“What was that last line again?” Boston asked, leaning forward and peering at the letter. “Reread it, if you please.”
Small Jay did just that, then paused, waiting.
“Oh, what I wouldn’t give to know who penned such tender words.” Boston interlaced his long, smooth fingers and raised them to his lips. “Who would write such intimate things?” He reached for the letter and scanned it, apparently looking at the bottom for a name. “Ah, it was Abigail who wrote it. Signed, Yours for always.”
Small Jay felt as heavy as if a boulder had rolled over him. “Was Abigail writing to you?” he asked, looking down at the end of the letter.
Boston acted like he hadn’t heard him. “To whom is the envelope addressed?” he asked.
“I don’t see any envelope. But I could look in your satchel, maybe,” Small Jay felt compelled to offer. After all, it was wrong to read letters—love letters, at that—meant for someone else. Even so, he kept his thoughts to himself and waited for further instruction from the bewildered man.
Boston hesitated, then handed over the shoulder bag. But Small Jay found no envelopes, just letters and pages covered with strange dots and squiggles on sets of five lines, odd symbols he’d never laid eyes on before. On one of those pages, the words “Melody of Love” were written at the top, with the name Eleanor off to the right.
“Who’s Eleanor?” asked Small Jay.
Boston’s eyebrows rose, then drooped. He frowned hard, as if trying his best to remember. “Eleanor . . .” Sighing, he said at last that he did not recall.
Just then Small Jay realized with some degree of horror that he saw no sign of Sassy, who had been romping with Allegro along the creek’s edge not so long ago.
“Here, kitty-kitty,” he called, his heart relieved when she came into view. Poor Sassy was a fright, dirty and with grass in her fur, yet she purred contentedly. “We should be gettin’ home with the pony cart. Mamma will wonder where we’ve been.”
Boston’s head jerked around. “Mamma, you said?”
“That’s right. Why do ya ask?”
Rubbing his hand slowly across his forehead, Boston began to moan. “Oh, what was I saying? My memory is slipping.”
Small Jay was about to remind him when the man reached for his bag and uttered something in what sounded like a foreign language.
“What was that, mister?” Small Jay asked.
“Thank you, young lad.” Boston sounded aloof.
“Will ya tell me when you run out of food?” Small Jay said, standing to go.
The man sighed again and looked puzzled at the question, and Small Jay felt a little worried for him.
“Do ya like livin’ here?” he asked, trying to get Boston’s mind back on the here and now.
With a look of surprise, Boston leaned his head back where they sat and stared up at the large four-story stone structure. His mouth gaped open. “Do I own this place?” He turned to look at Small Jay. “Is this my house?”
“I don’t think so. I’m not sure where your home is.” Small Jay shook his head, his words choking in his throat. “Maybe Abigail is your wife. She sounds awful nice,” he said at last.
Despite his dog, the man seemed so alone, and Small Jay had a strong feeling there was someone, somewhere, who had loved Boston, or who loved him still and might be missing him. Maybe even right now!
“My wife left me, so I doubt the letter is from her.”
“Left you how long ago?” If he remembered right, the letter had been dated years ago, in 1955.
Boston placed his hand on his heart and shook his head. “My dear Abigail has long since gone, I’m very sorry to say.”
Gone to Gloryland? Small Jay wondered . . . and trembled.
That afternoon Mammi insisted on their purchasing a baby stroller for Angela Rose, much to Marlena’s surprise. While Marlena shopped in town with her grandmother, she noticed a renewed vigor as Mammi picked up one so-called “necessary” item after another. It was clear from the purchases, she must think the baby was going to be with them for quite a while. As much as Marlena loved the little one and was willing to do her best to care for her, she truly hoped this arrangement would not last much longer.
“I wonder if my beau has ever laid eyes on Luella’s baby,” she mentioned as she and her grandmother returned home in Mammi’s black-bumper Chevy. “I really doubt it.”
“She’s a precious child,” Mammi said, her words seeming to catch in her throat. “This is all so very sad.” She glanced over at Marlena, who held the sleeping baby on the passenger side of the front seat.
Marlena looked down at Angela’s tiny eyes fluttering and squinting under the white eyelet sunbonnet—Mammi’s idea. She recalled the other pretty things her grandmother had insisted on buying: two little cotton sundresses and a white one with lace edging for Sundays. All rather fancy compared to the way Amish mothers dressed their babies. There were tiny socks with lace edging, too, and a skein of soft white yarn with silver threads woven through for crocheted booties. “It’s not possible to spoil an infant, is it?” she asked softly.
Mammi gripped the wheel, her wrinkled knuckles white. “Well, hardly at her young age.” She paused, then added, “Not unless ya hold her all night, jah?”
“Ach, I did that so she wouldn’t wake you up, Mammi.”
Mammi’s eyes had a playful glint. “I guess we’ll see how easily she falls asleep on her own from here on out.”
“She did last night.” Marlena touched Angela’s little head. “I’m just hopin’ she’ll be content here . . . till Gordon’s parents can take her, anyway.”
Mammi nodded, her eyes on the road. “It’s my earnest prayer that God’s will might be done for the child.”
Each time her grandmother spoke of calling upon God, it made Marlena feel as if she was missing out on something wonderful, just the way Mammi’s face seemed to come alive. Naturally, Marlena had listened to the sermons at her parents’ Beachy church about experiencing a closeness with the Lord Jesus. That minister had also talked of being redeemed and delivered from the burden of sin, saying that people could know they were, in fact, saved even before death and the Judgment Day. However, such a declaration was considered the height of pride by her Old Order church. In so many ways, the Beachy Amish sermons were different than what Marlena had grown up hearing, and she still wasn’t sure what to think about these new beliefs. She was very sure, on the other hand, what Nat Zimmerman and his family thought of her family’s move away from das Alt Gebrauch. And this, above all, was the thing that worried her most about being so far away from her beloved.
Will Nat come to Luella’s funeral? Her heart leaped at the thought, but she realized that was simply a hopeful dream. Nat wouldn’t think of attending a service for someone like Luella, a defiant former Amishwoman, even if she had been Marlena’s own sister.
Chapter 12
Marlena was thankful for the overcast skies as she left the house to weed the vegetable garden and the three large flower beds following their return home. She smoothed the dirt around yellow, crimson, and purple dahlias after weeding around mounds of gray-green foliage at the base of each plant.
Oh, she longed for another good soaking rain, which would definitely help the weeding process if she needed to finish this chore tomorrow. But knowing she would be tired after a busy morning at their Saturday market, she kept at it, digging each small weed out by the root.
Glancing at the heavens, she recalled something her Dawdi Tim liked to say: “A watched sky doesn’t rain.” At the memory, she stretched a bit and massaged her neck and shoulders before returning to the daunting task. She wondered how long she would feel heavyhearted like this. So much has been lost. . . .
She recalled family summer visits there—the corn and wiener roasts Mammi so loved hosting, the watermelon-spitting contests between her father and brothers, and all the kids playing croquet with the wickets spread around the yard.
Marlena remembered how different it was to
share the upstairs guest room with Luella, who’d once confided that she was embarrassed about her Plain appearance when at market and in town. “I can’t wait to get some decent English clothes so people will stop staring at me,” Luella had whispered into the darkness.
Marlena disliked hearing her sister talk disparagingly about the dresses and cape aprons Mamma sewed in accordance with the Ordnung. What had gotten into Luella anyway? Even now, Marlena wondered this.
When at long last she’d finished weeding, Marlena’s hands ached, along with her heart. Getting up, she picked her way over her grandfather’s stepping-stones toward the house. Her right ankle was sore, and she presumed she’d twisted it in her eagerness to accomplish all the weeding in a single afternoon.
Back in the kitchen, she lathered her hands thoroughly with Mammi’s homemade lye soap and set the supper table, grateful for Mammi’s help watching Angela Rose, who was napping in the playpen after their busy morning in town. The baby wasn’t easy to care for all the time, wanting someone in sight or she’d start crying.
Mammi seemed to like having the baby around nonetheless. She was often the first to reach for Angela Rose when her little lower lip puckered. And she thinks I spoil her. . . .
“The weeds are all . . . for now,” Marlena declared. “If we get a gut rain, I’ll be right back out there.”
“Denki, dear.” Mammi looked her way, then fondly toward the baby. “Our little cherub had herself a nice long nap. And your mother called with more details on the funeral Monday morning.”
Marlena nodded. “How’d she sound today?”
“Matter-of-fact. She was all business, ya know.”
“Prob’ly to keep from cryin’.” Marlena looked into the playpen, where Angela Rose held her favorite rattle. “Did ya get all your sewin’ done like you wanted to, Mammi?” she asked, changing the topic.
“Didn’t take me long this time. Besides, I managed to get supper in the oven.”
Thankful for that, Marlena said, “Something smells delicious.”
When it was time, they sat down to the reheated baked chicken and rice, wonderful-good leftovers, and cooked buttered peas, garden fresh, with homemade rolls and apple butter. Marlena put Angela Rose in the wooden high chair so she could be included . . . a circle of three generations. She gave the baby a teething ring, which went right into her rosebud mouth.
And, later, Marlena mixed up more of the rice cereal Aunt Becky had brought, which was lots of fun to feed—they’d forgotten to buy a baby-sized spoon. More cereal ended up on the highchair tray than in Angela’s mouth.
When Marlena attempted to wash her face, the baby moved away, crying and wrinkling up her little nose as she arched her back.
After the worst of the mess was cleaned up, Mammi remarked, “It’s such a nice evening. Why not take Angela Rose out for a stroll?”
Marlena hadn’t thought of that, but a walk during the cooler part of the day might be beneficial. “Will you be all right alone here for a little while?”
“Why, sure. I’ll do up the dishes . . . give you a head start on your walk.”
“No need to, really, Mammi.”
Her grandmother offered a sweet smile; then she touched the baby’s dimpled elbow. “I insist.” She wiped her brow with the back of her palm. “It’s been a couple of hard days for you, dear.”
“For you, too,” Marlena said softly.
They shied away from talk of Luella, rather discussing whom to call to drive them to Mifflinburg for the funeral. Mammi suggested Dawdi Tim’s deacon friend, Vernon Siegrist, before unexpectedly offering to drive them herself. Marlena was quick to gently refuse. They were both too shaken by Luella’s death; she couldn’t accept her grandmother’s thoughtful offer. In the end, they both agreed that it was better to hire a driver for the nearly four-hour round trip.
“I’ll telephone Vernon while you’re out. We’ll see if he’s available for an early morning trip this Monday,” Mammi said. “The funeral is at nine o’clock.”
After a light dessert of fruit cup topped with a dollop of whipped cream, Marlena tied the new white sunbonnet on Angela Rose’s little head. She carried her outside and slid her into the stroller. Glad for the heavy cloud canopy, Marlena pushed slowly down the back walkway, wishing Luella might have kept in touch with her, especially after Angela Rose was born.
They moved past the pristine flower beds and Mammi’s fragrant red roses—“red stands for love,” Mammi always said when the very first blooms sprang to life—and then out toward the berry patch.
Two crows scolded over there, perched on the fence, craning their black necks, then strutting about. She remembered the days, back before her grandfather’s illness, when he and Mammi had kept hens. Oh, the happy days of going to the hen house to gather eggs, eager to get there before the rats did, the miserable critters.
Dawdi had been a high-spirited man, full of fun, quite unlike a few of the sour-faced men at the meetinghouse on Sundays. She’d once caught herself trying to imagine what dear Dawdi would look like without his long, thinning beard, curious about his youthful appearance. He’d had the longest eyelashes she’d ever seen on a man, even as long as Luella’s, although her sister had enhanced hers with dark makeup as a teenager, making them appear even longer and thicker.
Marlena stopped walking, wondering why she’d never realized before that Luella had resembled Dawdi in that way—both of them so striking, with fine and well-proportioned features. So fine, in fact, their younger brother Amos had tried to sketch a silhouette of Luella after the supper hour one winter years ago, much to Dat’s chagrin.
Walking again, Marlena assumed that was the way of grief—you uncovered facts that had always been in front of you, making discoveries only when it was too late.
Aware of the sultry evening air, she realized Mammi was right; she’d needed this walk. “Let’s listen for the birdies again,” she leaned down to tell Angela Rose.
As she walked, she spotted the familiar apple orchard where she’d spent busy hours with the amiable Amish neighbors. Rosanna Miller, Benuel’s oldest daughter, was closer to Luella’s age and as sunny as a springtime sunrise, yet Luella had showed little interest in her, and Rosanna had quickly become Marlena’s friend.
Recalling the carefree and sweet-spirited girl, Marlena wondered where Rosanna lived now, or if she’d married yet. In many ways, Rosanna had taken Luella’s sisterly place nearly every summer, exploring nearby meadows with Marlena and concocting new dessert recipes and testing them in her mother’s old black wood stove. The girls had also liked to swim fearlessly in the swollen creek behind the Mennonite minister’s barn while wearing their cape dresses, and once even shared the fright of seeing a water snake within touching distance in the moonlight.
Marlena smiled at the memories, recalling that Rosanna had once said, “There’s a little glimpse of heaven in a buttercup.” She’d been so convincing that Marlena had picked one and slipped it under her pillow.
All the fun Luella missed. . . . Marlena found it curious, the things she recalled these many years later. I remember the past so clearly.
Her reverie was interrupted by the sight of Small Jay coming this way with Sassy in tow. “Look, Angela Rose . . . there’s a kitty-cat,” she said.
“Hullo,” the Bitner boy called to them.
“Wie bischt?”
He bobbed his head and a bashful smile spread across his slim face. As was often the case when she first arrived in the summer, Small Jay didn’t say much. He waved now and reached for his straw hat.
“Are ya lookin’ to catch some lightning bugs?” she asked, moving toward him.
Small Jay shrugged, still fidgeting with his hat. “Just might.”
She invited him to walk with her, and they admired the road banks profuse with fragrant honeysuckle. “Have ya met my little niece?”
He shook his head. “Maybe she’ll like my Sassy-cat. I hosed her off a little bit ago.” Small Jay explained how dirty she’d gotten, playi
ng near the creek bank down by the old mill. “Not sure she’s forgiven me yet.”
“Well, she looks right fluffy to me. Why don’t ya bring your kitty over closer?” Marlena stopped the stroller and crouched near, running her hand over the plump part of the baby’s wrist.
Small Jay put his hat back on and inched over, dragging his leg. He stooped to lift the cat and held Sassy near the stroller, but not too close.
“This is Angela Rose,” Marlena told him.
Small Jay looked her over. “Ach, she’s mighty little. Kinda like me.”
Marlena guided Angela’s hand toward the cat’s soft fur. “See? Doesn’t that feel awful nice?” she cooed to the baby. “This is Small Jay’s kitty-cat.”
Angela lit right up.
“Where’d this baby come from?” Small Jay stared at Angela Rose.
“Well, just north of Harrisburg. She’s visiting for a while.”
“My sisters’ll like her. They ain’t so interested in the likes of me, though. They boss me when Mamma’s out pickin’ peas and rhubarb. ’Specially Julia. Dat says she’s full of pepper and spice.”
“And my big sister bossed me but gut when we were young. But she got married and moved away.”
“Ah . . .” he said absently and looked at the sky, then back at her. “Can ya keep a secret?”
“Sure.” She straightened and Small Jay set the cat back down on the ground. “But why would ya want to tell me?”
“Well, ’cause you listen.” He looked timidly at her. “And I could use a big sister.”
Marlena pondered that. Doesn’t his dear mother, Ellie, listen with her heart?
“Promise first not to say a word . . . if I do tell ya?” His small face was earnest.
“Is everything all right, Small Jay?” she blurted, uneasy about promising anything.
His head drooped. “Well, not for a lonely old man down the way. He lives in the mill with his dog.” Then, as if realizing he’d shared something maybe too soon, he began to shake his head. “Nee . . . I didn’t mean to say—”
The Love Letters Page 9
