by Jill Stengl
Monte sat up, swung his legs over the side of his bed, and rested his forehead on his clenched fists. “But God, if I ask for Marva, what if You say, ‘No’? Surely You don’t mean that I’m supposed to ask for something specific, just for my own pleasure. Do You?”
No matter how he might beat around the bush when he prayed, requesting peace, asking for love, begging for a wife, one obvious fact remained: Both he and God knew that Marva and none other was on his mind. He might as well be honest.
“Dear God.” He paused and then amended, “Dear Lord God, You know my heart’s desire. You know I want Marva Obermeier as my wife. Please, Lord, I want her to love me! I know You don’t force people to love each other, but I don’t know how else to ask this. I’m a miserable beast and entirely unworthy of a woman like her. I feel like an idiot for even asking this. . .but You tell me over and over again to trust You, so I’m trying my best.”
Thirteen
Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.
Isaiah 26:3
Marva put one hand to the small of her back and rubbed, leaning on the top rail of the pigpen. The pigs snorted and squabbled over their slop, ears flopping, snouts wriggling. The shoats had grown and fattened nicely over the summer and would provide some good eating over winter. Papa intended to sell several of them, but others would soon hang in pieces in the smokehouse.
J. D. Parker, the hired man, sauntered past her and tipped his hat. Marva merely nodded. Although she usually appreciated good manners, his behavior—or maybe it was his expression—seemed too familiar for their degree of acquaintance.
The hog stench finally got to be too much. She entered the barn and climbed the ladder to the hayloft—her first time up there in many years. The rich hay aroma, the golden motes of dust revealed by sunlight slipping through cracks in the barn walls, and the mounds of hay stored for winter feed all created a sense of nostalgia, of slipping back through time. Seating herself near the loft door, her back against a prickly wall of hay, she gazed out across the Wisconsin countryside and felt like a child again. A lonely, listless child in a middle-aged woman’s body.
Late summer sunshine flowed over the fields of corn and wheat. A breeze made ripples across the expanse like waves on a huge, golden lake. Her mind instantly pictured a sun-flecked blue surface with reflections of silver-birch trunks against the dark, upside-down images of pines. She heard again the slap of water against the shore and the quacking of ducks. The wind against her face brought back the sigh of pines and the rustle of oak and maple leaves instead of cornstalks.
This ache in her soul—how could she bear it?
“Marva?” her father called from below.
She was tempted to remain quiet and preserve her peace. “In the loft, Papa.” She heard his boots on the ladder rungs.
“What are you doing up here?” His head rose through the trapdoor, bits of hay dangling from hair and beard.
“Nothing much.”
“Your mother’s been looking for you.” He rested his forearms on the loft floor, still standing on the ladder. “I’ve been meaning to tell you that I’m gonna hire J. D. Parker on full time. He kept the place up well while we were away last month, and I like the way he tends to things as if this place were his own. I disapprove of the way he frequents local taverns, but since the drink doesn’t interfere with his work, I can’t complain.”
Marva nodded. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”
He snorted. “A farm needs a man to work it. You’ve done more’n your share around this place since you were a little thing. It’s time to face facts. I’m too old to keep it up.”
Gazing at her father’s weathered face and stooping shoulders, Marva knew he was right. “Are you planning to sell the farm?”
He climbed all the way up, brushed off his trousers, and then sat beside her and chewed on a straw. “I’d always thought to hand it on to you, once you married, but I don’t see that plan coming about unless you suddenly take a shine to Parker.” He gave her a teasing wink. “I know you love the place, but your heart isn’t fastened to it. To be honest, I ain’t so dead set on living out my days here as I used to be.”
Marva pondered this in silence, doubting his words. Papa’s roots were deeply planted in the soil of his farm. “Where would we go?”
“I’m consulting the Lord on that matter, as is your mother. You might try asking Him for suggestions yourself, daughter.” He gave her a sidelong glance. “Anything on your mind these days?”
She studied her clasped hands, noting a torn fingernail. “Nothing I can talk about right now.”
He sighed softly. “Well, when you’re ready to talk, I’m ready to listen.” He reached out to pat her cheek with his callused hand. “The Lord has a plan.”
Instead of watching him leave, Marva gazed across the fields once more.
❧
That evening, after cleaning up the kitchen and after her parents had gone to bed, she sat down at the table and opened the newspaper. There had been no letters from Lucky since well before her trip up north. Her mind told her to stop looking, since finding nothing brought only hurt and frustration, yet her fingers turned the pages anyway.
The ad caught her eye almost instantly:
Dear Lonely in Longtree, This is a difficult letter to write, which is why I’ve been silent so long. I told you once before that God changed me, but you need to know how and why. As a young man, I fell into wild ways. Needing money to pay gambling debts, I stole cattle. By God’s grace, I was not hanged for my crimes. I have paid my debts, but the stigma of prison will always be with me. If, after reading this, you still wish to correspond, I shall be forever grateful. If not, may the Lord’s peace and blessings rest upon you. Ever yours, Lucky in Lakeland.
Marva read the note three times. Cattle rustling. A prison sentence. A vivid picture of a cold-eyed villain with a pock-marked face, an evil sneer, and prison pallor flashed through her thoughts. Lucky could look exactly like that Blanchard man at the cabin near Brandy Lake. He could smell even worse. He had never described his physical appearance, and she had never given hers.
A woman simply did not rush into marriage with a former convict. Even though the Lord had forgiven him, even though he was now a respected businessman—or so he said—he still might not make a good husband. Not for any woman. Particularly not for her.
What would her parents say? Papa was generally a kindhearted man, but he had a tendency to be suspicious of former sinners. To his way of thinking, such men could never completely change. This viewpoint put man-made limits on God’s powers of redemption and sanctification, which was entirely wrong, yet could anyone convince Papa of this? Not as yet. Not to Marva’s knowledge.
Mother was more likely to think the best of people, yet she would follow her husband’s lead. Much though she wanted her daughter to be happily married, she would no doubt blanch at the thought of a former convict for a son-in-law.
This knowledge gave Marva a measure of comfort. Parents were provided by God as sources of wisdom and protection from foolish choices. The very overprotectiveness she had disparaged for years might now prove useful.
Folding up the paper, she sat for a moment longer, her thoughts scattered. Lucky. Prison. Monte? No matter how often she tried to dispel the notion of Monte being Lucky as impossible, it kept returning.
With her thumb and forefinger, she tugged at her lower lip, struggling to remember. Hadn’t Myles said something, years ago, about his older brother? Or had it been Virginia Van Huysen, Myles and Monte’s grandmother? The dear old lady had loved to reminisce about her elder grandson to anyone who would listen, and Marva had often sat beside her in a rocking chair on Beulah’s porch of a summer evening. But no, Virginia wouldn’t have mentioned Monte’s flaws; she had tended to dwell on the fact that he’d committed h
is life to the Lord before he died. That was understandable.
Pressing two fingers against her lips, Marva leaned back in her chair and stared out the kitchen window. Myles had run away from his grandmother’s home to join the circus. Mrs. Van Huysen had sent Monte to find and bring back his little brother; he hadn’t been involved in Myles’s circus-performing days. From the circus, Myles had run out West. That ugly gray horse he used to ride, the one named after a cactus, had it come from Texas? She couldn’t recall. Wherever it was, Monte had followed Myles someplace out West, and supposedly he had died in a cattle stampede.
Marva shook her head and dropped her fisted hands to her lap. This was no good. If Myles had ever mentioned Monte in connection with cattle rustling, she couldn’t recall. She could ride over and visit Beulah tomorrow. . .but no. At the lodge, Beulah had refused to discuss Monte’s past.
Leaving the newspaper behind, Marva slowly rose and climbed the steep stairs to her tiny bedroom above the kitchen. Through her open windows flowed the familiar chorus of crickets, but tonight’s show featured a solo performer—a lone cricket chirped from somewhere inside the room. It fell silent when she searched for it, naturally.
Two cats curled atop her coverlet. “What good are you?” she asked, smoothing the calico’s soft fur. “Sleeping while a cricket roams the house.” The cat rolled over and stretched without opening her eyes. Marva stroked the other cat’s striped back and gently squeezed one white paw, but it never acknowledged her.
Her candle’s light flickered over the sampler hanging above the head of her bed. Amid a field of faded flowers, crooked words stitched thirty years ago by her own hands proclaimed truth from Isaiah: “Thou wilt keep him in perfect peace, whose mind is stayed on thee: because he trusteth in thee.”
Marva set her candleholder on the side table. “Peace,” she whispered. Her eyes slowly closed. Sinking to her knees beside the bed, she flung her arms above her head and buried her face in her quilted coverlet. “I have no peace, Lord! I have no peace because I haven’t trusted Thee. What shall I do? Oh, whatever shall I do!”
After the storm of emotion cleared, her knees began to ache. She sat back on her heels, then turned to sit with her back against the bed frame, rubbing her raised knees with both hands.
The cricket began to chirp again. The sound seemed to come from behind her dressing table.
“Lord God, I have no idea what to do next. I should answer Lucky’s letter. . .but how? I cannot tell him that I’ll marry him no matter what, because I don’t even know if I want to marry him.”
The truth rose in her thoughts, but she tried to squelch it. “I know I should never have advertised for a husband. I don’t know what I was think—Well, yes, actually I guess I do know. Rebellious thoughts, that’s what I was thinking. I wanted to force Your hand. And now look what a mess I’ve made of things!”
She scrubbed her hands over her face. “The only man I want to marry is Monte Van Huysen. If he won’t have me, I’ll simply live out my days as a spinster. Maybe I’ll find a widow or another spinster to set up housekeeping with me, and we’ll be eccentric together and keep dozens of cats.”
Her back began to ache. She climbed up on her bed, blew out her candle, pulled the striped cat into her lap, and stared out into darkness. As her eyes adjusted, the moonlit farmyard transformed into a magical world of shadows and light. An owl glided silently past the house and disappeared into a clump of trees.
“If Monte really is Lucky in Lakeland, then I do want to marry him, no matter if he does have a prison record in his past. I’ll admit that much. I don’t know if my parents will approve the match, but I know my own heart on that score, at least.” She rubbed the cat around its ears and chin until a rumbling purr rewarded her efforts.
Did she truly know her own heart? A few weeks’ acquaintance at a vacation lodge had provided sufficient time for her to develop a powerful attraction to the man, but did she know him well enough to pledge her love and fidelity for life? At times she thought she had glimpsed a depth of character behind his charming smile, but at other times he had seemed shallow. Physical attraction gave a relationship zest, for certain, yet a lifetime relationship required much more.
Remembering the solid strength of his arms, the warmth of his gaze, his gentle touch on her cheek. . .she lifted her hand to touch her face where he had once touched it. Disregarding the sleeping calico kitty, she flopped back against her feather bolster and tried to remember how it felt to rest against Monte’s shoulder.
Love always involved risk. To love was to open one’s heart to pain—the pain of loss, of rejection, of death. Was Monte Van Huysen worth such risk?
And what if all this speculation were baseless? What if Monte had never so much as seen her advertisement for a husband?
How can I know? How can I find out? I can scarcely ask Lucky in a public newspaper ad if he is Monte Van Huysen.
But to write a letter to Monte at the lodge. . . She dared not take so great a risk as that.
The calico cat, irritated by Marva’s unrest, hopped off the bed.
“Lord God, please help me resolve this situation in a way that causes the least pain or embarrassment to everyone involved.”
The cricket chirped.
Thump!
Marva’s eyes opened wide.
Silence, then crunch, crunch, crunch.
Marva grimaced. “I did ask for that, didn’t I? Thank you for doing your job, Patches.” Still wrinkling her nose, she slid off the bed to change into her nightdress.
Fourteen
Yea, all of you be subject one to another,
and be clothed with humility: for God resisteth the proud, and giveth grace to the humble.
I Peter 5:5
“Crown Him with many crowns, the Lamb upon His throne.” Marva sang along with the rest of the congregation while her fingers played the closing hymn. As soon as it ended, she picked up her book and her heavy shawl.
“You played the piano beautifully today, Marva. Thank you, as always, for serving so willingly. My hands are too stiff these days for me to do much playing, and Beulah and Myles have no time.”
Marva looked into Violet Watson’s smiling blue eyes and felt cheered. “I enjoy it, although I sometimes feel self-conscious. Myles plays so much better than I do.”
Beulah’s mother brushed that aside. “You do very well at accompanying while the congregation sings. Myles plays better than any of us, but if we depended on him for our music these days, we’d be in trouble. Beulah needs him to keep those boys in line during church services.” Violet shook her head in mock despair, though evidently proud of her grandchildren.
Marva could think of nothing more to say. At one time she would have babbled on without thinking, but more often these days she found herself withdrawing into silence. She simply smiled and fell into step with the older woman as they exited the small church building.
Violet Fairfield Watson had remarried after her first husband’s death, providing her three children, Beulah, Eunice, and Sam, with a loving stepfather. Obadiah and Violet Watson now had three sons of their own, all named for Old Testament prophets. Marva could never keep their names straight.
Obadiah Watson had served a long prison term for bank robbery, Marva recalled. But he had since been cleared of the crime, and the true criminal’s identity had been discovered. Lucky, on the other hand, admitted that he had deserved worse than a prison sentence for his crimes.
Violet touched her arm. “Are you coming to Beulah’s house for fellowship supper today? The pastor’s family is joining us. ”
“Yes, I believe we’re planning to come.”
❧
The crowd at the Van Huysen farmhouse included the Spinellis, an Italian family who owned and operated the town’s bakery, and the pastor and his large family. Children of all ages and sizes swarmed t
he premises inside and out, frequently slamming doors.
Beulah had baked a ham, and all the guests had brought food to share. The children filled their plates and sat outside on the porch chairs and steps. The adults clustered inside to partake of their meal, laughing and chatting.
Marva decided to fill her usual role and keep an eye on the children.
“Do you mind if I join you out here?” Caroline Schoengard let the screen door close behind herself.
“Please do. There’s plenty of room.” Marva smiled at the older woman.
Caroline pulled up another rocking chair beside her. “Since my incorrigible twins tend to start the most conflicts, I figure I’d better be responsible and prevent serious injuries, if possible.”
“Are all of your children here today?”
“No, Scott, our oldest, is visiting his young lady friend over in Bolger.”
Caroline nibbled at her food, but Marva sensed a question building. Sure enough, after setting down her fork, the pastor’s wife asked, “So, did you enjoy our holiday in the Northwoods?”
“Yes, very much. I know my parents did as well. How about your family?”
“They all had the time of their lives. Even the girls enjoyed themselves. I believe we will attempt to make the trip again next year. I know it did my husband good to relax for a time. I worry about his health. His heart troubles him, you know.”
“I hadn’t realized that. I’m sorry to hear it,” Marva said. “It is difficult for me to imagine Rev. Schoengard ill. He is always so vigorous.”
“Well, we’re all getting on in years.”
Several of the larger boys started tossing a ball around and arguing among themselves. The little ones ran off behind the house to play. Two girls ran toward the barns, probably in search of kittens.
