Though Julia wasn’t pleased, she held her peace.
“If you don’t send me with a basket,” Meg suggested, “perhaps Oma won’t think she must fill it for my return trip.” Meg didn’t relish coming home with a heavy basket on her arm.
Mama nodded. “It may be you are right.” She took a loaf of her Hefekuchen, a sweetbread, and wrapped it in brown paper. “There,” she said. “That will suffice.”
Meg hurriedly put on her bonnet and warm cloak before Mama could think of anything else. She did remember to put a woolen muffler about her neck. Then she took off.
The canal was frozen. No boats moved during the winter. In some areas, the ice was swept clear of snow so young people could skate. Meg quickly made her way across the bridge and down past the German shops to Oma’s house.
Oma was surprised to see her granddaughter on a cold December day. Meg found it difficult to concentrate on their conversation as she kept thinking about going to the institute. Could she really go? Was she borrowing trouble, as Mama would say? But if she didn’t go this day, there might never be another opportunity.
Oma served large helpings of apple streudel drowned in cream. Meg could not eat all hers, and Oma commented on how thin she was. “That mama of yours, she is feeding you enough? A mere skin and bones you are.”
“I don’t need much to eat,” Meg told her.
“At Thanksgiving dinner I watched. You did not eat much.” Oma finished off her streudel and added, “Never heard of a Schiller with no appetite.”
Meg was tempted to remind Oma her name was Buehler, but she didn’t want to be unkind.
By midafternoon, the skies grew overcast. “Was too good to last,” Oma said. “Best that you hurry on home now. The weather, it can turn nasty in minutes.”
If anything, Meg was thankful for the low gray clouds that set her on her way earlier. Now she had even more time before dark. Surely this was an answer to prayer as well.
Oma sent her home with a round of cheese. It was somewhat heavier than the bread, but at least it wasn’t a basketful of goodies.
As she had done a few weeks earlier, Meg turned south toward the institute rather than west toward home. The clouds had rolled in quickly, and even before she crossed the canal bridge, tiny flakes of snow began to fall.
By the time she reached the massive stone building, Meg was wet and cold. It took all her strength to push open the tall wooden door. The caretaker came out from the anteroom.
“Well now, miss. You’re out in rather nasty weather.”
“Please,” she said, “tell me where I can find the showing for Damon Pollard.”
“It’s on the third-floor gallery,” he said. “You’ll see the signs at the top of the stairs.”
“Thank you very much,” Meg said, quite out of breath.
Up the stairs she went, pausing at each landing to catch her breath. It was snowing harder now. She must hurry.
The signs on wrought iron stands pointed the way to the correct gallery. Suddenly, she was in the midst of work all done by a young man perhaps the age of Stephen. Meg found that difficult to believe.
Meg had the room all to herself. Slowly she made one sweep around the room, looking closely at every work. Some were landscapes. There were a few still lifes. One or two portraits. Mostly landscapes. Mostly oils.
Though she did not have the eye of an expert, Meg felt the paintings were very good. How fortunate Damon was to have an uncle who cared about his work and supported and encouraged him. If only she had someone to teach her. Her simple sketches paled in comparison to these works.
Suddenly a voice at the door said, “I thought you might come.”
Startled, Meg gasped and whirled about. There was Damon Pollard leaning against the doorpost, his dark eyes twinkling. Her hand flew to her face, and she nearly dropped the cheese.
He stepped toward her, and she drew back. “I didn’t intend to frighten you,” he said softly. “Please don’t run away.” He waved his hand about the room. “Do you like what you see?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“I saw you when you came with the Liberty School group. You like art. I could tell. You took more interest in the paintings than the rest of the students.”
He couldn’t have seen her. It was impossible. Her mind wouldn’t let her believe it.
“Then you came alone. I saw you from the garden, and I called to you, but you ran off.”
“I must go,” she said. “I’m not even supposed to be here.” She stepped toward the door, but he was filling it.
“You snuck away to come and see my work? Now I am flattered.” He looked at her cloak. “Your wrap is wet from the snow. Won’t you come to my uncle’s cottage to dry off?”
She shook her head. “Please let me by. I must go.”
“You can’t go back out in that snow.”
“I don’t live far away.”
“I will step from the doorway and let you pass by only if you will tell me your name.”
Meg’s heart was pounding. “My name is Meg. Now please, I must be going.”
“Meg? Short for Margaret?”
She nodded. Though she longed to look at him and study the dark eyes and chiseled features, she kept her eyes to the floor. Presently, he stepped aside.
“Wait until I get my cloak,” he said. “I’ll see you safely home.”
“No! Please!” Now that she was in the hallway, she ran. She ran down all three flights and ran out the front door into the blinding snow. The wind and the cold struck her in the face and seemed to suck the breath right out of her.
How foolish she’d been. Never had she ever been so ashamed of herself. With her head down, bending into the wind, Meg trudged through the deepening snow toward home.
CHAPTER 13
Lost in the Blizzard
Meg pushed her way through nearly deserted streets. She knew she should stop somewhere and get warm. But what would Mama say? Meg wasn’t even supposed to be in this area south of their neighborhood. She should have gone straight home from Oma’s. If she had, she would have stayed dry and warm.
With each block it became harder for Meg to see through the blinding snow, but she pressed on. At one point, she stepped into the doorway of a church just to get out of the wind for a moment. She had to keep going. The hood of her cloak was pulled up over her bonnet, but the wind pierced through as though she wore no wrap at all.
Just when she thought she couldn’t take another step, she saw the corner of John and Everett Streets. Her own neighborhood. Just a few more blocks. Her head was swimming. Every house looked the same. The snow was so thick she could barely see the houses. She thought she’d crossed two streets. That meant her house was the third one on the left. It took all her strength to lift the latch on the gate and struggle up the front walk. She made an attempt to climb the front steps but then collapsed on the porch.
Meg awakened in the parlor of a strange house. Standing over her was Mrs. Wirth, their neighbor. Meg hadn’t made it to her house after all. She was lying on a davenport with a quilt over her. Though she felt warm once again, shivers kept coursing through her.
“Ah, you’ve come around. Poor little thing. Out in this frightful blizzard. It’s a wonder you made it at all.”
Meg’s fingers and toes stung like fire. She tried to lift her head. “How long have I been here? Mama will be worried.”
“Now, now. Just rest easy. You’ve only been here a short while. Mr. Wirth went to tell your family you’re safe.”
“I couldn’t see. Snow was so thick.”
“Lie back and don’t try to talk. I’m making you a little broth to warm your insides.”
“I need to get home,” Meg said.
“Now why go home? You’re safe and warm right here. No sense going back out in that frightful storm. It’ll let up directly, and then your papa can come get you.” Mrs. Wirth moved to the door of the parlor. “I’ll get your broth.”
The beef broth that Mrs. Wirth fed he
r was tasty and warm. Meg wanted to say she could feed herself, but she didn’t want to hurt Mrs. Wirth’s feelings. The broth was followed by a cup of hot, strong tea.
“Now you can lie back and sleep a spell,” Mrs. Wirth told her.
“I’m sorry to have caused so much trouble,” Meg said.
“What trouble? To give you a bit of broth and a cup of tea? I’m more than happy that you made it to our doorstep.”
Just then they heard the sound of the front door opening. Mr. Wirth had returned. Mr. Wirth was a big man with a quick wit and a ready laugh. After he had shaken the snow off his clothes, he came into the parlor.
“Your family’s mighty glad to hear you’re faring well. Your papa will be down to fetch you home when the storm breaks. That might not be till morning.”
“I’m sorry to be putting you out like this, Mr. Wirth,” Meg said.
“Glad to do it, little one. Glad to do it.” He stepped to the fire and warmed his hands. “They sent your little brother out to find you, but he couldn’t see any trace of you. They thought sure you were a goner.”
Meg shriveled inside. Of course Fred couldn’t find her. He didn’t know what direction she was coming from.
“He probably set out after you came in here,” Mrs. Wirth put in. “Chances are you just missed one another.”
Meg had never felt so miserable. What if Fred had been lost in the blizzard because of her? The guilt was almost more than she could bear.
Meg spent the night in the Wirths’ parlor, sleeping fitfully. She dreamed of Fred lost in the blizzard and sounds of Damon calling her to come and look at his paintings.
The next morning, sleigh bells filled the crisp morning air as people hitched up their sleighs to go to church. Meg threw back the quilt and attempted to stand. Her shoes and stockings were sitting by the hearth. She walked to fetch them, and while her toes hurt some, they felt much better than they had the night before. She supposed Mama and Papa would forgo church in this weather.
Meg could smell breakfast cooking in the kitchen. After putting on her shoes and stockings, she made her way to the kitchen, where Mrs. Wirth was working. Mr. Wirth was sitting at the table. Both seemed pleased that she was up and about.
“I’m sure your papa will be here shortly,” he said. “Please sit and eat with us.”
Mrs. Wirth took her to a back bedroom, where Meg washed up and rebraided her hair. Then she ate a good helping of steak and eggs. Just as they were finishing, Papa came knocking on the back door. Meg jumped up and ran to hug him. To her surprise, he returned her hug.
“Hey there, Meggie,” he said. “You had us pretty worried yesterday. That storm came in quicker than anything I’ve seen in a long time.”
She nodded. She didn’t really want to talk about it. “I’ll get my cloak, Papa.”
The cloak, too, had been spread out in the parlor to dry. She put it on along with her bonnet and was ready to go. But the cheese. Where was Oma’s cheese?
“Mrs. Wirth,” Meg said. “Did I have a package with me when you found me?”
“No package, Meg, but it could be out in the snow.”
“Oma sent a round of cheese with me, Papa.”
Papa smiled. “No time to be concerned about a round of cheese. Come on. Let’s get you home.”
And with that, Papa lifted her right up in his arms and carried her all the way home through the snow, just like a hero in a storybook. It made her feel very special.
Fred was quite miffed because of all the attention Meg was receiving. “When you saw the storm coming,” he said, “you should have just stayed at Oma’s. That’s what you should have done, you silly goose.”
But Papa made him shush. “It’s all over now, Frederick. I’ll have no more talk about what should or should not have been done.”
Mama fussed over Meg, looking at her fingers and toes to make sure they were not frostbitten. Then she said, “So sorry I am that I sent you, Margaret. This time of year, I should not have taken the chance.”
“Papa said not to talk of what should have been done, Mama. I’m all right. That’s what matters.”
That night Meg curled up beside Julia in her own featherbed piled heavy with down-filled quilts. She thought about the past two days and how she’d upset the entire household because of her foolishness. Silently, she prayed for God to forgive her.
But before she fell asleep, she once again remembered the wonderful paintings of Damon Pollard. He was indeed a talented young man. She couldn’t honestly say she was sorry she’d seen his work. So did that mean her repentance wasn’t genuine? It was so confusing. How could her thoughts be so muddled?
The next morning there were no eggs to gather, but Meg still had to feed the chickens. Papa had cleared a path to the chicken house and a spot in the chicken pen. Meg filled the pans with feed and scattered it, calling for the chickens to come. Every movement made her so very tired.
The walk to school, trudging through deep snow, wore her out, and during class time she could barely hold her head up. At recess Susannah was excited that there was going to be a snowball fight. But Meg said she’d better stay in. Susannah gave her a worried look. “Are you feeling all right?”
“I’m all right. I just don’t think I need to take any chances. I’m still a little weak.”
Susannah nodded. “Then I’ll ask if I can stay in with you.”
After receiving permission, the two girls sat at Susannah’s desk in the fifth-grade room and talked, while Meg sketched pictures in her friend’s copybook.
At noon the students ate lunch at their desks. Meg didn’t feel like eating.
Throughout the afternoon, it seemed that Mrs. Gravitt kept looking right at Meg. She called on her several times, during history and again during language. It took all Meg’s energy and concentration to keep from putting her head on her desk and falling asleep.
Thankfully, men who worked for the city had been out during the day with shovels. By the time they walked home, a few paths had been cleared. Fred and Julia kept up a line of chatter as they walked along, but Meg barely listened. She felt as though weights had been tied to her feet. It was a struggle just to put one foot in front of the other.
That night, before Papa came home to supper, Mama had the flatirons heating on the stove and the board up in a corner of the kitchen. She had dried the wash in front of the kitchen stove and now there was ironing to do. Meg was expected to do her share. When Meg had finished only a few pieces, Mama asked her what the matter was.
“I’m still a little tired from Saturday, I suppose,” she answered.
“I suppose you’re going to use that excuse forever,” Fred piped up. “You were in the snow for only a little while. You act like it was some big calamity.”
Mama came over to her and felt her forehead. “Mm. No fever.”
Meg could have told her there was no fever. She did feel too warm though—probably from the ironing.
When Papa came in that night, he was carrying the round of cheese from Oma. Mrs. Wirth had found it in the snow near her front gate, right where Meg had dropped it.
Meg knew there would be no sketching that night. She could hardly wait for bedtime so she could rest her aching body. Her head nodded as Papa read scripture. Papa said she should pay attention when God’s Word was read. Mama just shook her head. Meg wondered what it would be like to be strong like Mama.
Morning came much too quickly. Meg lay in bed and felt as though she could sleep forever and still never be fully rested. On her feet was the warm weight of Goldie sleeping peacefully, which made it even more difficult to get up. She forced herself up out of the warm covers and onto the cold floor. “Come on, Julia,” she said. “Time to get up.”
From beneath the quilts, Julia groaned, “I don’t want to get up.”
“It doesn’t matter. We must get up.”
Meg broke the thin layer of ice in the pitcher and poured water into the basin. Quickly she washed her face and hands before changing into her sc
hool dress with warm underthings and woolen petticoats beneath. Goldie jumped up on the washstand and lapped noisily at the water in the basin.
Again she woke Julia and brought her younger sister’s dress to her so she could get ready for school. By the time Meg was ready to go downstairs, Julia was finally out of the bed.
“Don’t forget to make the bed,” Meg reminded her. At least Mama was finally assigning Julia a few jobs.
“I won’t forget,” Julia answered in a sour tone.
Meg hurried down the steps with Goldie right behind her. After the chickens were fed, Meg was slowly walking back to the porch when Fred called out from the woodpile. “You still trying to make everyone feel sorry for you? Well, your act’s wasted on me.”
Meg took hold of the porch post to pull herself up the steps. For once, she didn’t care what Fred said. She didn’t even try to answer. Inside, she hung up her cloak and gave Mama a hand with breakfast. Then she sat down beside Papa to eat. Frederick was loading wood in Mama’s cookstove.
Suddenly it was as though Mama had turned down the coal oil lamp. Everything was dark, and Meg felt herself slipping from her chair onto the floor. She was helpless to stop the fall.
CHAPTER 14
The Doctor’s Plan
As though through a fog, Meg heard Fred saying, “Aw, she’s just puttin’ on, Mama. You know how she can act. It’s just a show so she can get out of work.”
Papa was shushing him, then Meg heard the word “doctor.” She tried to open her eyes. She was lying on the horsehair davenport in the front room. Mama was kneeling beside her. Papa was standing over her, and a frightened Julia peeked around from behind Papa. “I’ll be all right,” Meg said weakly. “We’ll see,” Papa said. “Dr. Logan will tell us for sure.” Fred and Julia got ready to leave for school, and Papa left to go fetch the doctor. Once they were gone and she could hear sounds of Mama working to clean up breakfast, Meg slipped into a delicious sleep, only to be awakened later by Papa returning with Dr. Logan.
American Struggle Page 31
