Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  Why, Lord, why? He turned to the barn, where he heard the restless banging of horses, the frightened rattling of halters pulling on the chains that kept them in their stalls.

  Jerry dropped King’s reins, which dangled to the ground, a sign for the horse to stay on that spot, an obedience he had learned well. Quickly, Jerry ran to the door, lifted the metal latch, and let himself into the dim interior of the large structure.

  The overpowering stench of ammonia made him cough. He drew a gloved hand across his face and coughed again. The horses rose on their hind legs and whinnied, their nostrils quivering. As he drew closer, they reached out with their noses, begging, clearly needing water, anything to reassure them that help was on the way. The manure was piled around them. They were without bedding of any kind, their wooden troughs torn and chewed.

  He turned to find the watering trough dry. Sparrows flitted from the rafters, twittering anxiously. Mice scurried across the top boards of the stalls, all signs that no one had been in the barn for some time.

  Jerry shivered unexpectedly, a sense of horror washing over him. When he heard a thin, wailing cry, he turned toward the sound immediately to find a small child sitting in a corner of the forebay, a quilt that had been white with a design of pink and blue sequins, a crib blanket, laying in an untidy heap beneath him. Or her.

  Jerry went to the child, bent to lift him, noticed the filth, the thin, trembling body, the coat that had been worn for too long. The child smelled of its soiled diaper, the face dirty, streaked with dust and tears.

  “Ach.” It was all Jerry could think to say, an expression of profound dismay. He reached for the child and held him up, resisting the urge to gag. The child clung to Jerry, laid his head on his shoulder, his body molded to him as if he would never allow himself to be pulled away. He cried great, dry, wracking sobs, then became still, breathing faintly.

  Clearly, one dilemma marched in right after another, but Jerry wasn’t sure if this one would not prove to be his undoing. Such a mystery. What had happened? Why was the child here, without any sign of its parents? How could he get this child to safety in the cold?

  First, the horses needed water. Then he’d have to get the child home. He tried to loosen his grip, crooning, telling the child he’d be all right, he needed to see to the horses. But he soon realized the folly of that thought.

  He tucked the child by his side, then began filling the watering trough with water that gushed from the hydrant. One by one, he loosened the horses, who almost ran over him in their need for water.

  He saw now that the horses were white Percherons. They were work horses, a common breed among the Amish with their substantial height and wide, deep chests like Belgians. Their muscles were heavy and they had massive legs with a spray of thick hair surrounding their hooves. Their necks were arched and they had well-molded faces and large brown eyes. These horses were of a fine breed, well taken care of until now.

  As best he could, he forked hay with one hand, the child gripping his body like a little monkey. Jerry shook his head as he watched the starved horses tearing at the hay. There were eleven of them. Some were tied in stalls, others were milling around in what he thought must have formerly been an enclosure for the dry cows.

  He stood surveying the barn. He’d done what he could, so now he must see to this child. He could not get help for Hannah. The telephone was unavailable, so there was nothing to do but ride home to her, carrying the bedraggled child that needed a bath, a change of clothing, and food of some kind.

  He wrapped him in the soiled quilt as best he could, with the child straining to stay against him, screaming hysterically if he felt himself being pulled away. Working fast, Jerry wrapped him up, bits of hay and dirt clinging to the blanket. Then he hurried out of the barn, shuddering at the harsh scene of the smoking remains of the Klasserman house.

  He shook his head to rid himself of mental images of what might have occurred. Riding home without help for Hannah was not the worst of this day that seemed shrouded in unreality. The air was cold, but the surrounding white of the pristine plains seemed almost surreal after the appalling sight he had left behind.

  Jerry clutched the child to his chest with one hand as he held the reins in the other, allowing King to find his way home, as he had done when he rescued Hannah.

  When he opened the door of the ranch house, he saw Hannah sitting in the same rocking chair and staring dully out the north window, precisely the way he had left her. She did not turn her head at his approach. The house was cold.

  “Hannah.” She didn’t respond, wouldn’t acknowledge his presence.

  He held out the child wrapped in its filthy quilt.

  She turned, halfway.

  “The Klassermans’ house burned to the ground. I found this child in the barn.” Hannah blinked, sat up, and turned toward him. She rose to her feet, clawing at the edges of the quilt. Her lips moved and a whisper emerged. “Siss unfaschtendich.” There is no sense.

  “I don’t know how long he was out there.”

  She took him out of Jerry’s arms, carried him to the sofa, and unwrapped the poor, filthy child, her face grim. “Put the kettle on,” she ordered.

  Quickly, Jerry set about building a fire as the child began his breathless wailing. Hannah carried him to the bathroom. The water pipes pinged and bumped in the wall as she turned on the hot water in the clawfoot bathtub. He heard her talking in soft, muted tones. The soiled clothing and quilt were hurled out through the bathroom door, followed by a clipped, “Burn these.”

  Then, “Oh, Jerry!”

  Quickly, he went to the bathroom door. “What is it, Hannah?”

  “It’s … she’s a girl!”

  There was nothing to say, so Jerry just nodded.

  “Go get the baking soda. Quick!”

  Jerry obeyed.

  The little girl screamed in pain as she was lowered into the warm, soapy water, her bottom raw with her own waste, and no one to change the poor child’s diaper.

  Hannah reached for the proffered baking soda, tears running down her face unchecked, her nose running, her lips trembling. “Bring those muslin sheets from the closet in my bedroom. Cut them into six or eight pieces, it doesn’t matter. We need diapers. And oh, Jerry, bring me one of your tee shirts, the nicest one you have. Oh, and the talcum powder on my dresser.”

  Jerry felt very much like a husband as he collected the items, although he hesitated as he approached Hannah’s bedroom. He felt like an intruder. He had no idea what talcum powder looked like, but picked up an oval, pink container with roses on the front that he guessed must hold powder. He handed it to her, and she reached for it without looking at him, her one hand cradling the child’s head as she lay in the soothing bath.

  “Poor, poor baby girl. Jerry, put about half a cup of oatmeal in a dish and pour some of the water from the teakettle over it.”

  Again, Jerry did as he was told, vaguely aware of the rumbling from his own stomach. He spread the muslin sheet on the table, found a scissors in the sewing machine cabinet, and began to cut diapers.

  Hannah appeared, the child wrapped in a large towel, her face glowing from the heat in the bathroom, two safety pins clutched in one hand. She toweled the little girl dry, then leaned back and surveyed the face with the mop of brown hair, wet and curling, that lay against the clean scalp, the large, frightened eyes in her small oval face.

  “Who is she, Jerry? Where did you find her?”

  Jerry related the whole story as Hannah dried the small body. She beckoned for a square of muslin and turned her back to diaper the child, then sat back down to draw the much too large tee shirt over her, securing it at the neck with another safety pin.

  Jerry couldn’t help noticing what a capable mother she was. But then, she had been the oldest in her family which, he presumed, would have given her some skills in caring for children.

  “I’m going to the kitchen to feed her some oatmeal.” It was an open invitation for him to join her at the kitchen ta
ble so he did just that, settling himself in a chair and watching the way she balanced the child on one hip, stirring milk and molasses into the oatmeal with the other. She brought it to the table before sitting down, sliding the child expertly into her lap, a move so motherly, so fascinating that it conjured up moments of his own childhood, a time in his life he’d as soon forget.

  Hannah bent her dark head, coaxing the little girl to try what was on the spoor. Timidly at first, then with more courage, the child ate small bites of the sweet, milky porridge.

  “Tell me more,” Hannah said. So he told her in detail about the grim specter of smoking debris, the heat-damaged cars, the thirsty horses, the poor child.

  “But what happened? We can’t just sit here with the child without trying to contact her family. We know their names. Surely the deed to the property is recorded somewhere here in North Dakota. The sale’s transaction. Something. How did the child end up in the barn if both the parents were trapped in the house? Or were they kidnapped, robbed, their house set fire to by thieves? Horse thieves? No, I guess not. You said the horses were still in the barn. My word, Jerry, we have to do something!”

  While Hannah was speaking she was eating the leftover oatmeal the child was unable to consume. Still talking in fast, clipped tones, she made a larger pot of oatmeal and left it to set up while she returned to the table.

  “She looks a bit like Timothy. Do you suppose it is their child? Did he even speak of having had a child?” Her questions were hurled so fast that Jerry felt as if he had to dodge some of them, while they zinged overhead like a volley of shots fired from a rifle. Sometimes he shrugged. Other times he shook his head. But most of the time he admitted he did not know.

  “But we can’t keep her,” Hannah concluded.

  “Likely not, in the end.”

  “Oh, but we have her now, sweet, innocent angel that she is. Who would put a helpless baby in a barn in the dead of winter? I can’t begin to imagine the trauma, the fear. What kept her from freezing?”

  “There are a lot of horses in that barn. Percherons. Huge, white ones.”

  Hannah opened her eyes wide. “Is that what they are?” she asked.

  Jerry nodded.

  “This is too much. I can’t handle any of this. All I know is the fact that this sweet baby is safe. Oh, Jerry, I never saw such a pitiful bottom. Blistered. So fiery red. It will take days and days to heal.” She blushed, having spoken on a high note of emotion.

  Hannah bent her head over the sleepy-eyed child, drew her head against her chest, and rocked back and forth, another move that made Jerry’s heart ache with memories of his own mother.

  “She’s sleeping,” Hannah said, awed by the drooping eyelids, the relaxed expression of bliss. “Get down a few of the sheep’s wool comforters from the high shelf in the closet of the guest room.”

  Jerry hastened down the hallway, smiling and thinking what a good husband he was turning out to be. He found the comforters and met Hannah in the hallway as she whispered, “Spread them in my room in the corner, beside my bed. Get a clean sheet from the chest of drawers in the bathroom.”

  Again, he did as he was commanded, trying to spread everything straight, the corners tucked in, then stood back, allowing Hannah to pass him and gently lower the sleeping child. She nestled down contentedly, giving a soft little moan.

  Hannah shooed Jerry out of the way before retrieving a blanket at the foot of her bed, covering the small, weary body with the folded warmth of the heavy coverlet. She stood back, crossed her arms, and sighed with contentment. “Oh my. All winter I’ll have her to look after.” And then she did the most unexpected thing. She felt for Jerry’s right hand with her left and grasped it, held it.

  Afraid to breathe, Jerry stood still, silently praying that she wouldn’t let go.

  “It’s just so unreal. I was at the end of my rope. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I let everything get to me so horribly. It must have been the … you know. That night.” And she still held his hand.

  “Let’s go. She’s sleeping so good.” She pulled gently, drew her hand away from his, but stayed by his side until they reached the kitchen.

  “I’m hungry. Do you want a dish of oatmeal?”

  Too flummoxed to say anything, he spoke with his eyes, nodding his head. Still asking questions, Hannah put the kettle on, making plans, what she would sew, the good thick flannel for diapers, the flowered print mattered not a snitch, the cotton fabric in the lowest drawer of the bureau that her father had been given when he left home. They had brought it the whole way out here to the Dakota prairie, can you imagine?

  She’d need socks, though, and shoes, eventually. Hannah wondered if she could walk or crawl. How old was she? Was she really the Webers’ child? Who else could she be?

  Jerry could only sit and listen as he tried to make sense of Hannah’s complete transformation, going from a vacant, immobile figure in a chair, to this animated, bright-eyed, talkative woman.

  He had been convinced she was desperately depressed, sick with some mysterious ailment of the mind. And now, the sight of this soiled, derelict child had plucked her out of her despondency and placed her into a whirlwind of planning and curiosity.

  Had she been aware of holding his hand? Probably not. He thought for the thousandth time, he’d never understand women, and most certainly not Hannah.

  They ate in comfortable silence until Hannah scraped the last of the oatmeal from her bowl, a flush already appearing in her pale face, and looked at him squarely, her eyes boring into his with an intensity that bordered on panic.

  “But, Jerry. Eventually we’ll have to give her back, right? We have to do the right thing and find her family and all, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “How will we do it?”

  “I’ll ride into Pine and see if there was mail at the post office, check the sheriff’s office for documents from the sale. Anything. There must be family who needs to be notified.”

  Hannah crossed her arms, rubbing her palms up and down her forearms. “It gives me the shivers,” she said. “It’s just so awful.”

  “I agree. It’s too confusing to let your mind dwell on what could have happened.”

  The fire in the cook stove snapped and popped. A stick of wood fell. Outside, the wind howled in the dark of night, sending sprays of snow skimming against the windows, skittering across the wood siding to the north.

  Hannah felt the smallness of the homestead, little black dots on a vast, expansive land that seemed to have no beginning and no end, a sea of cold, white, frozen snow. How easily they could be erased from marring this unspoiled land. Was it good that they were here, her and Jerry, and now this child? For the first time in her life, she felt a drawing back, almost like an infidelity, a thing gone wrong. To barge ahead without a doubt had always been her way. But, somehow, here tonight, there was a growing sense of trembling and wavering under a power that seemed out of her control.

  Was she deserting ship? Forsaking her true courage and fortitude the way a loose woman left her husband on a whim? An infidelity, yes. In one sense, her god had been the homestead. Or its success, whichever way you looked at it.

  Hannah was unaware of her own dark brooding, unaware of the way Jerry was intently watching the softening of her face, the myriad emotions that crisscrossed it like invisible pathways.

  Suddenly, she shivered. “Sometimes I wonder how long we’ll be able to stay here.”

  Jerry started. “Why do you say that?”

  “I’m not sure. All that’s happened, this string of calamities, it just … I don’t know, sort of takes the wind from my sails or something. I feel as if the strength is gone from my ranching legs.”

  “You’ll feel better once summer comes. Spring, I mean. You just have an extraordinary case of the winter blues.”

  “No, it’s more than that.”

  Jerry waited.

  “I read Abigail Jenkins’s diary once …”

  She did not continue. He watche
d her face, the heavy lids drooping, the sweep of dark lashes on her pale cheeks, the tense line of her full lips. One hand crept across the table, found a teacup, her forefinger and thumb tracing the handle over and over.

  She got up and went to the cook stove to put the kettle on. She measured tea leaves into two heavy ironstone mugs. When the tea was ready, she brought both mugs to the table and set one down at his elbow. She took her seat across from him, stirred sugar into her tea, and sighed.

  “I read Abigail Jenkins’s diary once,” she repeated.

  He raised his eyebrows. “And?”

  “Well, she was as tough and wiry as shoe leather, you know.”

  “I never knew her.”

  “No, I guess you wouldn’t have. She died of pneumonia. Hod has never been the same. Anyway, she was brought out here as a young bride and barely survived the winters. It was the wind. The loneliness. She suffered. I never would have imagined that of her. She seemed as if she was made for the prairie, tough and resilient. Nothing fazed her. I always imagined I was exactly like her. Designed for solitude, for wide-open spaces. Laughing at the elements. Now, I’m not so sure. And yet, I’m afraid this feeling of not being sure is somehow wrong.”

  She suddenly burst out, clearly exasperated. “How do we know what is right and what is wrong?”

  Jerry sipped his tea, picked a bit of tea leaf off his tongue. “We don’t always know. We pray for guidance, then God allows us choices, and if they’re the wrong ones, we keep going in that direction until we learn.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I don’t. It’s just something I heard a preacher say one time. We’re human beings so we make mistakes. The biggest thing is that we care whether we do the right thing.”

  “That’s important?”

  “I think it is, yes.”

  Hannah held her mug in both hands, her fingers curled around it for comfort. “You think being here is the right thing?”

  Before Jerry could answer, a thin wail from Hannah’s bedroom shocked them both into action.

  “She’s crying!” Hannah said breathlessly, already on her way with Jerry close behind her.