More Than Words

by Judith Miller

  “If anyone brought it to the elders’ attention, they would have to explain why they were reading a periodical such as this, wouldn’t they?” He rested his elbows on the counter and tipped his head to the side. “Even if someone should read this and recognize your name, they won’t take it to the elders. You have nothing to worry about.” Reaching into his case once again, Mr. Finley withdrew an envelope and handed it to me.

  The envelope had been inscribed with nothing more than my name. “What is this?”

  He beamed and pointed to my hand. “Open it. You’ll see.”

  After unsealing the envelope, I removed and unfolded the single sheet of paper. It was from the magazine editor. He’d written that he was pleased with the poems provided by Mr. Finley and would like to publish all that had been submitted to him. I continued to read and then looked up at Mr. Finley.

  “He says you negotiated to sell him my poems, and that he has paid you for them. I cannot understand why you would not write and request my permission before doing such a thing.”

  Once again Mr. Finley’s smile diminished. “You make it sound as though I’ve done something terrible when I’ve actually done something for which most people would be grateful.”

  He withdrew an accounting that reflected the list of poems and payment made for each one. “Your money,” he said, sliding the funds across the counter.

  I wasn’t certain whether I should refuse the money or scoop it up and tuck it into my pocket. Sunlight gleamed across the counter, and the coins winked at me like twinkling stars. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take the money just this once. I could put it in my trunk and save it. To explain how I happened to have legal tender in my possession would be impossible, but one day the money might be more important than any required explanation. I gathered the money and shoved it into the pocket of my skirt.

  “I must have your word that you will not publish any more of my poetry, Mr. Finley. I did not send it to you with thoughts of such a thing. I had only hoped for a few words of encouragement from your poet friend.”

  Mr. Finley glanced toward the bulge in my pocket. “If your hope was only for a few words of praise, I think you should be mightily encouraged. Unless you furnish me with additional poetry, I will be unable to submit them for publication.” He pushed the magazine close to my hand. “You should keep this. One day you will be pleased to have a memento of your first published poem.”

  I did my best to appear nonchalant when I gathered the magazine and placed it beneath the counter in a spot where it would be well hidden until I could take it to my room. “Are my other poems in this periodical, as well?”

  “No. Some of your other work will be published in a future edition, and I’ll do my best to make certain you receive a copy.” He flashed a smile. “I do hope that I’m forgiven for my indiscretion. I should have asked your permission or at least refrained from using your name. I can request the editor remove your name or we could give you a pseudonym.” He snapped his finger and thumb together. “That’s it! We’ll make up a name, and no one will be the wiser. Is there a name you think would be appropriate?”

  Using a false name would be ideal. Then there would be no embarrassment to the colonies or trouble for me. I did my best to think of something stylish and grand, but nothing came to mind. “I can’t think of a suitable name.”

  Mr. Finley straightened to attention. “I know! What about Gretchen Allen?”

  “You want me to use your name?”

  His shoulders slumped, and he looked like a deflated balloon. “I’m not attempting to take credit for any portion of your writing, but I thought since I’d submitted your work and had acted as an agent of sorts, that it would be fine. If there’s some other name you prefer, I am open to your suggestions.”

  “No, of course not. Gretchen Allen will be fine. No one will associate me with that name, especially since so few people have ever read my poetry.”

  “And those who have don’t read periodicals,” he added.

  “Except for you.”

  He grinned and nodded. “My friend has a keen interest in the stories you’ve been sending, particularly the last few. He hoped you might have one or two more for him to read when I return to Chicago.”

  I didn’t immediately answer his question. Instead, I decided to ask one of my own. “Exactly when will you return to Chicago?”

  “I’m sorry to say that I must leave in the morning. I’m here only long enough take orders from your father, and then I must return to help with my uncle’s business.”

  Obviously, Mr. Finley wasn’t as interested in learning about our community as I’d first thought. And I found his uncle’s traveling obligations less than clear.

  “I don’t understand why you must return so soon.”

  He picked up his hat and placed it over his heart. “Dear lady, please tell me you don’t believe I am telling you a falsehood, for it would truly break my heart.”

  His silly playacting caused me to giggle. “I wouldn’t want to break your heart, but I would like to hear the truth.” I turned more serious. “You have given me cause to be concerned about some of your decisions, Mr. Finley, and I hope there will be no further surprises.”

  “Ah, but surprises are good for the soul. They keep us young and carefree.”

  “Or turn us old and troubled before our time. I am far too young to become old and troubled, Mr. Finley. I hope you will do nothing to speed that process.”

  He bowed from the waist and swept his hat in a grand gesture. “I would never want that to happen.” He straightened and signaled toward our rooms. “You never said whether you have more stories for me. I know my friend is going to be despondent if I return empty-handed.”

  I’d had time to write only one more story since I’d mailed my others—the ones Conrad had seen on the counter. Between my work in the store, worry over Oma, and spending time with Conrad most every evening, I’d fallen into bed far too weary to think about writing. Even my journal hadn’t received proper attention over the past weeks. Besides, I couldn’t imagine that my writing was so magnificent that his friend would be disheartened.

  “I have only one story, and it isn’t quite complete. This is a busy time of year, both in the store and with our farming. We completed the onion harvest while you were gone. It would be gut if you could come and help with the potato harvest. You would then see how we all work together for the common gut.”

  He shifted his weight and nodded as though he was interested in the harvest. “I would very much like that. I’ll do my very best to be here when the potato harvest begins, but why don’t you write a story about the onion harvest. I’d feel much more prepared.”

  “Ja. I suppose I could do that.” The minute I’d agreed, I recalled my promise to Conrad. “I think it would be better if I sent any mail to your aunt rather than directly to you. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m conducting an improper correspondence.”

  “Well, I suppose that would work. I can explain to her. Let me write her address for you.” I handed him a pen and paper.

  “While you write out the address, I’ll go and fetch the story from my room.”

  I leaned down and removed the magazine from beneath the counter. I didn’t want Stefan to discover I’d received another periodical from Mr. Finley. I hurried through the parlor and into my bedroom. Instead of placing the magazine in my trunk, where Stefan might find it, I opened my wardrobe. A surprising surge of pride swept through me when I took a moment for one final peek at my name in print before I buried the magazine beneath my undergarments. For sure, pride was something I would need to guard against. Using a false name should stifle such feelings— that’s what I told myself as I closed the wardrobe door.

  I lifted the lid of my trunk and slid my hand deep inside until I could feel the hard edge of my journal. I pulled it from under the quilts and removed the loose pages that lay inside the front cover. I’d not had sufficient time to correct the story or even complete it the way I’d
planned.

  After reading this tale, Mr. Finley’s friend would think that any talent I’d once possessed had evaporated. If that occurred, it would erase any of my worries about becoming prideful. Rolling the pages into a tube, I closed the trunk and hurried back to the store.

  Mr. Finley extended his hand to take the pages. “You were gone so long, I thought you weren’t coming back.” He flashed a quick smile and shoved the pages into his case.

  “Please tell him it’s not completed, and—”

  He snapped the latches on his case. “I know it will be wonderful, but I promise to explain.” The scrap of paper he’d written on sat beside his case, and he slid it toward me. “Here is the address where you may send your stories.”

  I thanked him and folded the paper.

  “You owe me no thanks, Gretchen. Knowing someone so kind and lovely has given me renewed hope in mankind. Your talent and beauty are beacons in a drab world.”

  I wasn’t certain if he meant Homestead was drab, or if he was simply using poetic words to impress me. I was thankful he didn’t wait for a response, for I didn’t know how to reply to such comments. Secretly I had enjoyed the flattering remark, something for which I should ask forgiveness but probably wouldn’t. Seldom did I hear such compliments. My father was slow with praise, and though I didn’t doubt Conrad’s affection for me, words of fondness did not come easily to his lips. I didn’t blame him. Such talk wasn’t the way of our people—especially the men.

  Oma once told me that idle talk wasn’t encouraged because it could lead to gossip, and gossip could lead to misunderstanding; misunderstanding could lead to disruption, and disruption would hamper our ability to serve the Lord. After finishing the explanation, she had chuckled. “Of course, the women don’t agree with this idea. We believe our work is made lighter when we can visit with one another.” She had gently pinched my cheeks. “So let the men remain silent. The women will talk.”

  Oma was correct: The women did talk. Whether in the kitchen or the garden, the women took great pleasure in visiting, but praise and admiration weren’t a part of those conversations, either—not unless you had peeled more potatoes than any other woman, or you polished the silver or scrubbed the pots and pans with greater speed than the others.

  For sure it was nice to be praised for your work, but to hear Mr. Finley say that my talent and beauty were beacons in a drab world was more pleasing than being commended for picking grapes.

  He reached forward and placed his fingers atop my hand. “I believe that takes care of everything you’ll need before I depart.”

  I snatched my hand away and took a slight backward step.Such familiarity was unacceptable. Should someone walk into the store and observe our hands clasped together, I would be summoned to answer to the elders—a prospect that held no appeal.

  I shoved the paper into my pocket and forced aside my feelings of guilt and self-recrimination.

  CHAPTER 18

  My hands trembled as I clawed my fingers inside the wooden cash drawer. The divided box sat before me completely empty of bills and coins. Granted, the people who lived in our community didn’t need cash to pay for their purchases, but I needed money to make change for the visitors who purchased items in our store—and I was responsible for that cash. At least when I was in charge of the counter.

  Each morning my father counted the money and placed it in the proper slots of the cash drawer. Each night he removed it. Today had been no different. When we’d returned to the store after breakfast, Father had placed the money in the drawer. Now it was gone. I tried to recall who had been in the store and when I’d last reached inside the drawer to make change. The money was there when a farmer from Marengo made a cash purchase a few hours ago. Then I remembered the couple who had come in after the farmer. They’d been dressed in shabby clothes. I’d never before seen them. The wife had asked me to show her some dishes in the back of the store while her husband had remained up front. They’d departed without making a single purchase. My mind reeled. Had the man helped himself to the cash while I was showing his wife a set of china? The elders had discussed purchasing one of the new cash registers to replace our wooden cash drawer, but they’d not yet reached a decision.

  Father had left only a short time ago to pick up bolts of fabric from the mills in Main Amana. I could lock the door and place the Closed sign in the front window, but that would cause a flurry of questions. And visitors would surely arrive on the next train— visitors who would need change for their purchases. My stomach churned at the thought. What could I do? The thought rolled over and over in my mind. Conrad! Perhaps he could help.

  I hurried the short distance to the barbershop, disappointed when I caught sight of a visiting salesman sitting in the barber chair. Oma was circling the two men, her broom in continuous motion. If her actions were disturbing Conrad, he gave no indication.

  My grandmother had insisted upon leaving with Conrad when he’d stopped by the store earlier. Once again, she’d confused him for my grandfather, and once again Conrad had accepted her overtures. When she’d insisted upon leaving with him, he’d quickly agreed and brushed aside my concerns. “She’ll be fine. I’ll have her straighten the shelves and sweep the floor.” To try to keep her at the store would have caused a scene and drawn my father’s attention.

  Conrad glanced in my direction as I entered the shop. “You didn’t need to come and check on her so soon. She is doing fine—a big help to me, aren’t you, Sister Helga?”

  Oma offered Conrad a bright smile and completely ignored me. Probably just as well. When she wasn’t in her right mind, she feared other women would try to steal “her man.”

  “When you finish, I need to speak to you.”

  He stopped clipping and looked over his shoulder at me. “Something is wrong?”

  I nodded. “We need to talk as soon as possible. Could you come to the store? Vater is gone to Main Amana, and I had to put up the Closed sign.”

  “Ja. You go back to the store. Sister Helga and I will come when we finish here.”

  Oma was sweeping Conrad’s shoes when I left. The barbershop held a certain fascination for her, perhaps because my grandfather had enjoyed his visits to the barber, but there was no way to predict what would fascinate her when she wasn’t in her right mind—except that she always was happy to be with Conrad, and he never failed to extend great compassion and kindness where she was concerned.

  I couldn’t count the number of times I’d been thankful for having him close at hand when help was needed. And fortunately the barbershop wasn’t busy all the time. The men tended to fit haircuts into their work schedules, and though most liked their hair neatly trimmed and parted in the middle or on one side, during harvest or planting, the haircuts could always wait. And while most of the men preferred their faces clean-shaven, they performed the task themselves at home each morning. Seldom did the local men have time to enjoy a shave at the barbershop. I counted it a special blessing that Conrad had periods of free time, for more and more I found myself in need of his help.

  I unlocked the store, removed the Closed sign from the window, and uttered a quick prayer that no cash-paying customers would arrive. Maybe Conrad had cash in the barbershop that he could loan me until the missing money was returned. The thought provided a glimmer of hope, though I doubted he kept as much on hand as I would need.

  I paced the wooden floor until he and Oma arrived a short time later. My grandmother discovered a crate of canned goods and began to stack them in the middle of the floor. I quickly explained about the empty cash drawer and asked Conrad if he’d seen the couple who had last been in the store.

  “Nein. And if it is the only time they’ve been here, there’s no hope of locating them. Are you certain they are the ones who took the money?”

  “I have no idea. I only know it is missing. I made change for the farmer from Oxford who was in here before them.”

  “Ja, I remember the farmer. I was here when he came in, but Sister Helg
a and I left a short time—” He turned to look at Oma. “Do you think your grandmother took the money?”

  I shook my head. “Why would she take the money?”

  He shrugged. “Why would she climb the apple tree? Who can say how her mind works in recent years?” He walked to the center of the store and stooped down in front of my grandmother. “May I buy one of these cans of food, Sister Helga?”

  My grandmother looked up at him, her eyes clouded but a smile on her lips. “Ja, but only one.”

  He reached into his pocket and removed a folded piece of paper and handed it to my grandmother. “I will need some change.”

  Conrad followed as my grandmother walked to the cash drawer. She appeared baffled when she discovered the empty slots, but moments later she grasped Conrad’s hand. “The money is over here, but don’t tell anyone.” She pulled him down the aisle, pushed aside the jars of honey, and removed an old sugar sack. After handing Conrad several coins, she returned the sack to the shelf and shoved the jars back into place. She touched her fingers to her lips. “This is our secret, Emil.”

  “Ja. I won’t tell anyone.”

  I couldn’t believe what he’d managed to accomplish in such a short time. And how had she remembered where she’d hidden the money? Conrad was right. Who could say how her mind worked? Conrad glanced over his shoulder, and I mouthed a thank-you. He grinned in return.

  “Maybe you should rest, Sister Helga. So much sweeping at the barbershop is a tiring job. A little rest would be good, ja?”

  After a few minutes Oma agreed I could take her to her room. When I returned, Conrad had returned the money to the cash drawer. “Thank you, Conrad. I don’t know what I would do without you.”

  “It makes me feel gut to help you, Gretchen. I hope you will always come to me when you are in need.” He squeezed my hand. “I better get back to the barbershop, but I will see you later.”