears, and she blinked several times. “Thank you, William.” She whirled and hurried up the stairs.

  * * *

  “You have us so curious, Hannah.” Aunt Paula peered at her over a forkful of egg salad. “How did it go with William yesterday? You haven’t said a word, ain’t so?”

  Hannah sat with her aunt and Naomi at one of the round tables, having their own meal after the lunch rush was over and Jamie was tucked up for his nap. She hesitated, considering her words. Aunt Paula had contained her curiosity for nearly a full day, but now it was bursting out.

  “We made a good start,” she said, knowing that wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her aunt. “It’s much too soon to know how successful we’ll be.”

  “But what did you do? What did William say?” Her aunt’s glasses wore a light dusting of flour, but her blue eyes sparkled behind them.

  Naomi put down her soup spoon with a little clink. “Maybe it’s not right for Hannah to talk about it to us,” she said. “Like a doctor wouldn’t talk about you to someone else.”

  Naomi’s quiet understanding continued to surprise Hannah.

  “Yes, it is something like that,” she said, grateful. “One of the first things they teach you before they let you near a client is the importance of privacy. Even a child would be upset if he knew you were talking to someone else about his treatment.”

  She carefully didn’t say the word gossip, afraid of offending.

  Aunt Paula looked on the verge of objecting, probably to say that working with William had been her idea, after all. But Naomi nipped in again before she could speak.

  “It wonders me how people ought to speak to someone like Will. Probably we do all the wrong things, ain’t so?”

  “That’s sometimes true,” Hannah said, relieved to turn the talk in that direction. “The most important thing is just to listen in a relaxed way and wait for the person to finish, not try to complete the person’s thoughts yourself.”

  Naomi nodded. “I remember William’s sisters always tried to finish his sentences for him when they were younger.” She paused, glancing down at what remained of her chicken noodle soup. “He’s a gut man. I hope this helps him.”

  Aunt Paula nodded. “It would be nice to see William taking part in life, instead of watching. It’s time he found himself someone to love.”

  “Ja, it is,” Naomi said, punctuating the words with a nod.

  Did Naomi see herself in that role? The thought hit Hannah with a disturbing suddenness, and she was dismayed to find herself reacting negatively.

  She had no right to feel that way. It wasn’t any of her business who was interested in William. Naomi was a lovely person, and she and William shared the same faith. They both seemed lonely, in a way. Surely it would be good if they got together.

  Hannah had a feeling she was coming up with too many arguments. She barely knew William, after all.

  But he had done something yesterday that more than repaid whatever she might do for him. He’d said that bringing Jamie up right was the best memorial to Travis, and the words had been echoing in her mind ever since.

  He was right. She’d had her chance at love, and it had been a wonderful experience. She might grieve how soon it had ended, but in a way, it made her future more clear. Her only job now was Jamie, and he was a full-time occupation.

  “Ach, look at the time.” Aunt Paula stood, gathering up her used dishes. “We should get busy. And there’s the supply order still to do this afternoon.”

  Hannah noticed the frown lines gathering between her aunt’s eyebrows. Aunt Paula always seemed to look harassed when it came time to deal with the supply orders. She seemed to love everything about running the bakery except the paperwork.

  “Would you like me to take care of the orders?” Hannah spoke impulsively, and as quickly wondered if her aunt would think she’d presumed too much.

  But Paula’s face exp
ressed only relief. “You would do the orders for me? Ach, it would be so nice.”

  “I’d be happy to.” It was a simple way to repay her aunt’s kindness, and the record-keeping would be easy for her. “I’ll double-check the amounts with you before I call the order in. All right?”

  “Ja, ser gut.” The frown lines had disappeared. Aunt Paula turned to Naomi. “Naomi, you’ll be able to mind the bakery on Saturday, ja? I want to be sure I can take Hannah to the work day.”

  “That is fine.” Naomi rose, too. “I have told my daad already. You will have a gut time together with all the sisters, ja?”

  Hannah was a step behind. The other two obviously knew what they were talking about, but she didn’t. “Work day?”

  “Didn’t I tell you about that?” Her aunt tossed the question back over her shoulder as they headed for the kitchen. “I thought I had. We . . . all the women from Pleasant Valley who are interested . . . have one Saturday a month when we meet at the fire hall to work on quilts and other crafts for the benefit auction.”

  “What is the benefit auction?” It sounded vaguely familiar, but Hannah didn’t recall discussing it.

  Her aunt glanced at her. “Ach, sometimes I forget you haven’t been here forever. The big auctions we have spring and fall for charity. I’ve told you about that, surely.”

  “I guess I’d forgotten.” Hannah started water running in the sink to wash up their few dishes from lunch. “When is the auction?”

  “Next month.” Her aunt shook her head in dismay. “I don’t know how it’s come around again so soon already. I haven’t finished half the things I’d intended to make to sell, and the needs are so great this year, with all those tornadoes and then the floods.”

  Hannah remembered now. Her aunt had talked about the money the community had raised in the spring, and how they’d sent teams out west to help with rebuilding after the tornadoes.

  “You said you’d raised a lot of money in the spring sale, didn’t you?” She pushed her sleeves back before plunging her hands into the hot, soapy water.

  “Ja, for sure, but it’s never enough. The Mennonite Central Committee has been swamped with appeals this year, so I’ve heard.” Aunt Paula began filling a tray with more loaves of bread to replace those they’d sold that morning.