How the Light Gets In

by Jolina Petersheim

  I asked, “What’s wrong?” and you jumped about a foot.

  You turned, hand to your chest, and saw me at the door. We’d already been introduced, but we’d not really had the chance to talk. You said, “I can’t stand not being able to go outside.”

  Now, having seen where you were raised, I understand why those low ceilings and darkened streets made you claustrophobic.

  I said, “I might have a solution. But first, I’ve got to eat.” I paused. “Have you eaten?”

  You shook your head and grinned. “Just chocolate.”

  So I finished warming up a pot of leftover rice and beans and divided a ripe avocado between the two bowls. I asked you to follow me, and though you looked wary, you did so without question. You must’ve really been desperate.

  Balancing our supper, I led you up the dark cement stairs, past the women’s section, and then the men’s. We were sneaking around like teenagers, and maybe that illicit feeling was partly why we enjoyed it. We were weary of juggling the responsibilities of adults. I led you to the trapdoor leading to the roof, and I passed you the steaming plates until I had propped the door and worked my lanky body outside. You came out, then, and we sat on the blanket one of the other staff members had forgotten. We ate our humble meal with our fingers because I’d forgotten to bring forks. You told me you wanted to become a writer, and I told you I wanted to become a doctor, and you laughed because I was still in my doctor scrubs. But then I grew serious and admitted that sometimes I became overwhelmed by the number of my patients, those sick, orphaned babies who were all in my care. I admitted that reality was proving far more complicated than the dream, and though I loved being a doctor, I didn’t know if I was making the kind of difference I had envisioned when I was young. You touched my hand, then held it, and I looked at you as, somewhere in the city, a confused rooster crowed.

  I barely knew you, Ruth, but I knew I was beginning to fall for you. So I hope you can see that, though my proposal may seem sudden, my love for you is sincere.

  Yours,

  Chandler

  CHAPTER 3

  THE BARN DOORS WERE SLID OPEN because the lantern was not giving off enough light for Elam to work. Elam usually didn’t notice when it became bad for things to remain the same—to the point his sister, Laurie, had to notify him when it was time to buy new clothes or boots—but using outdated equipment was another story. Decades of successful crops had allowed Driftless Valley Farm to grow, but the farm’s demands had grown with this success. Therefore, Elam managed two hundred acres with the same equipment his grandfather had used to manage fifty. To say this was an inconvenience was an understatement. So far, Elam and his men had been able to get by, but each year, and with each additional bed, the challenge became more intense.

  “Elam?”

  At the sound of his name, Elam looked up and viewed Ruth’s silhouette framed by the moonlit fields behind her. His chest hitched. He steadied himself by gripping one of the harvester’s rusted tines. He was unsettled each time he saw her, and though he was often unsettled when he had to talk to someone who wasn’t immediate family, he knew this was different. Sometimes, he could talk to Ruth with an ease he hadn’t experienced with anyone but his sister, and yet that ease dissipated when she caught him off guard, like now.

  “Ru . . . uth?” He set down his oiled rag and moved the lantern to the worktable.

  “Sorry to bother you,” she said.

  “You . . . you’re no bother.”

  Ruth rubbed her arms like she was cold. “Laurie told me you might need a few extra hands for the harvest.” She paused. “Is that true?”

  Picking up the rag, Elam resumed oiling the tines. Was that true? Laurie knew he had long ago settled the details of the cranberry harvest, and yet he sensed it took a lot out of Ruth to ask. Plus, how could he turn away his cousin’s widow? He would just make it work.

  “Ye . . . yes,” he said. “We’re shorthanded this year. Do you think you can help?”

  Ruth said, “Only if you’ll deduct room and board from my wages.”

  When Aunt Mabel had asked if she and her daughter-in-law and two young grandchildren could stay at his house after the funeral, Elam’s only misgiving was that he was not the hosting type. Laurie had convinced him it would be fine and had deep-cleaned his house and purchased a few items to spruce up the place, which hadn’t received a woman’s touch since their mother died.

  Though this had helped, Laurie was not the one who lived here. When it came down to it, Elam was the one who had to make his guests feel welcome. And now that guest wanted to repay him for his poor hospitality. Up in heaven, his mother must be shaking her head.

  “Ruth, you are . . . are family,” he said. “My home is your home.”

  Ruth looked down, her hair falling forward, so he could see the curls were tighter at the nape of her neck. “Thank you for that,” she said.

  “You’re welcome.” He focused on oiling the same tine. “The harvest starts tomorrow and lasts for about . . . three days. I’ll see if I can find a pair of waders to fit you.”

  “Great. I’m looking forward to it.”

  He smiled in reply to hers and pushed up the brim of his straw hat to watch her walk out of the barn. She turned at the door, and he was embarrassed until he realized she couldn’t see him in the dark.

  “I’m grateful, Elam,” she said. “For all you’ve done.”

  He nodded. “You’re welcome, Ruth.”

  This time, the words flowed.

  AUGUST 27, 2012

  Dearest Chandler,

  There is no need to apologize. You have done nothing wrong. I guess I just always envisioned my life progressing in a certain manner, and here we’re discussing marriage without even knowing if we’re in love. I know you think you’re in love, but I am afraid you might be in love with the idea of me, rather than who I really am.

  I can be mean, Chandler, and selfish.

  I am an only child, and though I was not spoiled with material possessions—or even attention—I am not accustomed to sharing my space or time. This will probably sound like I’m trying to push you away, but I am not. I just do not take marriage lightly.

  Marriage is not a decision you make on impulse or because that person looks good or makes you feel good at the time. Marriage joins two souls on an ever-changing journey. I thought—when I was growing up and knew better than the adults in my life—that my parents should just get divorced. But I didn’t understand that they were committed to loving each other, and that commitment included loving their best and their worst selves. We are all chameleons, Chandler; changing—for good or for bad—as our environments change, and I don’t want you to be disappointed when life happens around us, and I evolve to accommodate it.

  If you read this and still want me, I will come back to Children’s Haven . . . and to you; if you read this, and you want nothing else to do with me, I will understand.

  Fondly,

  Ruth

  Elam only knew of one person who might have a pair of waders that were Ruth’s size, but that person was his sister, Laurie, who would—no doubt—ask more questions than he was comfortable answering. But he’d already promised Ruth she could work in the bog, so he swallowed his discomfort and knocked on Laurie’s door.

  She called from inside, “You know you don’t have to knock!”

  He entered the kitchen and saw Laurie with his two-year-old niece, Sarah, clinging to her apron, a teakettle singing on the stove, and the baby, Tim Junior, in the high chair, double-fisting Cheerios into his drooling mouth. Elam bent to unlace his boots.

  “Don’t bother,” Laurie said. “Look at my floor!”

  Elam did look at his sister’s floor and saw the detritus of a happy childhood: a chewed piece of toast, stray Cheerios from Tim Junior’s tray, wooden alphabet blocks, and a toy truck: the closest his nephews and nieces would come to having a vehicle unless they left the Old Order Mennonite church. The thought trapped Elam. He didn’t know how to beg
in.

  “Do . . . do you have any waders I can borrow?”

  Resting one hand on her belly, Laurie pulled the teakettle off the stove and bent to toss a few blocks into the crate. “Don’t think you and I are the same size.”

  “They’re not for me.”

  “Then who . . . ?” She paused, freckled nose wrinkling as she smiled. “E-lam,” she sang. “That’s so good of you to offer Ruth work. Really, it is.”

  Elam shifted from foot to foot. Kneeling, he picked up his niece, who gave his scruffy cheek a kiss and then stared at him with Laurie’s dark-gray eyes.

  Elam said, “Seems Ruth got the idea from you.”

  Laurie splayed fingers across her chest, a dramatist in a burgundy cape dress. “Moi?”

  Elam gave her the look he’d been giving her most of her life. “Don’t act so surprised. You know I’ve never had a woman on my wet harvesting crew since you married Tim.”

  “Yeah, well. Tim still likes to see me in waders.”

  Elam blushed. Laurie stepped closer and touched her brother’s arm. They were not an affectionate pair of siblings; not because Laurie was unaffectionate, but because Elam often gave off an aura that demanded ample personal space. It was something Laurie tried to respect, unless she needed to make a point. And Laurie always needed to make a point. “Elam.” Her high-pitched, exclamation mark–clad voice had lowered three octaves, which meant a serious matter was being addressed. “You have nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “I . . . I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, but he knew she could see right through him. Laurie was one of the few people in the world who did.

  Elam’s niece tugged on one of his suspenders. He looked down and gently tugged on one of her lopsided pigtail braids. They grinned. Elam had always wanted children—had dreamed more about becoming a father than he had about becoming a husband—because children love more for actions than for words. And yet fatherhood had to be preceded by marriage, which was impossible since no woman wanted a man who had so little to say. Closing his eyes in frustration, Elam rested his chin on his niece’s head. Sarah burrowed against him.

  Laurie asked, “Will you promise me something?”

  Sighing, Elam looked over at his sister and suddenly saw the little girl who’d always endeavored to bring happiness into their home: a responsibility she shouldn’t have had to carry, considering she had been a child, and Elam a teenager, when their mother was diagnosed.

  He smiled indulgently and nodded, knowing Laurie meant well even if her good intentions often felt like interference. She continued, “Will you let yourself get to know Ruth?”

  Elam paused, unsure of how honest he wanted to be. “I am getting to know her,” he said and remembered similar conversations: Laurie trying to talk him into going to another hymn sing or auction or wedding he did not want to attend. He didn’t know if she did this because she wanted him to marry, or because family had become her safety net and she wanted to expand and strengthen it through a sister-in-law and the children their union could provide.

  Laurie stepped back, allocating him his space. “I just don’t think you need to keep your walls up when you’re around her, like you normally do.”

  Elam cleared his throat to remove the hint of irritation. “If anything makes me want to put walls up,” he said, “it’s when someone makes me feel cornered.”

  “I’m not trying to corner you. I just want to see you happy.”

  “I am,” he insisted, and then rested a hand over Sarah’s ear, as if a two-year-old could understand what he sometimes didn’t. “Besides, where’s your loyalty to Chandler?”

  “I loved Chandler,” Laurie said. “We all did. But—” she smiled up at him again, and he knew there was no going back once her stance was made—“I am more loyal to you.”

  Elam’s brother-in-law, Tim, opened the second pump, which sent water gushing from the reservoir into the irrigation system. A ditch channeled this water through the vertical pipes that were rudimentarily regulated by wooden slats either inserted or removed, depending on the water’s desired height. Today, only a few wooden slats were in place; tomorrow, they would all be in place and the flooding would begin. Elam stood on the bank beside his brother-in-law, watching as the bog’s water slowly rose.

  “Well,” Tim said, “looks like the pump’s fixed.”

  In the distance, on the lane, Elam could see Ruth with Zeus loping at her side. The sound of her pounding feet sent a muskrat scrambling for the water, which made Zeus take off like a shot. Ruth stopped running and whistled for the dog, but the muskrat had escaped.

  “That’s good,” Elam replied to Tim.

  He was thinking not only of the fixed water pump and the harvest, but also of the sun warming his face, his lungs filling with air, his eyes viewing his cousin’s young widow as she threw a stick into the channel for her dog. Elam looked away from Ruth and watched the water until a few of the first cranberries bobbed to the surface. But even though he tried to think of everything else, his mind continued echoing with Laurie’s words.

  SEPTEMBER 3, 2012

  Ruth, dearest,

  I love you not because you look good or because you make me feel good (though both are true), but because I can’t imagine experiencing this ever-changing, grand adventure with anyone but you. Please come back. I want you, flaws and all. The Lord knows I have my own, and we can push each other to become the best versions of ourselves, and yet love each other unconditionally when we’re not.

  Yours always,

  Chandler

  Mabel Neufeld bustled around the kitchen in her sensible shoes and sturdy apron, whisking batter for the Dutch babies she hadn’t made in years. After the initial shock wore off, part of Mabel’s grief had evolved from the fact she believed she was no longer needed. How could a woman who’d served other people since she was old enough to set the table or wash a dish now discover the two people she’d spent most of her life serving were gone? It was inconceivable, and yet it was a truth that crashed in on her each morning she opened her eyes.

  But this morning was different. Once again, Mabel had people—her people—to serve.

  She carefully poured the pancake-like batter into the greased muffin pan. As she did, she recalled those first two weeks after the bombing but before she flew out to Wisconsin at her niece’s request. Her husband’s and son’s simultaneous deaths had set her adrift, and as if to compensate, Mabel had marooned herself in the bed she’d once shared with her husband.

  Night after night, she ate stewed crackers for supper and tried to escape reality through the cozy mysteries she’d borrowed from the Re-Use-It shop where she volunteered. But this lonely existence, to which she was accustomed, had become lonelier because, this time, Chandler Senior was not coming home. That next week, the third and hardest week, Mabel’s niece, Laurie, wrote and asked if she would like to come to Wisconsin until the worst of the grief had passed.

  Forgive me if this is intrusive, Laurie wrote, but you could even bury Uncle Chandler and Chandler Junior here, beside Mamm, and know they are forever surrounded by family and love.

  An act of terrorism continued to terrorize even after death, and the overseas investigation kept the bodies from being released for burial, so Mabel hadn’t even considered where the funeral should be held. She’d assumed Ruth would bury Chandler Junior in Ireland, but Pennsylvania—without Chandler Senior—no longer felt like home. It was as if, overnight, her vision had dimmed and the landscape had changed, the combination rendering her incapable of finding her way across terrain she’d once known intimately. This caused Mabel to yearn for her home state’s open land and low bluffs, where bald eagles soared above shorn cornfields and windmills stood guard beside the derelict homesteads of yesteryear. It didn’t take Mabel long to pack after she—a Mennonite woman in her sixties—decided to fly for the first time in her life.

  Chandler Senior was the one who’d lived the adventures. She had always been content waiting for him to come
home and show what he’d seen through photos taken on a Pocket Instamatic, then disposable cameras, and most recently his iPhone—technologically advancing as their lives passed. But now Mabel Neufeld had to make a choice: remain in their house because it was familiar or cut ties and begin again.

  Elam was waiting for Mabel at the gate when she disembarked from the plane. With a shaky hand, she smoothed the seam of her skirt. Mabel wore a prayer covering, but not a dark cape dress like the ones she’d grown up in, since—when she married Chandler—she shifted from Old Order Mennonite to Black Bumper Mennonite, which allowed them to have electricity in their home, a car in the garage (the car’s chrome bumpers painted black, hence the nickname for their religious sect), and a TV they moved to the closet whenever the bishop came for lunch.

  Mabel had visited her family in Wisconsin after she married, but Chandler Senior had always been with her, and later Chandler Junior, and their presence helped offset the self-consciousness she would’ve felt concerning the “liberal” lifestyle she now led. But she felt self-conscious as Elam reached to take her carpet-style valise. Her deceased sister’s only son had never been affectionate, so she was taken aback when he wrapped his free arm around her sweatered back and pulled her into a hug. Many people had hugged her in the days since she received the news, but none of those had been men. And even if they had been, none of them could’ve possibly reminded Mabel of her Chandlers. But Elam reminded her of them.

  Elam and Chandler Junior had been opposites from birth: quiet, loud; introverted, extroverted; withdrawn, affectionate; fair, dark. But Elam reminded her of all the times she’d seen the two cousins together, and whatever small mooring she’d established for herself in the past three weeks was gone. Something connected Elam and Mabel that day the two stood still as the passengers from the small plane continued to disembark. Grief joined them, but perhaps their unspoken loneliness joined them as well. Whatever it was, that bond could not be easily torn.