by Linda Byler
Hannah fled out of the room, away from her family. She threw herself on the bed in the blue guest room, her face crumpled, her eyes squeezed shut, as she cried heaving sobs and groans, emitting the deepest form of grief. She had no thoughts, only a sadness so profound it felt as if she was hurtling into a bottomless pit, a void completely empty of light.
Finally, she stilled. Thoughts entered her head, marching through in quick succession, like soldiers. She filtered truth from thoughts she knew were only an imitation of the real thing. Did she truly want to return to the homestead alone? In spring, yes. But not for any other reason. Not for blizzards or drought or, oh mercy, grasshoppers!
Without Jerry? No. Even with Jerry, if he were alive, probably not. It was living here in Lancaster County, always feeling like the odd person out and now the object of sympathy. The poor widow. The poor thing.
What no one knew was the fact that she had a substantial amount of money. And that she planned to use it to establish herself as a good, solid Amish frau with a business. She wasn’t sure what kind of business, yet, but she’d figure it out.
Yes, Manny, I do miss Jerry. I miss him so much that I did want to escape. I thought I could flee, get away from my sorrow, my regret for all the times he was so loving and I was so mean. The flowers he brought. The limp bouquet of columbines. She shrank within herself remembering her snort and her words—“They’re wilted.” His hurt expression as he arranged them in a mason jar.
Jerry never pouted, never showed his hurt feelings. The man didn’t have a selfish bone in his body. Jerry had been the best. Her tears began to flow again, a torrent of regret.
“Jerry, whatever it’s worth to you now, wherever you are, I’m sorry. I loved you as much as one mean, selfish, hardhearted person could.”
CHAPTER 17
THAT SPRING, THE FRESH DEW LAY ON THE LANCASTER COUNTY countryside, the air was still chill and bracing, and the first peas and onions were shooting from the depth of the rich, brown soil. Hannah was up and dressed, watching the road for the black station wagon.
She could have hitched up her grandfather’s horse to the buggy, but she figured with all the miles she had to cover, it was worth hiring a driver. She told no one of her day’s plans, giving her mother some offhand answer about going shopping.
She actually was going shopping, but not for groceries or fabric or anything of that sort. She had dreamt of Rocher’s Hardware, a dream so vivid she could smell the fabric, the spools of thread, the dusty trays of buttons, and the paper sacks she handed to the women who came to buy necessities. She awoke that morning with her head full of plans, staring at the ceiling, her heart pounding with excitement.
She would be the first plain woman to have a dry goods store. She had plenty of experience with Harold and Doris Rocher in the town of Pine, North Dakota. Paid in flour, cornmeal, salt, and coffee, it was the single thing that had kept their family from starvation. That, and the prairie hens they cooked, salted, and gravied.
First, she needed her own place, which was what she was doing today. House shopping. The palms of her hands were wet with perspiration, her face felt flushed, and she chewed her thumbnails to the quick.
The driver’s name was Jim Raudabaugh. He was a retired gentleman, short and portly, stuffed behind the black steering wheel like a sack of horse feed. His white hair stuck out from under his small gray fedora like porcupine quills, but his face was shaved and smooth, his eyes quick and bright. He viewed the world through rose-tinted spectacles, literally, perched on the end of his nose.
The minute she was seated in the car, he introduced himself, reaching across his ample stomach to shake her hand with his own.
“I’m Hannah. Hannah Riehl.”
“Yes. Yes. The young widow. Please accept my deepest sympathy, Hannah. A tragedy. Tragedy. A man dying in his youth. Are there children?”
Hannah shook her head.
“That is good.” He looked at her with so much watery-eyed sympathy that Hannah felt a burning in her nostrils, the beginning of tears in her eyes. Bless this kindly man, she thought.
“Now, where are we off to?” he asked, all business.
“Actually, I don’t really know. I’m house hunting. I want to find a small place of my own.”
He didn’t need any more information. Hannah knew only too well that Amish drivers were the best source of carried news, and often gossip. Which, she supposed, was the Amish folks’ fault, the way they rode along with their drivers, offering all sorts of interesting tidbits.
“Well, then, there’s a place east of New Holland, on Route 23. But that would be a bit out of the way. Well, tell you what we’ll do. We’ll drive to Route 340 and follow it a ways. How’s that?”
Hannah nodded.
The fields and forests were bursting with color, like a quilt pieced in a myriad of greens, with brown strips of plowed earth, white seagulls flapping behind plodding horses, the lavender and purple of the lilacs, the red and yellow of tulips bordering houses like fancy collars and cuffs.
Clematis climbed wooden arbors, waiting to burst into color. Hedges of forsythia sent forth brilliant green leaves after their yellow blossoms had dropped to the ground. Yes, there was beauty here—a cramped, cultivated sort of beauty, like the women in clothing catalogs with their faces painted and patted with powders and oils.
But the blue sky was above them, the clouds like puffs of cotton balls, pure and white and unfettered. The sun was as bright yellow here as it was in North Dakota, so that was something, wasn’t it?
From that same sky and those clouds the rain would fall in spring and summer. In the autumn of the year the creeks would be running full. And winter would bring nitrogen in the form of snow, piling up on the fields with fresh cow and horse manure spread underneath. Here was a land that would blossom like a field of wildflowers. The climate, the soil, the work ethic of the many plain peoples who adhered to their farming practices, bringing trade and a constant influx of enterprising, hardworking folks who would live in prosperity their whole life long, and their children after them.
Hannah planned to be one of the prosperous entrepreneurs.
“So, you’re searching for a small home on an acre of ground? Or maybe more than one acre?” the driver inquired politely as he broke in on Hannah’s wandering thoughts.
“Well, what I have in mind is a small house, but I do need an addition, or a small garage for what I have in mind,” she replied.
Jim was intensely curious, but something kept him from asking more questions.
The house along Route 23, just east of New Holland, was a small house built of cement blocks with a deep porch, immense posts holding up the wide roof, and a garage that was set at the end of the gravel driveway.
Hannah had a bad feeling about the house. Cement blocks were not warm or inviting, no matter if someone had slapped a coat of thick, white paint on the exterior. So, she shook her head no, and Jim backed obediently out of the driveway, turned right, and continued on his way.
The next house with a FOR SALE sign was along Hollander Road. The roof had a fairly steep pitch, with two of the cutest dormer windows she had ever seen sprouting from the shingles. It reminded her of a gingerbread house or a cabin in the woods—homey, cozy. It brought to mind evenings sitting in a comfortable chair with a gas lamp hissing softly above her, a coal fire in a small black stove, a braided rug, and a bowl of popcorn.
The wind could howl around that sturdy house and it would never budge. It was built of brick. The porch was deep and wide, with three windows facing the road. The front door was oak—wooden, solid, and homey.
Hannah’s mouth went dry as her heart sped up. This was her house. There were boxwoods planted along the front, sheltering the porch like a green privacy fence. The yard was in need of a good cutting.
“Can we go inside?” she breathed.
Jim suspected this was a house that suited her as he observed her wide eyes. “Well, we’ll have to see.”
He grunted as
he heaved himself from behind the steering wheel and again as he pulled himself to his feet. Hannah stayed in the car, thinking he might be acquainted with the occupants.
She held her breath as he went to the side door that was set lower against the house than the front porch. Please, please, let someone be at home. She was not aware that she was chewing down on her thumbnail until she tasted blood. Quickly, she lowered it and wrapped her apron around it.
Yes! The door was opened by an elderly lady in a flowered house dress. They spoke too long, then Jim turned toward the vehicle and motioned to Hannah with his hand.
Hannah fumbled for the door latch and stumbled out of the car, walking too fast, too eager, she knew, but there was no stopping. She extended a hand. “Hello. I’m Hannah Riehl.”
The elderly woman peered up at her through round, gold-rimmed spectacles, her small blue eyes set in deep folds. Her nose looked like a tulip bulb, a veritable tributary of purple veins crossing it. Her mouth was small and puckered with the biggest mole Hannah had ever seen sprouting a growth of stiff hairs, like a tiny toothbrush.
“Good morning, my dear. A beautiful one it is, wouldn’t you say?” she warbled, in a high, quivery voice.
“Yes. Yes it is.”
“So, the man tells me you’ve come to see my house?”
Hannah nodded, her smile reaching too wide, her eyes going to the adorable little V-shaped roof above their heads. Just enough of a roof to keep the rain off someone who came calling.
“Well, then, I suppose I’ll have to invite you in, right?” she chortled, stepping aside to allow them both to enter.
Hannah felt a stir of irritation as Jim, the driver, entered too. He really had no business accompanying them through these rooms, following her around like a nosy pig. Too curious. Did she have a choice, though, without displaying bad manners?
It was two steps up to the kitchen on the left. There were hooks to hang outerwear on the stoop just inside the door. The kitchen had white cupboards, a darling window above the sink with no panes on the lower ones, only two vertical panes on the top. It was bordered by a limp, flowered curtain, yellowed with age and faded by the sun.
The linoleum was black-and-white squares, waxed to a high gloss. The woodwork was sturdy, with routed lines and squares at the top corners with fancy circular grooves, all painted white. Good plaster walls and hardwood floors that were varnished like a mirror.
Hannah gasped audibly when she saw the open stairway with its elaborate bannister, the spindles carved into a complicated pattern that presented a line of perfect symmetry as they marched up the stairs. It was like a dollhouse, except large enough for real people!
A brick fireplace in the living room had a real fire crackling. There were two small bedrooms up under the eaves, with slanted ceilings and more hardwood floors. A bathroom at the top of the stairs had a white clawfoot bathtub, a small sink, a metal medicine cabinet with a mirror, a commode, gleaming stainless-steel toothbrush holder, towel racks—everything she could possibly need or want. A clever little linen closet was built into the hallway.
The thought that she might not be able to afford this house flitted through her mind suddenly, bringing with it a sharp blow of reality.
There was a bedroom downstairs and another small bathroom with only a sink and a commode, the fixtures in green. By this time, Hannah harbored a sinking feeling that she would never be able to purchase this sweet, homey dwelling. For one thing, she didn’t deserve it. God knew she was not a nice person, so He only handed her one blow after another. Or let the devil do it. She was never quite sure.
She turned to go down the stairs to the basement, and almost pushed the driver, Jim, down ahead of her as she bumped squarely into him. The old irritation welled up. She couldn’t stop herself from wishing he’d either move out of her way or fall down the steps. He’d bounce like a rubber ball, the fat thing.
The basement had gray cement block walls and a smooth concrete floor. Imagine, Hannah thought, being able to clean the basement with buckets of soapy water and a mop. Every farmhouse she had ever lived in had a dirt basement floor, packed down and slimy with moisture. She hated having to go to the cellar for a jar of applesauce or peaches, imagining snakes and lizards and all sorts of wet creatures with beady eyes.
By the time Hannah reached the kitchen, she was filled with deep despair, wearing her self-doubt like a black mantle, all her anticipation squelched.
“I don’t want to move, but the daughters won’t allow me to live by myself. So they’re packing me up to live with my Shirley. Not that she isn’t a nice person, but I’ll certainly miss my house.” Her blue eyes became liquid with emotion. Dabbing at them with a wrinkled handkerchief she fished out of her apron pocked, she sniffed bravely, then stuffed it back.
“I don’t need the money, but the girls do, so they told me not to take less than seven thousand. I’m not supposed to be showing this house to you, or telling you the price, but I’m still on my own two feet, breathing through my nose!”
She chortled and tapped her nose. “Or my mouth, when my sinuses act up. Unpredictable as the weather they are.”
Jim giggled with appreciation, then cut it short when Hannah gave him a hard look that said, clear as day, She’s not talking to you.
Seven thousand dollars. Her mind whirred like Harold Rocher’s cash register. Could she build an addition for another thousand? Pay for fabric and sewing notions? There would be lawyer’s fees for the sale of the house, hidden costs like taxes and so many other things, like shelves for her merchandise, and a counter. Well, first things first. She’d have to find a good carpenter. She could do without much furniture and she could borrow the basic household supplies from her mother.
Hannah clenched and unclenched her hands, wishing for Jerry and his sound advice, his knowledge of business transactions. She hadn’t known she depended on him, had always made him believe she was perfectly capable on her own.
Should she make a lesser offer? Return home and ask her grandfather? No. She wanted this house. The old lady’s daughters wouldn’t take less and she had more than ten thousand dollars. She was going to go ahead and take it.
“I’ll take it,” she said firmly, hiding her doubts.
“You will? For seven thousand?”
“Yes.”
“But, you likely need to go to the bank. You’ll need to be approved. Where’s your husband?” Distrustful now, calculating.
“My husband was buried a few months ago. I’m a widow, and no, I don’t need to make arrangements with the bank. I have the money.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” the old lady said, her voice quivering. “I didn’t mean to be rude. So you lost your husband so young? Oh, God have mercy. It’s a horrible thing to have happened. And you so young. So young.” She went to Hannah and clasped both of Hannah’s hands in hers. Holding them, she looked up at Hannah with absolute sympathy.
“Call me Thelma. Thelma Johns. My husband was Richard, may he rest in peace.”
Under normal circumstances, Hannah would have pulled her hands away from the old woman, but her mind was elsewhere, already considering when she’d move in, how she’d arrange her sparse belongings, what she’d absolutely need to purchase to get the store up and running.
Her grandfather, her mother, Manny, everyone had to see the house. They hitched up old Fred to the spring wagon and drove over to see it the following Thursday.
It was a perfect spring day. The sun shone like liquid gold, bathing everything in its glistening light. The trees burst with fluorescent green, new leaves unfolding with their newborn colors. Daffodils hung their spent, withered heads like deceased little men. Tulips drooped in faded colors, having spent their finery. But the roses were coming into bloom with the purple irises like bearded kings, showing off their intricate splendor.
New petunia plantings showed bits of pink. Geraniums transplanted from tin coffee cans pushed red blossoms. Yellow and orange dots of marigold heads surrounded symmetrical borders.<
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Hannah thought all of this was rather artificial beauty, but she supposed if she bought a house, she’d best get used to it and forget about wide open spaces dotted with lacy wildflowers, all dancing in one direction as if in concert, the untamable wind the conductor of the amazing concert.
As they turned onto Hollander Road, Hannah’s stomach flipped a bit. She was nervous now, afraid of what her grandfather might say.
Surrounded by woods, down a low rise and around a bend, and there it was, even more charming than she had remembered.
The perfect little house.
An indescribable feeling of joy welled up in Hannah, leaving her breathless, her eyes shining with anticipation.
“Doddy,” she called from the second seat. “Turn here. This is it.”
He slowed Fred, turned expertly, and brought the horse to a stop. “Vell,” he said.
“Why Hannah, it’s a very nice house, like you said,” her mother said, always kind, always supportive.
Manny smiled and nodded his approval. “I think it’s worth what you paid for it.”
“Thank you. Oh, I’m so glad you approve.”
“Can we see the inside?” her mother asked.
“I’m sure we can, if Mrs. Johns is at home.”
And so the tour began, led by Thelma, of course, who commenced a lengthy discussion of the house’s origin, the happy times spent there with Richard and the girls, until Hannah thought she would fly to pieces with impatience.
“So, how do you plan on providing for yourself?” her grandfather asked once they were back in the spring wagon, Fred clopping clumsily down the road.
“I will be looking for someone to build an addition to the house where I plan to have a dry goods store,” Hannah explained.
Her grandfather stared straight ahead without comment. Her mother turned in her seat, her elbow dangling over the back. “But, Hannah …”
“What?” Instantly defensive, Hannah brought her eyebrows down, a pinched look to her mouth.
