Lillian felt a smile grow on her face as Eli praised their heavenly Father. She and Reinhardt had prayed together, but she remembered more petitions than praises. The idea of praising God even when troubles knocked at the back of one’s heart brought a feeling of contentment and fulfillment beyond anything she’d known before. As Eli prayed, she offered her own silent request for God to bestow the same measure of contentment on her sons—especially Henrik.
Then, remembering Eli’s praises, she sent up a heartfelt thankyou that on this Sunday morning Henrik seemed less withdrawn. He had even given her a kiss on her cheek when she wished him a happy eighteenth year. The simple gesture had filled her heart with joy.
“Amen.” Eli lifted his head, took in a deep breath, and then offered a bright smile. “Nä-jo, let us have our lunch, and then we will have a special time of celebrating Henrik’s birthday.”
Ordinarily, Sunday lunch would be a simple affair to avoid tasking oneself on the Lord’s day of rest. But given the special occasion of a birthday, Lillian believed God would forgive her for taking extra effort.
She waved her hands at Henrik and Eli. “You stay here. Joseph and I will prepare the table.” Joseph jumped up, and soon their trunk-table was spread with Lillian’s finest linen tablecloth embroidered at each corner with pink roses, delicately painted bone china dishes, and silverware Lillian had polished to a high shine. She invited the others to pull up their stools, and then she retrieved Henrik’s birthday dinner: the sweet potatoes Eli had brought from McPherson Town and cabbage rolls in a thick sour cream sauce.
“Mother, you made Holubtsi?”
Lillian laughed aloud at Henrik’s surprise. “You did not guess? The wind has carried the smell from the Spoaheat to our noses ever since we sat down to worship together.”
A gust lifted the edge of the tablecloth, and Joseph whacked his hand down to hold it in place. He giggled, hunching his shoulders impishly. “The wind must have pushed the smell past Henrik’s nose.”
They all laughed, and Lillian set the tray in the middle of the table. She perched on her stool, and they joined hands. But instead of offering grace, Eli looked at Henrik.
“On this day when you become an adult, would you like to offer the blessing?” The hesitance in Eli’s voice made Lillian’s heart flutter with apprehension. Would the request bring a return to sullenness? After their lighthearted morning, she wished for Henrik to maintain a cheerful countenance. To her joyful relief, Henrik offered a meek nod.
Tears stung behind Lillian’s nose as she listened to her son recite a simple blessing for their food. When he added, “Bless the hands that prepared this food,” he gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and the tears spurted. When she raised her face, two warm tears rolled down her cheeks.
Henrik looked at her in alarm. “Mother?”
She swished the tears away, releasing a trembling laugh. “Ach, ignore me, Henrik. It is just that you are no longer my little boy, and a mother has to mourn such changes.” She reached for the tray of Holubtsi. “Here now. You take the fattest ones.”
No one seemed to mind that shredded wild potatoes and dried beef replaced the traditional rice and ground sausage that would have filled the cabbage leaves in Gnadenfeld. Instead, they ate with great appreciation, showering Lillian with compliments. Conversation flowed smoothly, with Henrik contributing nearly as much as Joseph, and Lillian thought she had never been happier. Perhaps coming into the age of manhood had reaped this change in Henrik. Or perhaps God had finally answered her prayers. Whatever the reason, she celebrated the time of fellowship with her sons and Eli.
When the last cabbage roll had been consumed, Eli stood. He rocked back on his heels, a mischievous grin tipping up the corners of his lips. “And now it is time for my surprise.”
Lillian winked at the boys as Eli strode across the ground, his arms swinging with eagerness. He stepped inside his little sod house, and when he emerged he held the burlap bag he had taken from the back of the wagon.
“What is it? What is it? Open it, Onkel Eli.” Joseph bounced on his stool.
Eli shook his head. “Nä, boy, this is for Henrik to uncover.” He held the bundle to Henrik, who took it gingerly. The bag slipped from his hands, landing in his lap, and he smacked his hands over it to keep it from rolling off of his knees.
“Whatever it is, it is heavy.” Henrik untied the string holding the bag closed and reached inside. His eyes grew huge as he looked up at Eli. From the wide grin stretching across Eli’s face, it appeared the man gained more pleasure from the gift than the receiver did. The sack fell away, and Henrik held aloft a round, striped Or’büs.
Joseph clapped and cheered. “Watermelon! Henrik, Onkel Eli brought you a watermelon!” Then his elation faded, and he bit down on his lower lip while worry crinkled his face. “Oh . . . but it is your birthday gift. So will you eat it . . . all by yourself?”
Henrik cradled the melon in his lap, stroking his chin with his thumb and forefinger. Lillian, recognizing the teasing light in his eyes, fought clamping her hand over her mouth to hold back laughter while Henrik left Joseph in breath-holding suspense.
Finally, Henrik rolled the melon onto the trunk’s top with a shrug. “I suppose I can share my birthday gift.” Then, winking at Lillian, he pinched his finger and thumb together, indicating a scant amount. “But make Joseph’s wedge no bigger than this.”
“Henrik!” Joseph protested, but when everyone else began to laugh, he joined in.
“Did you make Rollküake to go with the Or’büs, Ma?” Henrik asked.
Lillian pursed her lips in disappointment. Oh, how wonderful it would be to eat the little fried cakes with their watermelon—a true taste of home. “Nä, the melon is a surprise to me, too, so I did not know to make Rollküake.”
Eli said, “I maybe should have told you, but I wanted to keep it a surprise.”
Henrik shrugged. “Watermelon is enough of a surprise.” He waved his hand toward the watermelon. “You slice it, Onkel Eli.”
Eli rubbed his palms together. “Do you have a knife, Lillian?”
Lillian, joy filling her at the relaxed conversation Eli and Henrik shared, retrieved her largest knife and handed it to Eli. He turned the melon into wedges with several deft whacks that sent juice splattering across the tablecloth.
Eli passed the wedges around. “Spit the seeds into your plates. We will save them and, next spring, plant our own Baschtan— watermelon field. Then, when the others arrive, the waiting field of melons will help them feel at home in this new land.”
Joseph paused in eating. He tipped his head and peered at Eli, juice running down his chin. “Do you think the others will find us here, Onkel Eli?”
Eli shifted his head to look across the prairie. “I pray so, Joseph.”
For a few moments, the wistful words cast a shadow of melancholy over the gathering. Lillian sought words that would return them to their time of cheerful chatter, but before she could speak, Henrik reached across the table and tapped Joseph on the top of his head.
“We found this place, did we not? And we had never been here before. The same land sellers who brought us here will be watching for more immigrants. So the others will come, for sure. And just to make sure,” Henrik went on, his expression thoughtful, “when we all go to McPherson Town, we can send a letter to Gnadenfeld, telling the others where we bought land. That will help them find their way here.”
With a satisfied grin, Joseph returned to his piece of watermelon. Eli caught Lillian’s eye and sent her a look that said very clearly, “See? Your Henrik will be all right.” She smiled in return, shifting to watch Henrik bite into the flesh of his watermelon wedge. With juice stains on his cheeks and wind-tousled hair curling across his forehead, he held the appearance of a young boy. Yet today she had been given glimpses of the man he would become. Her heart lifted with hope. Yes, her Henrik would be all right.
Fall crept ever nearer, bringing changes to their prairie landscape. Lillian paused in he
r bread making to bask in the assortment of bold colors—flowers in blues, pinks, and yellows. When one type died away, another variety sprang to life. Eli had taken to gathering a handful of whatever he could find at the close of the day, and the flowers brought a splash of color and cheer to their table, as well as a patter to Lillian’s heart.
Reinhardt had not been a sentimental man. A good man, a good provider and a fine husband and father, but rarely sentimental. She couldn’t imagine Reinhardt bringing her wild flowers. Yet it seemed perfectly natural for Eli to do so, and it endeared him to her in a way that sometimes frightened her more than thrilled her. If she opened her heart to Eli, would memories of Reinhardt slip away forever? That worry kept her from voicing the gratitude that sprang up within her when Eli handed her his nightly bouquet.
A distant rifle blast startled her into kneading the dough again. Soon Henrik would trek across the grass, pride on his face and some sort of game in his hand. Eli had taught Henrik to fire the rifle, and between Henrik’s skill at hunting and Joseph’s fishing prowess, there was always food on the table. At first Lillian struggled with preparing wild game—she was accustomed to pork, chickens, and the occasional beef from a butcher shop. No internal parts, feathers, or fur in sight. But the desire to feed her family pushed her past the revulsion at gutting and preparing the rabbits, squirrels, and geese that Henrik brought home.
The young man claimed he would bag a buffalo and dry its meat for the winter, but not since that early morning on the trail had they seen any of the great lumbering beasts. They found evidence of their presence: Hundreds of dried mounds peppered the prairie, providing needed fuel for their fire. But the animals seemed to have disappeared.
Lillian used her arm to push her hair from her face. The endless wind tore strands loose from her bun, and sweat pasted the tendrils to her cheeks. She wondered when the temperature would drop for good. The mornings were cooler, crisp and scented with dew, but the afternoons were just as hot in late September as they had been during their arrival in mid-July. Eli assured her summer would not last forever, but sometimes she wondered if he might be wrong just this one time.
If she squinted, she could make out Eli’s form at the far side of the wheat field. He never seemed to tire, urging the oxen onward, onward, while placing one foot in front of the other with no discernible break in stride from morning to dusk. The field that would receive the wheat seed changed week by week as Eli turned the soil once, twice, and then again, bringing from the depths the rich minerals that would nourish the hearty kernels of wheat.
Sometimes at night, she heard Eli creep across the grounds. She followed him once, curious, and found him standing at the edge of the moon-bathed empty field, hands in his pockets. He had jumped at her approach, but then at her query had explained he liked to imagine the wheat growing tall. It was easier to dream of his first American harvest in the starlight, he had sheepishly told her.
Remembering it now, Lillian smiled. Yes, a very different man from Reinhardt was Eli. But a better man? She wouldn’t allow herself to think such a thing, let alone voice it. Reinhardt was her first love, the father of her children. He would always hold the greater part of her heart. But did that mean nothing was left for Eli?
With a little huff, she turned her attention to her dough. She didn’t have time for fanciful thoughts. There was work to do. Automatically her hands divided the lump of dough into six equal portions. She knew the routine by heart: Pat, pat, pat to form loaves; rub goose fat into the bottom of the pans; plop the smooth, speckled loaves into the black, well-used bread pans; then set the pans on top of the clay oven to rise one last time before baking.
The task complete, she cleaned her hands in the wash bucket. Only a few inches of water remained in the bottom. She glanced at the sun. Although it still burned hot, it sank toward the horizon earlier these days. She should fetch water before the sun set. Eli didn’t approve of her going to the creek at dusk since he said she was more likely to encounter wild creatures at that hour.
Lifting the buckets from their spot beside the sod house, she headed for the creek. Halfway down, she met Joseph coming up. He proudly showed her his string of five whiskered catfish. She smiled her appreciation. “They will taste good for tomorrow’s breakfast. Clean them and put the fillets in a pan of salted water to keep.”
The boy rolled his eyes. “I know what to do, Ma.”
Instead of scolding, Lillian hid a smile and continued her trek to the creek. Over the past two weeks, she had witnessed adolescence sneaking up on Joseph. His voice cracked from high to low without warning, his moods swinging nearly as quickly. Reinhardt had held little patience with Henrik’s changeable behavior during those awkward years, but she sensed Eli would meet Joseph’s changes with understanding rather than strictness.
She gave herself a little shake. What was wrong with her today, constantly comparing Reinhardt to Eli? She crouched at the edge of the creek and pushed the lip of the bucket into the gently flowing water, forcing the buoyant bucket well beneath the surface. At the same time, she pushed aside all thoughts of Eli and searched her mind for images of Reinhardt. Despite her efforts, no pictures sprang to mind.
Her hands stilled. A chill wiggled across her body, an unpleasant taste flooding her mouth. She stared into the creek, her own distorted reflection showing wide, dismayed eyes. Cold water splashed over her hands, filling the bucket, but she remained in her bent-forward pose, the chore of retrieving water forgotten.
“Reinhardt, Reinhardt . . .” She moaned aloud, tears blurring her vision. “How could I forget your dear face?”
Henrik’s disdainful comment from weeks ago filtered through her memory: I wonder, Ma . . . if you have replaced him.
At that moment, a youthful, exuberant shout carried across the prairie. “Pa! Pa! I caught catfish for tomorrow’s breakfast!”
21
Eli stopped in his tracks, but the oxen kept going, forcing him to stumble forward two or three steps before calling, “Whoa.” The beasts obediently halted, and Eli removed the trace from around his shoulders and turned toward the sod houses. Had he heard correctly?
Joseph stood at the edge of the field, holding aloft a dangling string of plump fish. “Pa! Catfish!”
Joseph had called him Pa! Eli’s heart flipped upside down. He waved one unexpectedly shaky hand and said, “Jo, boy, they look fine.” His voice broke much the way Joseph’s had been cracking lately. He cleared his throat and added, “Very fine.” But his words didn’t refer as much to the fish as the heady feeling of being called Pa.
With another wave, Joseph scampered toward the sod houses, the fish bouncing on the string. Eli watched until the boy disappeared inside the larger house. But even then he remained rooted in place, replaying the wonder of the past moments. Joseph had called him Pa as if it were the most natural thing in the world to do. As if Eli had been his pa for years.
A shadow snaked across the grass beside the sod houses, then Lillian stepped into full sunlight, her hands curled around the rope handles of their buckets. Her shoulders slumped with the weight, but even after she set the buckets on the ground, her posture didn’t change. Eli’s heart turned another flip, but this one was of apprehension. Had Lillian heard Joseph’s words, too? Would she disapprove of her son calling someone other than Reinhardt Pa?
Spinning, he looped the trace around his shoulders once more and chirped to the oxen. As he trailed the beasts, guiding the plow to complete its final turn of the soil, he reflected on the past months. Although the role of husband and father had been thrust upon him by circumstance, he believed he had risen to the challenge.
Over the years he had observed the men of his community. He had deliberately chosen characteristics to emulate or reject, planning for the day when he would have a family of his own. He believed, with a rare touch of self-pride, that he had chosen wisely. With the boys he was firm but fair, with Lillian honest and tender. He assumed the biblical role of leader for the family, but he explained
the reasons for his choices to stave off resentment and to open the door for understanding.
His treatment had reaped positive results. Lillian exhibited contentment despite the hard work and carrying the pain of much loss. Henrik had set aside his brooding attitude. And now Joseph called him Pa. What better sign of acceptance could there be?
He pulled one trace while calling, “Gee.” His hands gripped the plow handles, expertly guiding the blade. On the straight stretch again, he allowed the word Pa to echo through his head. The only better word, he concluded, would be husband. But it might be too much to ask for Lillian to truly accept him as such. For too long he had been her foster brother-in-law, Reinhardt’s best friend, her children’s surrogate uncle. She viewed him as a friend, but a friend wasn’t what Eli wanted to be.
Alongside the field, bright yellow flowers waved on scraggly stems, reminding Eli of the bouquets he carried to the supper table each night. Lillian received them with a smile of pleasure, but he longed for more. In his imagining, she took the flowers, smiled, and raised up on tiptoe to bestow an appreciative kiss on his cheek . . . or his lips.
His face went hot, and he twisted his hands on the handles, tipping the blade sideways. Quickly, he righted the plow and shook his head to clear the image. It would not benefit him to dwell on youthful flights of fantasy. Clicking his tongue on his teeth to encourage the oxen to complete their last cross of the field, he admonished himself for his greedy thoughts. Lillian had taken his name to obtain a chaperone and to give her boys security. Nothing more. Besides, both he and Lillian were nearing forty. The days of starry-eyed gazes and hand-holding were long past. At his age, he must be practical. Instead of wanting more, he should be thanking God for blessing him with a taste of family life.
Fields of Grace Page 16
