They worked without talking for a few minutes until Mrs. Compson broke the silence with a chuckle. “So I tell good stories, do I?”
“Of course you do. It’s too bad you don’t like to tell them.”
Mrs. Compson looked astonished. “Why, what on earth do you mean?”
“Getting information out of you is like pulling teeth, or—or like setting in pieces.”
“That’s not so.”
“It is too. You started to tell me about James on Monday, and here it is Thursday already and you still haven’t explained how you ended up together. I’ve been wondering about it all week, but you haven’t said a word.”
“My, all week,” Mrs. Compson teased. “If you think that’s long, I have to wonder if you have the diligence and perseverance it takes to finish a quilt.”
“It’s not the same thing and you know it.”
“Very well, then. If only to prove that I’m not as reticent as you think.”
James avoided me for the rest of the fair that summer. I know, because I looked for him everywhere, but I saw neither hide nor hair of him the rest of the week. I supposed he must have been terribly embarrassed, and perhaps he thought I had been making fun of him by not telling him who I was. And perhaps he felt that he had insulted me by suggesting he could one day challenge Father’s business. I wasn’t insulted, however; I just knew he was wrong. The very idea—to surpass Bergstrom Thoroughbreds.
In autumn Father was invited to teach a course in the agricultural school at your alma mater, though it was called Pennsylvania State College then. Richard begged and pleaded to be allowed to accompany him. Oh, how Richard wanted to see the world, even at that age. Father refused, saying that he would not have time to care for a young boy and that Richard could not miss school. But he refused so reluctantly—he hated to be away from his son—that Richard must have thought there was still a chance.
He came running out to the garden, where Claudia and I were having a party with some of our friends. It was a picnic of sorts, to say a sad good-bye to the summer and welcome in the new school year. One fellow was especially fond of Claudia, though he was too shy to even look her in the eye, much less speak to her. I used to tease her about him mercilessly, of course. She was not the only one who interested the boys, either. I had two young men who adored me, too, although I was indifferent to them both and had told them so. They still insisted on courting me, though, which I found highly irritating—did they think I didn’t know my own mind? Honestly. Since they were determined to pine away rather than heed my words, well, I decided to let them. I used to enjoy watching them glower at each other when I would seem to prefer one more than the other, and would pretend not to notice when they fought for the next dance or the empty seat by my side.
One of the young men was telling a joke when Richard burst into the party. “Sylvia, Sylvia,” he cried, tugging at my hand.
“What is it, darling? Are you hurt?”
“No, no.” He glared, impatient. I had forgotten that he had made me promise not to call him “darling” in front of the older boys anymore. “I figured out how to get Father to take me with him.”
I pulled him onto the gazebo seat by my side. “I thought Father already told you no.”
“But we can change his mind. If you come, too, Sylvia, you can look after me. Then Father has to say I can go.”
“But what about school?”
“I won’t mind missing school.”
I laughed. “I realize that, but you have to go to school if you want to run Bergstrom Thoroughbreds someday. And I have to go to school, too, if I want to go to college.”
Claudia had been listening in. “Have you forgotten something?” she asked, approaching us from across the gazebo. She stood behind Richard and placed her hands on his shoulders. “I’ve graduated already, so I wouldn’t miss any school. I could look after you.”
“But Sylvia and I would have fun.” Richard’s face assumed its familiar stubborn frown. Claudia pursed her lips, and I shot my brother a look of warning. “We would, too, Claudia, but Elm Creek Manor couldn’t get along without you for so long.”
You charmer, I thought, as he tried to hide a grin. Good thing Claudia couldn’t see his face. “Since Claudia is needed here, and I can’t leave school—I’m sorry, Richard, but it doesn’t sound feasible.”
Richard looked down at the gazebo’s wooden floor, crestfallen. “I know you want to go to college, Sylvia. I’m sorry—I didn’t think about you missing school. But just think of it—the chance to go somewhere.”
I was thinking about it, and as much as I loved my home, I too wanted to see some of the world before I returned to Elm Creek Manor to settle down. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. Maybe when you’re older.”
“When I’m older. That’s what Father said. Everything’s when I’m older.”
Claudia sighed. “I’m sure they have schools near the college. You could both probably transfer easily enough. It’s only for a semester, after all.”
Richard brightened. “Do you think so?”
“I don’t see why not, if Father agrees. And if Sylvia wants to transfer.”
“Of course I want to,” I exclaimed. “It would almost be like going away to college myself. Think of all the new things to see and people to meet.”
My two young men frowned uneasily at that.
Richard crowed triumphantly and hopped down from the seat. He grabbed my hand and began to run from the gazebo toward the house, pulling me after him.
We spoke to Father, and without too much wheedling on our part, he agreed. Before long all the arrangements were made. We were to live in a faculty house on campus, and Richard would be able to attend a nearby elementary school. But the best part was that I would be allowed to continue my studies at the college.
My, how I enjoyed those days! I made many new friends, and Richard and I had a grand time exploring the campus. My classes were challenging, but not nearly as difficult as I had thought they would be. I was very proud that I could hold my own with the older students.
Our faculty home, while it could not be compared to Elm Creek Manor, was cozy and snug. Sometimes Father would bring home some of his students or other faculty members for supper, and they would banter and debate every conceivable topic late into the night. Often they discussed the news from Europe, sometimes in hushed tones that I had to strain to hear from the kitchen, sometimes in angry shouts that would make the china rattle in the cupboards. I would usually make some excuse so that I would not have to stay and listen. Even though we Bergstroms had considered ourselves thoroughly American since Great-Grandfather’s time, and if we still had any distant relatives in Germany we did not know of them, the stories about Hitler and his politics always filled me with dread. Richard would eavesdrop if I could not find his hiding place and shoo him off to bed first.
One evening, Father came home joking merrily with two students. “Sylvia!” he called. “Come meet our guests for dinner.”
In the kitchen, I sighed. I never knew when Father would bring company home until they stood on the doorstep. Wiping my hands on my apron, I hurried to the foyer, where Father and his guests were removing their coats and Richard was peppering them with questions. Then I froze in my tracks.
One of the young men was James Compson.
Father made the introductions. “James says he knows you, Sylvia,” he said, bemused. “But I can’t imagine how that’s possible.”
I gave James a sidelong glance. “We met at the fair, Father, last summer. He watched me ride.”
“And a fine rider you are.” James’s eyes crinkled when he smiled, and I found myself smiling back.
I served supper, using a few tricks I had picked up from Cook to stretch the food for three into a meal for five. Throughout the meal, every time I looked up, James would be gazing steadily at me. His eyes were so intense that I could hardly bear to return his looks, but I could bear less turning away from him. I tried to keep my voice steady during the p
olite conversation, but I admit I was nervous.
“I’m surprised to find you here, Sylvia,” James finally said when we were finished eating.
“I’m surprised to find you here as well.”
“He won’t be here for long,” Father said. “He has big plans for himself, don’t you, young man?”
“That’s right, sir,” James said. “I could stay with my family’s operation, but with my older brothers in charge, there isn’t a lot of room for me. Or for any new ideas.”
“You could come work for Father,” Richard chimed in. “Couldn’t he, Father?”
Everyone laughed. It was clear that Richard admired his new friend very much.
“Perhaps he could.” Father chuckled.
“What do you think of that, Sylvia?” James’s eyes twinkled with amusement.
“I couldn’t possibly say one way or the other. Why on Earth would you consult me about your plans?”
“James always wonders what pretty girls think about him,” the other student joked. “It’s one of his few redeeming qualities.”
“Thanks for nothing,” James protested with a grin, elbowing his friend in the side. “I was doing badly enough on my own without your help.”
I eyed Father surreptitiously, but his expression suggested nothing. We might have been discussing horse feed for all he seemed to care. I had expected a more outraged response to the obvious flirtation with his daughter being conducted under his very nose. It was indeed puzzling.
After I had cleared away the dishes and had attempted unsuccessfully to put Richard to bed, I went into the other room while the men drank coffee and talked by the fire. I was pretending to study, but in truth I was eavesdropping. I wouldn’t have, except I wanted to hear what James would say, and if he would say anything about me.
The conversation quickly turned to politics, and their voices became heated.
“I cannot believe it, not even of that little man,” Father’s voice boomed from the other room.
“He’s right, James. Be reasonable. Think of the Olympic Games,” the other student added.
“Berlin was whitewashed for the games. You know it as well as I.” James’s voice was low, but steady and emphatic. “It was a disgrace. A sham put on for an audience of people who want to be deluded, because we fear another war.”
My heart seemed to skip a beat. Another war? I clutched my mathematics textbook with cold and trembling hands. That could not be. Germany was so far away, and no one wanted to get involved in another war so soon, if ever.
“But twelve thousand Jews died for Germany in the Great War,” Father protested. “Surely that will count for something.”
“I wish I could believe that, sir,” James replied. “But I doubt it. Think of the Nuremberg laws. They aren’t even a year old and look at what’s happened already.”
“It’s strictly an economic problem,” the other student said. “You tell him, Mr. Bergstrom. When their economy improves, the Nazi influence will waver again. Hitler can’t last. With all his crazy talk about the Jews—why, surely he can only stay in power so long spouting nonsensical rubbish like that. He talks like an insane man.”
“An insane man that an entire country listens to with enthusiasm,” James said. “Haven’t you read his writings?”
“God forbid you should fill your minds with such filth,” Father broke in.
“Point taken, sir, but a man should know his enemies. I’ve read them, and it’s clear that he fully intends to take over the world, if he can, and this alliance with Italy is only the beginning. There won’t be a Jew left in Europe, or the world, if he isn’t stopped. And if he isn’t stopped soon, now, as his power is still growing, I shudder to think what it will take to stop him later.”
A fist pounded on the table, and I jumped. “Germany will not follow Hitler like a newborn colt does its mother,” Father shouted. “We are a logical people. We will not so blindly follow a madman.”
There was silence.
Then the other student spoke up. “It’s a European problem, anyway. It won’t affect us here.” I could almost see Father nodding. He had said as much before.
“The Great War affected us here,” James reminded them.
I set down my book and crept away, my thoughts in turmoil. Was another war like the Great War truly possible? What would this mean for my friends—for James? They were old enough to go to war now, if there were to be a war. I thanked God that Richard was such a young child still. If the worst happened, he would at least be safe. I prayed he would remain so.
The disobedient subject of my prayers was crouched outside the door, listening to every word. I scolded him in a whisper and marched him upstairs.
“Did you hear, Sylvia?” His eyes were shining as I tucked him into bed. “Maybe I could be a soldier like Uncle Richard.”
“Yes, and get yourself killed like Uncle Richard.” My voice was harsh. I pulled the blankets up to his chin, blinking back tears.
But here I’ve been going on and on about one evening when you wanted to know how James and I fell in love and married. Well, that was the first of many evenings he spent at our residence that semester. When we returned to Waterford, James wrote me at least once a week, and two years later he asked me to marry him. I made him wait two years more while I attended Waterford College to study art. I fancied myself an artist and wanted to be an art teacher someday, but I left college before receiving my degree. When I was twenty and James was twenty-two, we were married, and James joined our family at Elm Creek Manor.
“Claudia had not yet married,” Mrs. Compson added. “My aunts said I should let her marry first since she was the eldest sister, but Father quickly silenced them. He was almost as fond of James as I was, and was eager for him to join the family.”
“Was Claudia jealous?”
“No, at least, not always. She would have preferred to be the first to marry, but she rarely complained. Besides, the shy young man from the party—Harold—had found his tongue, and so we all thought her own wedding wouldn’t be far behind.”
Sixteen
After work Sarah baked brownies to take to the meeting of the Tangled Web Quilters. She followed Diane’s map a few blocks south of campus to a neighborhood populated by Waterford College professors and administrators. The gray stone houses with their sloped roofs and Tudor woodwork looked like scaled-down versions of Elm Creek Manor. Their carefully landscaped front yards heightened the similarity, except that oak trees rather than elms lined the street.
As she parked the truck behind Judy’s minivan, Sarah figured that few landscape architects and personal assistants to wealthy recluses lived nearby.
A walkway of red bricks in a herringbone pattern led from the driveway to the front porch. Sarah went up to the house and rapped on the front door with the brass knocker.
The door opened enough for a boy about thirteen years old to look out and study her. “Yeah?” He wore jeans several sizes too big for his slender frame and a baseball cap turned backward. His black T-shirt bore a grinning skull with fire streaming from the eye sockets.
“Hi,” Sarah said. She heard the Tangled Web Quilters laughing somewhere inside. “I’m here to see your mom.”
He sighed and looked over his shoulder. “Ma!” he bellowed.
Sarah winced and tried not to cover her ears.
The boy turned back to Sarah. “Summer with you?”
“No.”
Disappointment crossed his face.
Sarah hid a smile. “She’ll be here soon, probably.”
He shrugged. “Whatever.”
Just then Diane appeared behind him. “Leave her standing on the porch, why don’t you,” she grumbled to the boy, who rolled his eyes and shuffled away. Diane turned to Sarah and opened the door wider. “I see you’ve met the pride and joy.”
Sarah smiled and went inside. “Just barely. I didn’t catch his name.”
“Michael. Except these days he prefers to go by Mikey J.” Diane led her along
a carpeted hallway and downstairs to the basement. “He’s okay, if you ignore the flaming skulls.”
“I didn’t know you had a son.”
“Two, actually. The other’s eleven, so he’s still relatively normal.”
In the finished half of the basement, the Tangled Web Quilters were gathered around a card table covered with snacks. Sarah added her plate of brownies to the lot. “How come every time I see you guys you’re always standing next to the food?” she teased, by way of a greeting.
“You better hurry or there won’t be anything left for you,” Judy retorted. “Serves you right.”
A few minutes later Summer burst into the room carrying a large plastic trash bag. “Hi, everybody. Sorry—”
“We know,” Diane said. “Sorry you’re late.”
“I was here on time, but I was upstairs. Mike wanted to show me his new zip drive.”
Gwen grinned. “Oh, so that’s what the kids call it these days.”
“You’re sick, Mom. Mike’s just a baby.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Diane said. “You’ll break his heart.”
When everyone had sampled enough treats, they sat down in the sofas and chairs Diane had arranged. Sarah showed the others her new finished blocks, and they praised her progress.
Then Bonnie took a sheet of paper out of her sewing basket. “The president of the Waterford Quilting Guild dropped off a flyer at Grandma’s Attic the other day. They’re asking for volunteers to help set up for the Waterford Summer Quilt Festival.”
“Can’t they get their own people to do it?” Diane asked.
“I guess they need more help. Waterford College won’t let them set up until the evening before the festival because there’s some other display in the library atrium.”
Summer shrugged and looked around the circle. “I’ll go if some of you go.”
“I can help,” Sarah said.
“I’ll go if it will help me win a ribbon,” Diane said.
Everyone chuckled.
“You can have one of mine,” Gwen offered.
“Thanks, but I’d rather earn my own, if I live that long.”
An Elm Creek Quilts Sampler Page 14
