The Sound of Distant Thunder

by Jan Drexler

  Perhaps if she tried, she might be able to change the way Mama felt about her after all these years.

  NOVEMBER 4

  It took nearly three weeks for Levi to find the courage to drop in on Katie after reading Jonas’s letter. He tried to tell himself that catching a glimpse of her at church on Sundays would be enough to keep his promise to Jonas, but he knew better.

  If he faced the truth, the problem wasn’t that he didn’t want to see Katie but that he longed to see her. That was the problem. Jonas expected him to act toward Katie as a friend. A brother. But his feelings were much deeper.

  As he headed down the road leading toward Weaver’s Creek, he argued with himself.

  “You can’t disappoint Jonas. He’s counting on you.”

  “But you know you’re giving in to temptation. Just seeing Katie will start you thinking about her again.”

  “She’s Jonas’s girl, not yours.”

  Ja, ja, ja. He could talk to himself until he was arguing in circles, but that didn’t quiet the thought that reached like a tendril into his mind . . . that if Jonas didn’t come home from the war . . .

  He clucked to Pacer, urging the horse into his rocking gait as he passed the Weavers’ farm. Searching through his memory for the verse from Second Corinthians he recited every time that thought tried to worm its way into his consciousness. “And bringing into captivity every thought to the obedience of Christ.” Every thought.

  The temptation to wish Katie was his was strong, but not stronger than the Good Lord himself. Jonas deserved more than a friend courting his girl behind his back, so he would stop at the Stuckeys’, exchange a few words with Katie, then be on his way. Then he could write to Jonas with an easy heart.

  When he reached Katie’s house, all was quiet. Levi sat on the wagon seat, watching the kitchen door. The news on Sunday had been that Hans and Lena had welcomed a new baby to their home last week, and it could be possible that Katie and her mother were there. If so, he could make his way home again and put off this chore until another day.

  But it could also be that Katie was inside the house, watching him and wondering why he wasn’t approaching the door. His palms grew clammy at this thought. He climbed down from the wagon seat and trudged up the two steps to the porch. Just as he lifted his hand to knock, the door opened.

  “Levi Beiler.” Katie eyes were pink and puffy, but she smiled at him. “What brings you this way?”

  “I told Jonas I would stop and check on you while he was gone.” Levi took a deep breath. He had inherited his father’s ability to talk, whether he knew what he was going to say or not.

  Katie grabbed his arm and pulled him into the warm kitchen. “Have you heard from Jonas again? Is he all right?”

  “I haven’t gotten a letter since the one you brought me.”

  Her face fell. “I had hoped you had gone to the post office. Mama and Papa won’t let me go alone.”

  “I can take you.” Levi smiled with relief. Here was something Katie needed. Something he could do.

  “Could you? I can’t tell you how wonderful that would be.”

  The expression on Katie’s face was enough to make him want to take her to Farmerstown every day if he needed to. “I have time to go this afternoon, if it’s all right with your parents.”

  Katie grinned. “I’ll leave a note for Mama.”

  While Levi waited for Katie to write her note and take care of the fire so she could leave it, he thought about his impetuous offer. He never did anything like this without thought and planning. What was it about Katie that made him feel so reckless?

  She came down the stairs with a reticule and a letter in her hand. “I have a letter to post while we’re there.” She glanced at Levi. “I need to get some things at the store too, if we have time. Mama mentioned that we’re almost out of salt, and I need a needle.”

  Her brown eyes were wide and trusting, and Levi found himself nodding in agreement. “Whatever you need to do.”

  The drive to the little village was short, but it seemed to take forever. Levi was aware of every time Katie’s arm brushed against his. Every time she laughed at a story he told her. Every comment she made.

  The day was one of those that held a hint of summer, but with the full knowledge of the coming winter. The leaves glowed with a fire that burned against a deep blue sky, making a last glorious effort at life before they passed into drab obscurity. Levi shook his head at his fancies, but shared them with Katie anyway.

  “Look at those trees,” he said, pointing to a stand of maples. “It’s almost as if the leaves are glowing with a light of their own.”

  Katie gazed at them as they drove by. “I don’t know which color of leaves I like better. The orange ones are pretty.” She glanced at him. “But calling them pretty isn’t quite enough, is it? I like the way you put it better. You have a way of making words say exactly the right thing.”

  Levi shrugged. Her comment pleased him more than he wanted to admit, and he didn’t want to seem proud. “I read a lot.”

  “More than the Good Book?”

  “Ja, much more. I like to read poetry.”

  “Poetry? I haven’t read poetry since—” A sad expression flitted across her face but disappeared before Levi could rightly say that it had been there. “Since I left school. Can you recite any?”

  “One I read this morning is about a snowstorm. James Greenleaf Whittier is the poet’s name, and it starts, ‘The sun that brief December day rose cheerless over hills of gray.’”

  Katie shivered. “I can see it in my mind. We’ve had many December days that have started that same way. But I would never think to put the feelings into words like that.” She turned to him. “Do you think I could borrow one of your books to read?”

  “For sure you may.”

  “I might not understand all the words.”

  “We could discuss them after you’ve read them, and that might help.”

  Katie nodded. “And it might help the time pass more quickly.”

  “Is time heavy on your hands?”

  “Without Jonas here, every day seems like it lasts for a week.”

  Levi tried to steer the conversation back onto easier ground. “Farmerstown is around this bend.”

  Katie was silent as they drove past a grove of trees and the tall general store came into view. Levi tied the horse to the hitching rail and helped Katie climb down from the wagon seat.

  “I want to post my letter first, and see if there is a letter from Jonas.”

  “For sure.”

  He led her to the post office desk at the back of the store. There were six letters from Jonas to the folks at Weaver’s Creek. Katie blushed when she saw that three of them were addressed to her. She paid the postage, then purchased the items on her list while Levi waited.

  As she looked through the different size needles available, he found a shelf with books. Longfellow, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Emerson, Browning, and Walt Whitman. At the end of the shelf were two slim copies of poems by William Wordsworth, one of his favorite poets. He picked one up, leafing through it. He could buy one as a present for Katie, rather than loan her a book from Datt’s collection. He asked the storekeeper the price and paid for it, asking the man to wrap it in plain paper while Katie was busy making her purchases from the man’s wife.

  Imagining her reaction to the gift, he helped Katie into the wagon and untied the horse. He would present it to her as they left Farmerstown, and the trip home would pass quickly as she read the poems aloud to him. But he had forgotten the letters from Jonas. Before he was in his seat, she had opened the first one.

  Not looking at him, she held the unread letter close, a smile on her face that had never been directed at him. “I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been so hungry for news from Jonas. I have to read these right away.”

  “For sure, read your letters. You can share his news with me . . .”

  His voice trailed off. She wasn’t listening. Her cheeks were tinted pink
as she read the first letter to herself, her lips moving slightly.

  Levi tucked the book under his seat and slapped the horse lightly with the reins, preparing himself for a long and quiet ride home.

  NOVEMBER 11

  Katie read the three letters from Jonas over and over through the next week, every time she had a few minutes alone. The weather had turned gray and cloudy, with a chilly wind from the north and frost every morning. Since it was too damp and cold to spend her time where she felt closest to Jonas, in the shelter of the house he was building for her, she made herself content in her room. From the window, she could see the ridgepole and the top of the walls he had gotten done before leaving.

  On Tuesday morning, a week after she had received the letters, she sat on her new blanket chest. Papa had made it to fit under the windowsill, and it had become her favorite spot in the house. Up here, away from Mama and out of the weather, she could read Jonas’s letters in private. Her morning chores were done and she had a few minutes before she needed to start on dinner. She opened the one he had written most recently and ran her fingers along the words.

  October 28, 1862

  Dear one,

  I have no words to say to you this evening except to tell you how much I miss you. I was thinking today of the hours we spent in the clearing where our house will someday be, and how sweet those times were with you by my side, dreaming of the future. How I wish that future was now!

  Our company is on the march, somewhere south of Harper’s Ferry and west of Washington City. We are with our regiment, all made up of draftees from Ohio. When I think of the marching we did back at the training camp in Mansfield, I long for those days. The captain tells us we must cover nearly a hundred miles in the next week, which sounds dreadful at this point. But I am certain we will achieve this goal, only because the captain has ordered it and we must follow orders.

  The men are in good spirits, even though we are on our way to certain fighting with the enemy. The Federals have claimed the victory at the battle called Antietam, but at heartbreaking cost. Even so, the men are cheering for “Little Mac,” as they call General McClellan. They give him the credit for the victory, but do not lay the blame of the casualties on him. I, on the other hand, cannot forget those poor men. Soldiers who were at the battle have told of the sights they saw, and while I will not burden you with their gruesome descriptions, I will tell you that it is something that should give great grief to all who beheld it.

  We do not expect such battles in our future, however. The Federals now have the upper hand, and we are on our way to Richmond, the capital city of the Confederacy. Once that city is taken, then the war will be over. Pray that this will happen quickly and with little loss of life.

  You will be glad to hear that I have made friends here so far from home. I have told you about George Watson in another letter. I have also come to know the fellows who camp near us, Hiram Long and Bill Jenkins from Cleveland. Their description of life in the city holds sway over George, as he wishes to live there one day. I listen to their stories with feelings between disbelief and longing for our quiet Weaver’s Creek. City life may be exciting for some, but I will be content to see the farms, woods, and streams of my home once more.

  There is a chaplain assigned to our company who conducts services on Sunday mornings, even if we have no more time than to pray and sing a hymn. He always starts each day with a Scripture reading, also, for those who are within earshot of him. I make it my duty to be close to him at that time. The words from the Good Book are a healing balm to the soul, as the chaplain says, and a fine way to start the day.

  This is one good thing I have learned in the army, that a man does not need to be Amish to love the Good Lord and serve him. The Christian men I am with are devout and manly, seeking to follow the teachings of Scripture. While I can differ with them on the interpretation of some passages, as indeed, they differ among themselves, I can say that they are good companions.

  I must close, as it is growing too dark to see what I am writing and I am weary to the bone. Keep me in your prayers, dear Katie, as I keep you in mine.

  Yours,

  Jonas

  Katie ran her finger along the final words once more. So far, he was safe. She shivered, cold air creeping up her legs, but she wasn’t ready to go downstairs to the kitchen yet.

  Leaning her head against the window frame, she could see the Weavers’ chimney, with the line of light gray smoke rising from it to disappear against the gray sky. When she had her own kitchen, it would be bright and warm like Lydia’s. In Mama’s kitchen, the fire was small and frugal, keeping the house from freezing, but not really providing any warmth.

  In the winter, Mama rarely made bread or anything else that required effort, and the season always felt tired and heavy. Long enough to make one wish for a year full of hot summer days. After Lydia had told her of the tragic crossing from Germany her parents had made so many years ago, Katie had tried to talk to Mama, to let her know that she could talk to Katie about anything, but Mama had only told her to keep doing her chores.

  If Mama didn’t want to talk, though, perhaps Katie could do something to bring warmth to the house. She could make something warm and filling for dinner, even if Mama usually did the cooking herself. Maybe Mama would see that fall and winter didn’t need to be so dark if Katie helped make it light and warm.

  The kitchen was empty, it being only midmorning. Mama had gone to visit Lena and the new baby again, so Katie was free to make dinner the way she wanted rather than the chicken soup Mama had planned. Soup was warm, but hardly filling with just thin broth and a few vegetables. Katie would make a pot pie instead, with flaky crust and rich gravy. Papa would like it, and it would be a warm and satisfying meal.

  Katie built the fire up to bring the oven to the right temperature, then made the pie crust. She made enough for a pie also. The extra crust could wait until this afternoon, and then she would try the recipe Lydia gave her for cream pie. The chicken was already cooked and waiting in the cellar, cooled in its own gelatin. Katie warmed the gelled broth on the stove, and cooked peeled carrots and potatoes in it. By the time she had thickened the broth into gravy, the kitchen was toasty and warm.

  She put the chicken pie in the oven, and looked around. What did Lydia’s kitchen have that Mama’s lacked? What made her kitchen inviting while Mama’s felt cold? Closing her eyes, she imagined herself in Lydia’s house. Light filled every room. Katie opened her eyes again, the one small window over the sink glaring at her. The size of the window couldn’t change, but it hadn’t been washed in weeks.

  While the chicken pie baked, Katie cleaned. The window was first, and she worked to clean the panes until they were clear. Mama had put geraniums in pots on the windowsill, but they had become leggy and ragged. Katie trimmed them back and discarded the dead and shriveled leaves. She polished the lamp chimney and refilled the lamp oil and dusted the stove chimney and cleaned the soot off the wall behind the stove. Looking at the results, she shook her head. It was a beginning, but the clean windows showed the shabbiness of the rag rugs. New ones could be made, but these would have to do for now.

  She took the pie out of the oven and checked the clock. Nearly dinnertime. She set the table, putting the last plate on just as Mama opened the door.

  “How is little Trina this morning?”

  Mama smiled. “She is growing just as she should. The other children love to play with her and hold her, and that helps Lena get along better. There’s nothing like a happy and contented baby to make a happy home.”

  Katie thought back to what Lydia had said about how sickly she had been as a baby. “Was I a contented baby?”

  The smile disappeared. “You were always crying, and I was ill for most of the winter after you were born. It was a hard time for all of us.”

  “So our home wasn’t very happy then.”

  Mama didn’t deny it. Katie set the chicken pie on the table, ready to serve as soon as Papa walked in.

&nb
sp; Mama looked at the table. “You didn’t make the soup I had planned.”

  “I had time to make chicken pie, and I thought it would be more satisfying on such a chilly day.”

  As Mama hung her bonnet and shawl on the hook by the door, she said, “I thought you could follow my directions.”

  Katie held back the retort that sprang to her mind. Instead, she thought of Lydia’s home, and the way she and her daughters talked and laughed together. She wouldn’t have that kind of home if she let her feelings rule her actions.

  Walking over to the sink, Mama touched the leaves of the geranium plants on the sill. “What did you do to my flowers?”

  “I cut away the dead leaves and some stems that were overgrown. I saw a bud on one of them. You may have flowers before too long.”

  “Flowers in the dead of winter?” Mama’s voice was wistful, as if she couldn’t believe such a thing.

  “Lydia Weaver has geraniums on her windowsill too, and the last time I was there, I asked her how she got them to be so pretty.”

  “I only bring them into the house to keep them alive until spring.”

  Katie joined her at the sink, and pointed out the bud she had found. “There’s more to life than just being alive, Mama.”

  Mama stared at the plants. “Ja, perhaps there is.”

  Papa came out of the barn, his shoulders hunched inside his coat as he made his way to the house.

  “Why don’t you get a jar of peaches from the cellar?” Mama stroked the geranium leaf again. “They would look pretty on the table, wouldn’t they?”

  Katie ran to get the jar of peaches. She could already see the bright, golden peach halves in the glass dish Mama had brought from Germany, adding their beautiful glow to the dinner table.

  Even though the weather was unpleasant on Tuesday afternoon, Levi hitched the horse to the wagon. He had determined to take Katie to the post office once a week, and tomorrow’s weather could be worse than today’s. At least today was dry, even if the wind had a bite to it.