by Linda Byler
A speck in the distance took her mind off her hunger. The Klassermans again? Surely they weren’t on their way home. They never had been true to their words, coming to visit them. Just as well. She would have been deeply ashamed to allow those well fed individuals to see how bad off they really were.
Yes, it was a wagon. Wait. No, it wasn’t. It was an automobile; the dust rolling behind it was too dark to be purely dust.
Now she heard it, the poppa-poppa-poppa sound of the engine. The car slowed as it approached, the windshield splattered with dust and insects, gleaming underneath its layer of dust nevertheless. A deep shade of red. The center of the wheels were silver, the spokes like pinwheels.
Hannah stepped off to the side, allowing the car to pass, which it did not do. When it came to a stop, Hannah immediately observed that the driver was a young man, unaccompanied, which spelled caution in capital letters, plus an exclamation mark.
“Howdy, sister!” The voice was loud, brash, without restraint. The face was tanned, smooth, and boyish, the eyes as blue as Clay Jenkins’s.
Hannah didn’t say a word, just stood there by the side of the road with her covering strings blowing and her dark hair shining in the sun.
“You some kinda nun, or what?”
“I’m no nun.”
“Well, you look like one. Where you going?”
“To Pine.”
He put both hands on the steering wheel, leaned back, and whistled. “You got a ways to go.”
“How far?”
“Eight, maybe nine miles.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Hm. Huffy, are we?”
Hannah stalked off. She wasn’t about to be ridiculed, called a nun, and then told a lie about the distance to Pine. Who did he think she was? She didn’t bother looking back and wasn’t surprised when she heard his approach from behind.
“Get in,” he called.
“No.”
“Why not? I’ll take you to Pine. I’m going that way.”
“You are now. You weren’t to begin with.”
He rolled his eyes and whistled.
She walked off. He followed her, slowly. “It’s getting hotter. Get in. Come on. I’ll be nice. There’s nothing to be afraid of. Not with me. I wouldn’t hurt a fly. I mean, flea.”
Hannah walked on.
“Aren’t you going to talk to me? You are a nun, I can tell.”
“Just leave me alone. I can walk to where I’m going.”
“Where you going?”
“To Pine.”
“But where in Pine?”
“None of your business, you know.”
“Come on, I’ll give you a ride. Do you drive?”
Hannah said no and walked faster.
“What’s your name? I’m Philip Apent. Phil, as everyone calls me. You can call me Phil.”
Hannah stopped and glared at him, her dark eyes polished with impatience. “I’m not calling you anything. Now leave me alone!”
After he had roared off in a black cloud of exhaust, Hannah wished she would not have been so cautious, so obedient, so everlastingly conscious of her mother’s words. The sun was hot enough to fry an egg on this dusty road. Her throat was parched, shriveled together like a hog’s intestines on butchering day. Her feet were scratched and aching. Well, there was nothing to do but keep going and hope for the best.
The land was the same the whole way to Pine. Nothing but sky and level land and grass. Occasionally, the dry dusty smell changed to a more earthy one, which made her wonder if she was close to a creek or a water tank.
She saw the windmill first, then the town. A church spire. A grain bin. White buildings, gray ones. Now that she saw this group of homes and established businesses, an overwhelming shyness, a shrinking inside of her, made her stop and consider this bold venture.
Times were tough. This was the Great Depression. There were no jobs, no money, nothing much available. Hod Jenkins had spoken of his family’s self-sufficiency, how fortunate they were to raise cattle, and own the ranch free of debt.
Who would hire her? Who could afford wages?
Her mouth dry, her knees week, her heart pounding in her chest, she approached the first building, the side of a white clapboard house with a foundation of fieldstone.
A white sign, faded and peeling, hung from an L-shaped wooden post that said, “Welcome to Pine.”
Nothing seemed welcoming. A wide, dusty street, with wood-sided houses facing each other, like two sides of an argument, their false fronts held aloft by weathered gray braces that no one had bothered to paint. A hardware and feed store. Better not.
The café was next, a yellowed building that had been white at one time. A thin plywood sign above the door said, “The Waffle Café.” A sparrow had built a nest in the bottom crevice of the sign, sending a spray of white offal over the screen door. The windows, two of them set side by side were so dusty on the outside you could not see if there was anyone inside behind the greasy pink curtains that were hung halfway up the frame on sagging rods. There was a yellowed sign in the window that said, “Waffles, 25¢. Everyday Special.”
Hannah’s mouth watered. Without hesitation, she opened the screen door and stepped inside, the bell above the door tinkling with the force of Manny’s .22 caliber.
All heads turned in her direction. Bold, curious eyes, eyes accustomed to knowing everyone that stepped through that door.
Quickly, Hannah found an empty table, slid into it, her eyes lowered, her hands clasped on the table top. It took awhile until someone had the nerve to approach her. These prairie folks had probably never seen a woman or a girl wearing a head covering.
When someone did come over to her, Hannah assumed it was the owner, a buxom woman who was so tall she seemed to touch the ceiling. Dressed in a fiery red housedress, layered by a greasy white apron, her yellow hair stacked in a loose bun on top of her head, her lips painted the exact shade of red as her dress, she was as intimidating as a runaway horse.
“Hi, honey!” she boomed.
“Hello.”
“What can I getcha?” Her eyes were kind. Curious, but kind. Hannah smiled up at her.
“I’ll have a large glass of water, please. And a waffle.”
“You want chicken gravy on your waffle?”
Hannah thought of prairie hens and shook her head no.
“Syrup? Butter?”
Hannah said yes, that would be fine.
When she brought the glass of water, there was ice in it, clinking invitingly. Hannah drank thirstily and asked for more.
The owner of the café was named Bess. Bess Jones, sister to Ruth Jones. Did she know Ruth Jones?
Hannah shook her head, then offered the information Bess wanted from her. She had walked to Pine. Mose Detweiler was her father, and she needed a job. She did not mention the hunger, the failed crop of corn, anything. Nothing about her dress either. Let them figure it out.
Bess sat opposite Hannah at the table with a thick white mug of coffee. She brought out a package of Lucky Strike cigarettes from her skirt pocket along with a silver lighter that was square and smooth. She expertly flipped up the lighter’s top, ran her thumb along a small wheel, then put the cigarette in her mouth and lowered it to the small flame. She breathed out, spewing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling, then hooked two fingers into the handle of her mug and swallowed her coffee.
Fascinated, Hannah watched every move. Her fingernails were long and red and mirror smooth. How could that be? How could she cook like that? Didn’t it hurt, drawing all that smoke into her throat? That explained her deep voice. At first, she’d thought a man had spoken when Bess greeted her.
But the waffle was so good, the water so cold, the café cool and inviting. Bess had kind eyes, so she’d ignore the rest.
“So tell me, honey, how old are you?” Bess asked, squinting through yet another cloud of smoke. Reaching out, she drew a heavy ash tray toward her, tapping the quivering, gray ash into it.
“I’m
sixteen.”
“And you need a job?”
“I do, as soon as possible.”
Bess looked at her sharply. “Why?”
“Well, we just arrived not too long ago. We lost our farm.”
“Whaddaya mean, you lost your farm? You mean because of this awful depression, or what?”
“I guess. I don’t know. We traveled from Lancaster County, in Pennsylvania.”
“On the train?”
Hannah was tempted to nod her head. Who would know if she lied? She could save herself some humiliation. But she said, “No, we drove a team of horses and a covered wagon.”
The waffle was gone in about five memorable bites, dripping with butter and syrup. She was still hungry, but it had to be enough. She picked up her water glass, swallowed.
“Real pioneers, are ya?” Bess asked, smiling broadly. She leaned back, tilted her head to survey the room and nodded in Hannah’s direction.
“We got ourselves a pioneer girl.” She laughed, a hoarse cackle, not unlike a crow. A few heads nodded and looked in her direction. One said, “Aw, Bess, give her a break.”
“She don’t need no break. She’s a big girl. Ain’t you? What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Oh, well, you can tell me, honey. I’m your friend. You want another waffle?”
Hanna shook her head no, the fifty cent piece heavy in her pocket.
“Sure you do.” She lifted her voice and yelled, “Mabel, another waffle, with a side of bacon.” Turning to Hannah she asked, “So what did you say your name was?”
“Hannah. Hannah Detweiler.”
Bess gave no answer, simply lit another cigarette, and watched her with squinty eyes. “You’re hungry,” she said finally.
Hannah nodded.
“So, if I give you a job, I can’t pay you much. Times are lean. I don’t need anyone, really. And I don’t know what folks will say coming in here, with that thing on your head and all. It won’t make ‘em feel right.”
Hannah considered this, thought of taking off her covering. She knew she would feel downright exposed, sinful, and rebellious. But if it fed her family, would it be all right in God’s eyes?
Bess nodded in the covering’s direction. “What are you? Jewish? Catholic?”
Hannah didn’t want to say the word, knowing this woman would have never heard of the Amish, and how would she explain? But there was no way around it, so she said, “Amish.”
“Never heard of ‘em.”
Hannah nodded, thanked the cook when she brought her waffle, then concentrated busily, spreading butter on the hot waffle, watching it melt and run into the squares of sweet dough, her mouth watering.
Bacon. When had she last had a slice of bacon? A few years ago. It was crispy, salty, and perfect. Her heart was soft toward this large, garrulous woman dressed in red. A woman of the world, and one to be avoided at all cost, she could hear her father say. But she had fed her and thought nothing of it.
“So, what can you do?” Bess asked now.
“Everything.”
“Everything?” An eyebrow raised, followed by a burst of raucous laughter, a tap of a red fingernail on her cigarette. “Honey, you’re a babe in the woods, is what you are. You’ll be devoured by wolves, let me tell you.”
Hannah looked up from cutting her waffle. “I can take care of myself.”
She was met with another peal of hoarse laughter that seemed to ignite the few men lounging around the greasy tables, snorting and sniveling like mockingbirds.
Hannah popped the last bite of waffle in her mouth, chewed, pushed back her chair, and looked at Bess, her eyes two wet coals of anger. “Go ahead, make fun of me. Thanks for the waffles. You won’t see me in your stinking café again. Plus, you better learn to take care of yourself, smoking the way you do.”
With that, she walked out, the fifty cents still pinned securely in her pocket, leaving Bess with her mouth open. She didn’t close it until the screen door slapped against its frame, leaving a small shower of dust in its wake.
Hannah was furious. She walked fast, her fists clenched, hating everyone in that dirty eating place. Filthy, cheap, smelly. Who did they think they were?
She walked past more houses, weedy alleys between them, littered with old boxes and tin cans, pieces of rope like dead, dusty snakes. The sidewalk was made of cement, but it was cracked and dirty, and some sections lifted up at the corners as if a miniature earthquake had rumbled underneath. Or prairie dogs.
To her left there was a large plate glass window with “Rocher’s Hardware and Mercantile” printed across it in square capital letters, each one exactly alike. She stopped and considered the mercantile part. Ladies’ stuff? Fabric, yarn, and house wares? Fueled by the waffles, her spirits high, she decided to enter the store and see what happened.
The door was heavy, wooden, also painted red, with a massive handle that ran horizontally along the middle. She pulled, then tugged back harder, before looking and reading the word “Push.” To her acute embarrassment, a tall thin man wearing a white shirt stood inside grinning broadly at her.
“It won’t open by pulling,” he informed her, still smiling.
His head was so bald it shone like a pale, polished apple. A luxuriant moustache covered every inch of space between his nose and mouth, like a limp animal tail, but clipped and groomed to perfection. A pair of round, gold-rimmed spectacles hung on a string around his neck. His eyes were small and squinty looking, as if he needed the spectacles on his nose instead of hanging from his neck. Hannah didn’t hesitate to tell him that the “Push” should be in larger letters.
“You think?” Well, maybe I’ll have to see about that.”
Hannah walked past him, her large, dark eyes taking in everything. Every shelf was piled with men’s tools, pipes, copper tubing, rubber hoses, nails, screws, seeds, and fertilizer, just about anything they could have used at home.
One side of the store was stacked with fabric, bolt after bolt of gaily colored material—flowered, patterned, plaid. There was heavy denim for work pants, suspenders, buttons, thread, needles, pins, just about anything any woman would need to sew for her family, plus dishes, buckets, pots and pans, mops and brooms, towels and washcloths. The list was endless.
Hannah walked up and down the narrow aisles stuffed with goods and thought of her mother’s patched stockings and aprons, the broken comb the whole family used. She nodded brusquely at curious customers, or kept her eyes lowered, intent on fingering an especially fine piece of cloth, riffling through buttons as if searching for a special one. She noticed the dust, the chewing gum stuck to the floor, cigarette butts tramped flat, bits of thread and dried grass, clumps of yellow earth, bits of newspaper. The buttons should be sorted by color and size to make it easier for the housewives to find a button to match a certain fabric. Same way with the dress material. Much better to stack it together by color—blue plaid, blue flowered, navy blue, sky blue.
She stood still, took in the lone electric bulb hanging from its greasy black rope like a malevolent eye, barely giving enough light to distinguish the blue from the green, much the same as the conglomeration of buttons.
Why didn’t he add more of those light bulbs, clean them up a bit? She wasn’t accustomed to electricity, but she bet it was much the same as a lamp chimney all smoked up.
She stepped aside to let an elderly lady pass, then walked up to the counter before she lost her nerve. “Mister?”
The man was taking down a dozen eggs in a wire basket, but he stopped and gave her his full attention, his eyes telling her he was in a hurry but wanted to hear what she needed.
“You need me to work for you. Your store needs to be cleaned well, and you need better light. I could rearrange your fabric, sort buttons, and clean windows. You could make many improvements in here.”
The owner of Rocher’s Hardware and Mercantile had been in business for close to thirty years. Out here on the plains, with folks scattered a
round for miles, none of them could afford to buy too much at any given time. So to survive, he’d learned to cut corners, keep his overhead down. His boys had both worked in the store until they went east to a college in Ohio, which left him scrambling to stay efficient, with this depression clamping a lid on any thoughts of bettering himself. His wife was, sadly, crippled with arthritis, her knees painfully swollen, her fingers becoming more twisted each year.
This odd girl, though, with that ungainly white thing on her head. “I would like to have you in my employ, but times are not good, as we all know. I couldn’t pay you any wages to speak of.”
Hannah answered immediately. “You wouldn’t have to. All I’d need for a month or so for my beginning wages would be ten pounds of flour, ten of cornmeal, some salt, and a bit of sugar. Oh, and a ride home on Saturday evening, if it could be arranged. Plus, I’d need a place to stay.”
“Harry!” The voice came from the back, loud and demanding, capable of turning the man immediately, as if the strident voice had strings attached to his hands and feet, puppet-like.
“Yes, dear.” That quick, he was gone.
The bell above the door pealed. All the light coming through the door was darkened by a stout figure wearing a short sleeved dress, pulled in at the waist by a thin strip of fabric, which divided her effectively into two parts, a rounded upper and a more rounded bottom. Her face was as red as a sour cherry, and as shiny, her yellow hair in a braid on top of her head.
Mrs. Klasserman. She was followed by Mr. Klasserman, who was mopping his own florid, shining cheeks with a great red handkerchief as large as a pillowcase.
“My lands, it’s hot,” Mrs. Klasserman said. “When it gets this hot, there’s a storm cooking out there somewhere. You mark my words.”
She sailed past Hannah without showing any sign of recognition, then realized that Harry was not behind the counter, where he was supposed to be. The heat had put her in foul mood. She was in a great hurry and needed only twelve black buttons for her Sunday serge. She was not about to wait.
She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the dim interior. She saw Hannah, followed by a smile of recognition, saying her name, both the first and last one correctly.
