The Long Road Home Romance Collection

by Judi Ann Ehresman

  “Wait Rika, wait!” Lux hurried from across the crowd, catching up with us at the edge of darkness.

  “I have to catch up with Vater to apologize,” I said.

  “S-slow down, Rika. M-my legs are too s-short,” Sophie complained.

  But Lux and I hurried on, catching Vater quickly.

  “Wait, Vater,” I called.

  He slowed to a walk.

  “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you in public,” I said. “I won’t do it again.”

  Vater stopped and turned toward me. “Of course you won’t. You will not be going with me again.”

  Sophie came to my defense. “D-didn’t you l-like h-her b-beautiful v-voice, Vater?”

  Lux stepped closer. “She is very talented, sir.”

  “You stay out of this, Lux. And, you, Rika,” he ordered severely, “go home.” Vater paused in thought a second and grabbed Sophie’s hand. “Sophie and I are going back to the music.” His stern voice showed determination to punish me for embarrassing him.

  A rustling of skirts and hands clapping for attention announced that Oma Gunkel had followed and heard everything. “Wait, Sebastian.”

  We all stood motionless, except Vater, who stepped back toward the musical gathering.

  “I said, wait!” Oma Gunkel blocked his way. “You’ve been browbeating Rika for weeks, and I don’t like it. I learned to admire and appreciate her at Indian Point and on the wretched trip to New Braunfels. I want to tell you why. So stop!”

  Vater stopped. “Make it quick. We’re missing the music.” The out-of-tune band played in the distance.

  “Here’s why I admire her. She didn’t want to come to Texas, but you made her. She did not want to ride a mischievous horse that played pranks in trees and bit her constantly, but she did. Although taking care of her sick Mutter had been difficult, she didn’t want to leave her behind, but she did so she and Sophie wouldn’t starve and so you could have the supplies she brought. She did not want to walk 200 miles next to oxen in the rain, cold, burning sun, and mud that made her feet heavy and exhausted her, but she did.” Oma stopped and took a deep breath. “She did not want to be afraid of the Karankawas or frightened by snakes or left behind by the wagon train because of overheated oxen.”

  Sophie tugged at Oma’s skirt. “D-don’t f-forget the s-storm.”

  Oma clapped her hands together. “You are so right. That was terrifying, but you made it together, didn’t you, Sophie?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  Oma pointed her finger at Vater. “She did not want to explain rotted corpses to Sophie, but she did.”

  “S-she d-did, t-too,” said Sophie.

  “She has seen more death and sickness than you have, Sebastian. She has overcome fears you don’t even know about. She did not want to cross a flooded river on a tilting ferry, but she did. She expected a joyful reunion with you when she got off the ferry. You were not there.” Oma paused for a quick breath and took a step closer to Vater. “She is a brave woman who has met every challenge. All the way here she told us how happy she would be to see her wonderful father. You have not been that man. You have been unkind to her, and I don’t like it. She is going home with me tonight. I shall pamper her and enjoy her company.”

  Oma grabbed my hand and whisked me away into the dark amidst whining calls from Sophie for me to stay with her. Vater stood silently staring at the ground. Everyone waited for him to say something, anything. When he didn’t, Lux followed us to Oma’s wagon, helped us load, and said he would see us the next day.

  “This nightgown should give us some laughs,” Oma said, handing me a wide, faded, pink gown with tattered shreds hanging from the hem. It was also measured to fit Oma’s broad and less than five-foot height. I put it on my tall, thin body, inspected myself in the tall, oval standing mirror, and laughed until I cried. I laughed because I looked strange. I laughed because I was standing in the kitchen of Oma’s still unfinished house, looking at myself in a mahogany oval mirror standing on its gracefully curved legs next to a cold, black cookstove. I laughed because someone had stood up for me. I laughed because coming to Comaltown by crossing the ferry at night had meant total fear, and I had cheated death. When we finally stopped laughing, I wanted to cry, but there were no tears. I felt like someone had died, and I was unsure about who it was.

  “We’re laughing for different reasons, Rika,” said Oma.

  “I do look silly in your old gown.” I wrapped it around me twice.

  “I am also laughing because I finally got to tell Sebastian one or two things to set him straight. I’ve been wanting to do that ever since he didn’t welcome you at the ferry.”

  “Thank you for sticking up for me. You’re the only one who understands what happened to me, but I’m not nearly as great as you made me sound.”

  “Come on, Rika, forget the bad stuff. You made it.”

  Quietly we got ready for bed, then sat down for milk and cornbread. I sat at the table, and, as usual, Oma sat in her rocking chair. “Is Gustav coming tonight?” I asked.

  “Gustav doesn’t come anymore.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing happened to him. He is well and happy, I’m certain,” Oma said. “What happened is to me. I’m here. I’m safe. I’m well. I have friends. I don’t need to pretend that he tells me things. He is dead. Dead people don’t really come and tell you things. All I have is memories, and they are wonderful.”

  We sat in silence while I tried to absorb it. I had enjoyed knowing the dapper Gustav, the wise man who danced with Oma, the smart man who always knew what was happening to me. “I shall miss him, Oma. You and he gave me good advice and made the trip to New Braunfels bearable. Thank you.”

  “Gustav and I say you are welcome,” said Oma.

  “Is this a new you, the Oma, independent and sure of herself?” I asked.

  “Independent, I’m certain. Sure of myself, I’m not so certain. We all make mistakes and suffer for them. Sometimes I get sick of the suffering. For example, this cookstove is four times too big and eats wood like a monster. What was I thinking when I bought it?” She laughed and got into her bed on the other side of the cookstove. “I can’t wait until Lux finishes the rest of the house so I won’t have to sleep in the kitchen.” She chuckled. “On the other hand, the minute I wake up, I’m prepared to cook breakfast.”

  Oma reminded me of Mutter who always said, “Find a way,” and she always did it cheerfully.

  It was hard for me to be cheerful. Long after she was asleep and I was comfortable on my pallet, I tried to find the truth in my situation. My dream of an education and music had been shattered when I was forced to leave Germany. That was truth. I had lost Emil to the army. That was truth. Texas had made my dear Vater change into a hard, selfish man. That was truth. I’d just have to accept what I had suspected for weeks and learn to live with it. His harsh words tonight had proved it, and he would never forgive me for leaving Mutter in Victoria.

  It was true. I had left her. Doubt crept into my thoughts. Could he be right? Could I have chosen otherwise? Had I done the right thing to leave Mutter behind? Could she be alive, or had she been one of the bodies on Black Peter’s wagon? Again, as I had done so many times before on the trail, I played the conversation with Dillman’s Aunt Mathilde over and over. Before I could get to sleep, I told myself that I had made the right choice. I had not abandoned her but had left property to pay for her care. Leaving her had been the only chance for us to stay alive and get the supplies to New Braunfels. I missed her, too.

  Oma wrestled wood into the giant stove, lit it, and started breakfast. When I smelled the coffee, I jumped up.

  “You have real coffee?”

  “Yes. Straight from New Orleans. And I have real cream for it and lots of sugar.” Oma reached for the blue-flowered sugar bowl on the table. “Gustav may be gone to the spirit world, but his money stayed behind to keep me comfortable.”

  While the coffee perked, I looked at myself in the
big oval mirror. Vater’s tiny mirror showed only bits of a face, and seeing myself all at once came as a surprise. During the trip, my blond hair had grown almost to my waist, my face was suntanned, and I looked mature, a bit like Mutter, as if I had suddenly grown up.

  “You’re beautiful, you know,” said Oma, looking over my shoulder.

  “You think so?”

  “Pretty as a picture, even in the funny short gown.”

  “I thought a lot about being pretty in Germany, but after we got to Indian Point, I never thought of myself that way. The sand and sunburn and bugs and lack of water made me give up. I’m just sort of…um…me.”

  “That’s nice. You know the saying, ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ and you have been doing some pretty nice things for your family, and you have helped me a lot.”

  I hugged Oma. “You make getting up in the morning a pleasure.”

  Oma poured me a cup of coffee and laced it with thick cream and plenty of sugar. “Lux will be here soon, so enjoy this fast and get your clothes on. You know he is smitten with you, don’t you?”

  “With me?”

  “Anyone else present?” Oma chuckled. “And don’t act so surprised. I have eyes, you know.”

  “But I miss Karl so much. How can I like both of them?”

  “Does Karl encourage you? Has he stayed with you? Is he dependable?” She lifted an eyebrow.

  “No, but he has kissed me twice, and both times my whole body went all jangling. I couldn’t get my breath. Is that love?”

  “That’s part of it, but there is more to love than jangling. Gustav and I were partners in everything. He was exciting, steady, spontaneous, and dependable. He allowed me to feel like a queen.” Oma looked me in the eyes while she was talking, and I had the feeling she was giving me motherly advice that she expected me to seriously consider. “Now, get dressed. Lux will be here any minute.”

  But it wasn’t Lux who pounded on the door a couple minutes later. I heard Oma and Vater talking in hushed voices, and Vater was invited in only after I heard Oma say, “Agreed?” and Vater answered, “Yes.”

  Vater came into the kitchen as I tucked my blouse under the broad band of my skirt.

  “Oma says I can come in only if I apologize. Do you accept my apology?” Vater’s hair was uncombed, and he had dark circles under his eyes as if he hadn’t been to bed. For a moment I felt sorry for him until I remembered how his words had hurt me.

  “Not really, Vater. You aren’t really sorry. You have changed into someone I don’t know. Someone who doesn’t like me anymore, and he would only say he is sorry so I would come home and cook and take care of Sophie.”

  Vater looked at the floor for a long time as he admitted the truth to himself. “Perhaps you are right, Rika. Consider, also, that you have changed.”

  My heart beat faster, and I felt my face go red with anger. “I have changed because you forced me to come to Texas when I wanted to stay in Germany and study music. Because of you, I have become who I am. I am not a child. I am not your Housefrau. I am a strong woman with calloused hands, unkempt hair, and outgrown clothes.”

  Trying not to falter in speaking my mind, I took a deep breath and plunged on. “But I am also a young girl whose dreams are gone. I can’t come home with you just because Oma told you to apologize.”

  My knees felt so weak I had to sit on Oma’s bed to keep from falling to the floor. From under the bed I imagined Gustav saying, “Atta girl.” What other wise sayings would Gustav have for a foolish young girl who had just insulted her father by telling him the truth?

  I sat quietly, trying to know what to say to soften what I had deliberately blurted out.

  Chapter 15

  Vater turned to leave, but Oma blocked the way. “Sebastian, you foolish man, come back to the table and drink coffee while I fix the oatmeal.” Oma led him by the arm, put him in a chair, and poured coffee into a big mug.

  “Real coffee!” Vater looked stunned.

  “Cream and sugar?” she asked.

  “No thank you. I just want to savor the flavor.” Vater leaned back and relaxed. “I haven’t had real coffee for over a year.”

  Oma stirred the oatmeal as she talked. “So, Sebastian, you had hard times. Tell us about settling in when you first arrived.”

  “My story is just like all the others.” Vater picked up his cup and sipped coffee.

  Oma persisted. “But we haven’t heard their stories.”

  “It’s not a pleasant tale,” he insisted.

  “So, tell the good with the bad. Come on, Sebastian.” Oma went back to stirring the oatmeal.

  “Well, er, ah…I was seasick all the way over, so my condition was miserable when I got here, and the weather was miserable, too. It rained and rained and rained.” Vater sat back and drank more coffee as if the story was finished.

  “Don’t quit. Tell the rest,” Oma urged him.

  I also wanted to hear what had happened to him, to change my Vater into someone I no longer knew. I had asked before, but he had always shrugged and said it had been bad.

  “I moved inland from Indian Point with a nice family who let me ride their wagon and carry a few supplies. Each night I slept on the ground. When it was too cold or wet, I camped in a tent I bought at Runge Store in Indian Point. When we got to New Braunfels I camped in it while I cut wood for our cabin. I wasn’t good with wood. My hands blistered, and my back ached, and I was slow. As you know I signed up to come to Texas, saying I was a farmer, just to get land. A music teacher doesn’t fare too well cutting wood. Finally I gave up doing it myself and took a job building fence for the Schmidts. That way I could buy the wood.”

  Oma placed steaming bowls of oatmeal in front of us and set a pitcher of milk and a sugar bowl on the table. “Sebastian, however did you eat?”

  “Mostly the kindness of friends and lots of beef roasted on a fire in front of my tent. But you notice my old clothes hang on me like a scarecrow. Since Rika came, I have put on weight.” He looked at me and smiled. “Thank you, Rika.”

  My heart leaped for joy. “You’re welcome. But we both know I’m a terrible cook.”

  “Oh, no. You are doing well.”

  I was totally surprised. “But you never said so.”

  “He says so right now. That’s good news.” Oma helped herself to a second bowl of oatmeal. “What was the hardest part for you, Sebastian?”

  “I’d have to say worry about my family. Were they all right? Why didn’t they arrive? Then Karl came, telling me that Emil had joined the Texian army. I had left Germany partly so Emil wouldn’t have to serve in the army in one of the state’s endless wars. I had counted on Emil to help with the building and the work, and now he was gone, perhaps injured or dead. That was a low point for me.”

  I studied Vater for a minute. He sat in a tired slouch, disheveled clothes hanging on his gaunt frame. His haggard face, with its sunken-in cheeks, told much about his struggles.

  “I’m sorry you had such a hard time,” I said.

  He had told me we were leaving Germany for new political freedom in America, but I didn’t know about Emil’s possible conscription into the state’s army.

  “The next low point was when Karl told me that Anna had cholera. Every time a group of people arrived from Indian Point, I’d hurry to the ferry looking for her. Then, disappointed, I’d go back to working on the house. I wasn’t equipped for carpentry. I was terrible at it.”

  “Couldn’t Karl have helped you?” Oma handed Vater more oatmeal.

  “I couldn’t ask. After all, he had already spent his money for the wagon to get my family here, and he thought I’d repay him when he got to New Braunfels. Instead he found a destitute, sad, skinny man living in a tent next to the few walls of a house.”

  Oma took my empty bowl and spoon. “But you persevered. You finished the house.”

  “With help from friends. Thank God for friends. Even after the little house was built, it felt huge with no family to fill it. And yet, oh, it’s no
thing.” He fell quiet.

  “Come on. Tell.” Oma reached over and patted his bony shoulder.

  A stricken look came over his face. “I knew the house was tiny, and I-I felt embarrassed to bring my family to such a place with a dirt floor. They had been accustomed to many rooms with polished wood floors and sparkling windows with curtains and fresh wallpaper and paint. Some nights I didn’t go to sleep for worry over how they would feel about the dark little house.” He put his head in his hands. “It was the best I could do, but it isn’t good enough.”

  I felt sorry for him, but he was right. The dark, dirty, crowded little house just wasn’t good enough.

  We sat in silence while Oma took the steaming coffee pot from the stove and drained its contents into Vater’s mug. As if she had read my mind, she said, “Now Sebastian, the house is little, dark, and dirty feeling, but it’s also cozy, warm, and filled with Sophie’s laughter and funny observations. It’s home. And when Anna and Emil come, you will make it cozier and happier, and you can add on a room and another room. In a short time you will have a grand house, and all this trouble will be forgotten.”

  “If they ever come.” Again, he looked downcast.

  “They will come. I’m sure of it,” I said, my chin firm in determination.

  “Sure of it?” asked Vater.

  I sighed. “To tell the truth, Vater, I’m not certain. I just hope they will come. I’m worried, too. But it’s important to hope. And Mutter would say to ‘make do,’ so we will.”

  “You are very much like your Mutter, Rika. Will you help me ‘make do’ until Anna comes?” He sounded sincere, but I felt uneasy about how he had treated me.