A Quilt for Jenna

by Patrick E. Craig

  Dutch closed the hood and stepped over to the cab.

  “Leave her running for a while to clean out any gunk that’s still in there. And remember, the glow plugs have to warm up for at least ten minutes in this weather or she’ll never start. And don’t kill the engine out there, or you’ll have a mighty cold walk home.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Crash

  THE OLD FORD STATION WAGON sped west through the growing darkness on County Road 188 toward Apple Creek. The man behind the wheel had a two-day growth of beard and bloodshot eyes. Beside him, shoved down between the two front seats, sat an open whiskey bottle. Every few minutes the man pulled it out, put the bottle to his lips, and drank. The snow was coming down harder now, and the man was singing at the top of his voice.

  “Jingle bells, jingle bells, jingle all the waaayyyy.”

  When he heard a sob from the backseat, he turned to look at his passenger—a little girl, her eyes wide, her thin summer coat pulled tight around her body. She was about four years old with wavy strawberry-blonde hair, and under the coat she was wearing a dress, a wool sweater, some tights, and a pair of sneakers. Her skin was pale, and her lips were cracked from the cold.

  “Whatta ya cryin’ about?” he snarled. “I told your mama not to take that stuff. I told her over and over that she was in over her head. But would she listen to me? No. She just kept whining. ‘I need to get high, Joe, I need to get high.’ Well, she got too high, and now she’s gone and we’re stuck with each other—and you’re not even my kid.”

  Joe took another long pull on the bottle. The little girl in the back was clinging to the door handle with all her strength as Joe fishtailed down the road.

  “Mama,” she said softly.

  “Shut up about your mama,” Joe snapped. He leaned back over the seat and took a drunken swing at the girl with his open palm. The car went into a skid and headed toward the bank alongside the road.

  “Whooee, this road is getting slick,” Joe said as he steered the car out of the skid.

  The girl began to cry—barely a whimper—as she whispered “Mama” once more.

  Joe ignored the cry this time and reached for the bottle again, and taking another long pull, he drained it. As he did the car again swerved, and the little girl cried out, “Mama...Mama!”

  “That’s enough about Mama!” Joe shouted as he threw the empty bottle down in the corner of the car. “I’ve had it with your sniveling.” He reached back and grabbed at the girl but missed. Her cries now became shrieks of fear as Joe turned from the girl to the steering wheel and then back at the girl, screaming, “Just shut up, shut up, shut up!”

  Looking away from the road, he didn’t see the sudden corner, and before he could turn back to the wheel, the car went straight off the road, down an embankment into a wooded area, and over a mound that sent the car airborne. The old Ford slowly turned in midair as it sailed over a rise and then crashed down on its side and slid down a bank. The car finally hit up against a big pine, spun completely around, and crashed into a rocky outcrop, which swung the car downhill again. They slid for several more feet and then slowly came to a halt.

  Everything was quiet for a few minutes, and then Joe groaned. He had been thrown facedown on the passenger side and ended up in a ball against the door. The little girl had disappeared down behind the front seat and lay there, quiet and still. Joe turned himself around and tried to pull himself up the seat to the driver’s door. His face was bloody, and pain shot through his arm like fire. The car shifted as he moved and slowly rolled over onto its roof. Joe cried out in agony as he fell back against the passenger door. He tried the door, and it creaked open, so he slowly crawled out, cursing with every movement. The car jutted partway out on what looked like a large snow-covered meadow. Joe struggled to his feet, kicked the door shut, and looked around. Behind him, the marks of the car’s journey down the hill showed him the way back to the road.

  “Well, isn’t this handy?” he muttered. “I can get rid of my little passenger, and if anyone asks, I’ll tell ’em she got killed in the wreck.”

  Joe stepped to the back door. “Come out, come out wherever you are,” he sang as he reached for the door handle.

  He bent down to look in the window. The little girl looked out at him with terrified eyes.

  “Peek-a-boo, I see you.”

  Joe grinned and pulled on the handle. The door was jammed shut, and he couldn’t budge it, so he stood up and began to kick the window.

  “Come on out, honey,” he grunted in pain. “I’m gonna help you find your mama.”

  He didn’t have enough strength left in his leg to continue kicking, so he looked around for something to break the window. A few feet away he saw a long piece of metal that had broken off the car as it hit the ground. He walked over and bent down to pick it up. As he did he heard an ominous cracking under his feet. He stopped and listened.

  He heard the cracking again, only louder this time, and then in an instant he knew where he was. This wasn’t a large meadow—it was a frozen pond. Terror gripped him. The ice groaned again, and a long fracture shot out from between his feet. Desperately he took a running leap, but the ice broke beneath his feet, and he plunged into freezing water. He struggled to climb out, but his right arm, still in pain, couldn’t keep a grip on the edge of the ice. Each time he took hold, the edge broke away.

  Finally, in desperation, he called out, “Help me! Please, God, help me!”

  Panic-stricken, he began thrashing wildly at the edge of the ice, trying to pull himself up. But the more he thrashed, the weaker he felt.

  “Oh God, oh God, oh God!” he screamed, and then his water-soaked clothing dragged him under. He struggled back up, but he swallowed water as he gasped for breath and then sank again. There was a wild momentary thrashing under the water, and then a stream of bubbles broke the surface. Then everything was quiet and the water became still.

  In the car, the little girl’s eyes were fixed on the surface of the water where Joe had disappeared. She had slipped down into the space between the front and back seats when Joe was grabbing for her before the crash, and that had saved her life. Now she lay on the ceiling of the upside-down car clinging to a dislodged seat cushion. She had a small gash over her eye, and with Joe’s disappearance into the water, she cried, “Mama...Mama, come find me...Mama!”

  Then she slipped into unconsciousness, and it grew quiet in the car. Outside, the wind began to blow harder through the trees, and the snow began to fall.

  Jerusha sat up in her bed.

  It had been a horrible dream. Jenna had been lost in a dark place, crying for her. Jerusha wanted to scream, “I’m coming, baby, I’m coming,” but no sound would come out. And then Jerusha woke up. She put her face in her hands and sobbed until the light began to break in the east.

  The Second Day

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 23, 1950

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The Journey Begins

  THE GRAY LIGHT OF DAWN crept slowly into Jerusha’s room. Outside, the wind whistled around the eaves and through the trees. Jerusha lay in bed staring at the ceiling, the deep ache in her heart pounding like a throbbing wound. She had often dreamed of Jenna but never as vividly as last night.

  She slowly swung her feet over the side of the bed and sat for a long time with her head in her hands. Then she rose and headed for the simple bathroom. Before she turned on the shower, she ran cold water into the sink until it was full and then put her face under the water. The shock brought her quickly awake, clearing the fog from her mind. As she toweled off her face, she couldn’t shake the memory of the dream. Jenna was near but lost in a dark place, calling to her.

  She looked up into the mirror and stared at the face she saw there. She had been a lovely girl once, but grief and loss had carved their cruel imprint on her features. The once-smooth skin had frown lines that made her look much older than she really was. Her eyes, once bright and expectant and full of life and faith, now had a dull, lost lo
ok.

  The sound of the grandfather clock tolling six times broke into her thoughts and brought her back to reality. If she didn’t hurry, she’d be late.

  Hurriedly she stepped into the shower. As she stood under the barely lukewarm water, her thoughts pressed in on her again.

  When I leave here, I’ll never have to worry about hot water or heat again. I won’t have to share the propane with my neighbors. I’ll get a car and go wherever I want to go. I’ll have Englisch friends, and I’ll call them on the phone. Maybe I’ll even have a television set!

  Jerusha was startled by the sudden sense of shame that swept over her.

  “And I won’t feel guilty about anything I do!” she said out loud, glaring toward the heavens, where she imagined this Amish God was sitting on His terrible throne laughing at her. As she stepped out of the shower to towel off, she continued her rant. “I won’t feel guilty ever again, and I’ll do what I want to do, and You’ll never stop me...”

  Jerusha trembled at her own words but then added, “She’s gone, and You took her from me. I hate You! I hate You! I hate You.”

  A knock on the front door caused her to take hold of her emotions.

  “Missus Springer?”

  It was Henry, the Englisch neighbor boy who was going to drive her to Dalton. She opened the bathroom door and called out, “I’m running a little late, Henry. Can you come back in twenty minutes?”

  “Sure thing, ma’am,” the boy said through the door, “but if we’re going to get up to Dalton before the storm hits, we have to get going.”

  “I’m sorry, Henry,” she called. “I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”

  Jerusha quickly slipped into her clothes, rolled her braided hair into a knot, and pulled on her prayer kappe. She gathered her things and then went into the sewing room, where the quilt lay neatly folded on the table. She unfolded it and began to examine every detail one more time. She checked the stitching but could not see any mistakes or overruns. The pattern was totally unique, and the material was beautiful. As it lay on the table before her, the colors shimmered and shifted in the light. The quilt felt alive to her, and in a way it was. She had poured her memories of Jenna’s life and her anguish and grief into this quilt, and the result was truly a masterpiece, a symphony in color and design. She carefully refolded the quilt.

  I put all of my skill and all my feelings into this quilt. I’m going to win that prize, and with the money, I’ll get a new start. I’ll be free. Free to do what I want to do and go where I will. This is a quilt for Jenna and for me. It’s my ticket away from here and from You.

  “You don’t own me anymore!” she hissed into the silent room.

  She then placed the quilt in a cardboard box and folded the flaps together. On the side of the box she wrote, “The Rose of Sharon—quilt by Jerusha Springer.”

  A knock on the door startled her, and Henry called out from the porch.

  “We got to get going, Missus Springer. The storm is picking up, and it will take us a long time to get there as it is.”

  “I’ll be finished in a minute, Henry,” Jerusha said as she opened the door. “Please, could you carry my things to the car?”

  “Glad to, ma’am,” Henry said with a look of relief on his face. “I hope you dressed warm.”

  “Indeed I did,” Jerusha said as she pulled on her long winter coat. She handed Henry the box that held the quilt and slipped her galoshes over her lace-up shoes. She started out the door but then paused and looked back into the house.

  This place used to ring with laughter, and joy and blessing overflowed. I had my life and my good husband and my little girl. It was as if the angels stood round about this house and guarded it from any harm. And then You took her from me and You stripped away every bit of joy and left only this darkness and pain. Soon I will leave this place and I’ll not look back.

  Jerusha collected her thoughts and then stepped out and closed the door. The clicking of the latch had a final sound that pleased her. She turned to the young man who was standing expectantly on the porch.

  “I’m ready, Henry. Thank you so much for taking me.” She smiled quickly and then stepped out into the cold. The icy snow hit her face like needles.

  Henry walked down the steps and opened the door to the backseat of his sedan.

  “I’ve got chains if we need them,” he said. “But these snow tires ought to keep her on the road. She’s real heavy and she goes through the drifts like a truck. I figure we’ll take the county highway to Carr Road and then cut over to Kidron Road. Bobby usually keeps that plowed pretty good during storms, and it’s the quickest way into Dalton. Are you sure they’re going to have the quilt fair, Missus Springer, given the weather and all?”

  “They have never cancelled this fair, and even if they postpone it, I need to see the fair manager. I’ve arranged for a place to stay, and I’ll be fine. I have your phone number, and I’ll go to the store and call you to make arrangements to get back home, or I’ll take the bus.”

  “Okay, Missus Springer, whatever you say. If I didn’t have to get up there myself today for Thanksgiving at my grandma’s, I might be having second thoughts about going.”

  Henry had a grim look on his face, but Jerusha dismissed his frown.

  Today is Thanksgiving. I completely forgot. But then, what do I have to be thankful for?

  Jerusha climbed into the car, and Henry got in behind the wheel and started the Buick. He headed the car out of the driveway, the tires crunching on the new-fallen snow as he turned onto the long gravel road to the county highway. Suddenly a powerful sense of expectancy swept over Jerusha, a feeling so intense that she nearly cried out for joy. But she held her words and sat in the backseat trembling as they began the journey, out and away, away from this place and from these people and from this God—the God of broken dreams and lost hope and beaten-down faith.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Storm

  BOBBY HALVERSON WAS OUT EARLY on Thanksgiving morning. Snowfall had been steady all through the night, and the temperature had dropped into the twenties. Bobby had been running his plow up and down Highway 30, the main route between Wooster and Dalton, since five.

  The old tractor had been running pretty smoothly, and the heated cab kept Bobby fairly warm. On his second pass toward Dalton, he turned south onto Carr Road and headed back toward Apple Creek. He crossed County Highway 188 and continued toward Dover Road. Along the way he checked the driveways and lanes that opened out onto the road. Many of his Amish friends lived on farms along here, and they didn’t have powerful enough equipment to clear their roads in a major snowstorm. So far the area had received only about five inches, but Bobby knew more was coming.

  As he plowed south along the road, he saw Henry Lowenstein’s old Buick coming toward him. As they pulled alongside each other, Bobby throttled down the tractor and stopped. Henry pulled up alongside and rolled down the window of the old sedan. Bobby leaned out of the window of his cab and called over the sound of the rising wind.

  “Hey, Henry, where you headed in this weather?”

  “Hey yourself, Bobby,” Henry called back. “I’m headed to Dalton to my grandma’s house for dinner. Takin’ Missus Springer up to the quilt fair.”

  Bobby hadn’t noticed Jerusha in the backseat. He had once been close to Reuben and Jerusha. He and Reuben had been like brothers.

  “Howdy, Jerusha,” Bobby called down with a smile.

  “Hello, Bobby,” Jerusha answered, looking straight ahead.

  Bobby understood and let it pass. He turned to Henry.

  “You better get a move on. The wind has picked up quite a bit, and the snow is really gonna start coming down. It’s getting colder too. I sure don’t like the looks of this storm. It’s gonna be a whopper.”

  “Don’t worry about me, Bobby,” Henry called back. “This old warhorse is like a tank. Got a great heater, and she’s heavy enough to go right through the drifts.”

  “Okay, then,” Bobby said. “But keep yo
ur eyes on the road. There’s a lot of black ice between here and Dalton, and the snow has been filling in behind me as I plow. I’m expecting the main part of the storm to be on us a lot quicker than we expect.”

  “Will do, Bobby!” Henry yelled over the wind. He put the car in gear and chugged up the road.

  Bobby had an uneasy feeling as he watched Henry head north. He pushed on the tractor’s throttle and began heading south to the county highway. About a quarter of a mile down the road, he turned left and pulled into the Borntrager farm, plowing the snow into the ditch as he headed down the lane. Amos was out in front of the barn getting his cows inside. He waved as Bobby rumbled up.

  “Everything okay, Amos?” Bobby asked from the cab.

  “Doin’ fine, Bobby, just fine,” Amos answered. “Thanks for plowin’ her out for me. I got lots of propane and plenty of food, so I think we’ll be all right until she blows over.”

  “Well, I’ll look back in on you next pass through,” Bobby called as he turned around in the farmyard and headed back toward Apple Creek. He turned south onto Carr Road and passed the Albrecht place and then the Kopfensteins’. Bobby could see the families out battening down their barns and sheds and getting their livestock under cover. He then pulled onto the county highway and headed west into Apple Creek. The wind began to howl, and Bobby noticed that his cab was considerably colder.

  She’s coming, and she’s a mean one. This is gonna be nasty. The tractor throbbed beneath him as he headed west. Bobby Halverson had a very bad feeling about this storm.

  He had a good reason to fear this storm. Two hundred fifty miles to the east, the wind was gusting at over eighty miles per hour. Large areas of the Northeast were experiencing massive tree damage and power outages. Coastal waves and tidal surges from the high winds breached dikes around LaGuardia and flooded the airport runways, shutting down the air traffic there. In Pennsylvania, the Schuylkill River reached flood stage as more than thirty inches of snow accumulated in Pittsburgh. Two fronts of the storm, one moving down from Canada and one up from the south, joined over Lake Erie and moved west and south, bringing freezing temperatures and record snowfall. The barometric pressure inside the storm had plummeted over Washington DC, and the storm began to rotate counterclockwise, transforming into a huge, six-thousand-foot-high cyclone with winds that would eventually top a hundred miles an hour.