What Heals the Heart

by Karen A. Wyle

  Meanwhile, Mrs. Blum was rattling on as she adjusted pins and took stitches. “I was so happy to find this print, it’ll look so good with her coloring. Such hair! Never did I have such beautiful hair, even when I was young and Samuel used to . . . well, never mind an old woman and her memories.” She turned away, possibly to hide some less than festive expression, before straightening up and smiling at him. “And it turned out I have extra, I can use some in my next quilt!”

  It shouldn’t surprise him that she quilted. And helped run the library. And made dresses. And tried to find him a wife. No wonder she was short of breath sometimes — she never slowed down. “How long have you been making quilts?”

  “Only since I moved here. Back home, what did I know from quilts? But so many women here make such beautiful ones, I was ashamed not to learn.” Mrs. Blum patted the dress form and then bustled toward her bedroom. “I’ll show you some, you can find one you like and take it with you, you should have something to keep you warm at night. There’s one on the kitchen table, you can look at it if you’re curious.”

  Given this broad hint, Joshua went to the kitchen to see the quilt in progress. Its border was made of squares with light blue trim against white, and blue six-pointed stars, hollow triangles one atop another, formed from darker blue material. Squares farther in showed a many-pronged candlestick in gold and a shape something like a gate with a shape floating beside it, tapered on both ends.

  “That one, I just started.” Mrs. Blum had come up behind him, puffing a little with her arms stacked high with quilts. “That one, I’ll keep.”

  Joshua relieved Mrs. Blum of her burden and managed to extract one hand to point at the candlestick, asking, “Do these mean something special?”

  Mrs. Blum looked, for once, almost shy. “To me, they’re special. To goyim — excuse me, to Christians, not so much. There, that’s a menorah. We light the candles on —” The name of the day, or the holiday, started with a sound like getting ready to spit. He made sure to repress any hint of a smile. “One candle the first day, two the next, all the way to eight. Because the sacred oil lasted for eight days, only enough for one, a miracle!” She paused and gave him a sardonic look. “Or so they say, I wasn’t there, naturally, and maybe someone had put a little oil by for emergencies, it would be smart to do.”

  “And this one, the shape like a gate?”

  “That’s a letter, the first letter of the word for ‘life.’” She paused, reflecting. “Maybe I should start adding that to quilts for brides, and for babies. It couldn’t hurt, so appropriate, they don’t need to know. But I’ll fold this up so you can look at the others.” Pulling the partially completed quilt toward her, she paused and put a hand to her bosom. He took the end of the quilt from her and asked, “Mrs. Blum, are you all right?”

  “Fine, fine, don’t start with the doctoring. And we’ve known each other this long, shouldn’t you call me Freida? ‘Mrs. Blum’ this and ‘Mrs. Blum’ that, I feel like I should curtsy, or maybe stand at attention.”

  “Um . . . .” He’d been raised to respect his elders. And he certainly respected her. He tried changing the subject. Putting his armful of quilts on the edge of the table, he said, “I’ll just fold this up, shall I?”

  She made no protest, which Joshua found worrisome, though she did watch closely as if supervising. Once the quilt was folded as neatly as Joshua could manage, she picked it up and put it on a chair while he moved the other quilts to the center of the table. There were five or six of them, all different color schemes, each one harmonious.

  Mrs. Blum elbowed in and took charge, partially unfolding the quilt on top. “Your rooms, they’re so bare, you need something to liven them up. How about this one? Just the color would keep you warm, reds and yellows, like autumn leaves.”

  Joshua stood very still. He had memories associated with autumn, and they would not help him sleep at night. She looked sideways at him, and whatever she saw was enough for her to lay the quilt aside and move to the next. “Or this, greens and blues, like spring leaves and blue sky, and actual leaf shapes. It’ll match the view out your window some of the time, and it’ll do your heart good on winter nights.”

  It might at that. “It’s beautiful.” He felt the soft thickness. “Are you sure you don’t have another use for it?”

  She mock-glared at him. “Such a question! As if keeping my friend the doctor warm and cozy weren’t enough. No, you take it, and when you’re my age, you’ll remember the old Jewish lady who wanted the best for you.”

  “Well, if you’re sure. Thank you very much, ma’am.” He lifted the quilt and put it on another chair, restoring the autumn-colored quilt to the pile and picking the pile up. Maybe she would let him stash them away in whatever chest they had come from.

  But no, she firmly retrieved them and headed for her bedroom, talking as she went so that he was obliged to follow. “‘Ma’am.’ That’s no better than Mrs. But I’ll have you saying Freida, sooner or later. Now tell me, when will I be dressing your bride? Not Mamie, so who will it be? I’ve been neglecting you, so busy with this and that, but I need to find her while my hands are still good for sewing, they ache sometimes, especially when it’s cold, a good thing winter is so far off.”

  He might be able to help her with that, if she was willing to try an Indian remedy. Willow bark tea could relieve some of the pain, and even the swelling that might develop. “Mrs. — Freida — I may be able to keep you sewing for years to come.” And thereby put off her next attempt at matchmaking? Probably not for years. Probably not even for weeks. He stifled a sigh.

  Chapter 9

  Try as Joshua might to keep his trousers and frock coat clean, his smock didn’t catch every mess that came his way. At least his misfortune was of benefit to Li Chang. The laundryman greeted him with a wide smile. “No problem, Doctor Gibbs — I get these all clean, very soon.”

  “You’re cheerful this morning, Mr. Li.” (Early in their acquaintance, the laundryman had politely corrected Joshua’s assumption that “Chang” was his surname.) “Good news come your way?”

  The man clasped his hands together. “Oh, yes, very good news. I start building a new house, very soon now. When I finish, I will have plenty of room for my mother and my wife. I send them money. Then they sail to America, take the train, join me here. My wife will help me with the work, and we will take care of my mother together.”

  Joshua wasn’t sure Li Chang had adopted the custom of shaking hands, so he contented himself with saying heartily, “That’s wonderful! Congratulations.” He would have to think of the right sort of housewarming present to bring a Chinese fellow. Maybe Robert would know.

  He heard the door open behind him, and then a firm tread that sounded familiar. Li Chang smiled warmly at whoever was behind Joshua. “Miss —” The name that followed must have been Li’s attempt at “Brook,” though the “r” sound was less than clear. “You bring me aprons?”

  Miss Brook came up beside Joshua and held out a bundle of cloth. “Aprons, yes, and a skirt. I was unable to avoid kneeling in the pigpen yesterday. But what did I hear as I entered? Is your family finally joining you?”

  “Yes, yes! I will be so happy to introduce them to you.” Li Chang took the bundle as he spoke and carried it to a nearby table. Miss Brook waited for him to return before saying, “I hope you will let me show your wife and mother around town when they arrive, and introduce them to any townspeople we encounter.”

  Did Li understand what a generous offer Miss Brook was making? That she would be tying her standing in town to that of not just newcomers but foreigners? From the moisture that glimmered in the laundryman’s eyes, Joshua thought he did.

  Joshua followed Miss Brook out of the laundry. She appeared to be headed for the general store, and he accompanied her, figuring he could go on to the tobacconist. Before he could ask about her father, she volunteered an update on his convalescence, going almost as well as Joshua could have hoped. Then, before he could think of another to
pic, she said, “Your mention of Freida Blum, when you came out to tend my father, brought a question to my mind.”

  Joshua almost flinched. Was she going to ask what Mrs. Blum had against her? But instead of any such alarming question, she went on, her tone thoughtful, “Do you happen to know how she came to arrive in Cowbird Creek?”

  In his relief, Joshua wished he had more information to offer. “I’m afraid I know only that she left New York after the death of her husband.”

  Miss Brook took that in, saying nothing more until they were close to the store. Then she stopped and faced Joshua as she said, “I admire her courage. Even a younger woman, with a constitution well suited to enduring a long journey, would find the prospect daunting.” Her face lighted with one of her infrequent smiles. “But I suppose I should not be surprised at anything Mrs. Blum undertook. She is a remarkable person, and you are fortunate to have her as a friend.”

  Joshua had no idea how to respond. Was Miss Brook acknowledging that her own relationship with Freida Blum was something other than friendly? Before he could think of anything to say, she had nodded a farewell and gone into the store.

  Joshua picked up his pace, to arrive at the tobacconist the sooner. He needed a peaceful smoke to settle his mind.

  * * * * *

  Joshua’s only hope of postponing Mrs. Blum’s — Freida’s — next candidate for his affections was to return to his own scheming. So far, Robert had not been of any great assistance. What would help Joshua do better?

  Of course. He should have thought of it sooner. Freida’s first marriage had apparently been happy enough. What had Samuel been like? What interests had they shared?

  Now he just had to turn the conversation in that direction before Freida could start in on him. He could think of no subtle way to accomplish it. Instead, he started talking as soon as she’d opened the door and welcomed him inside. “All this time, Freida —” She preened at his obedient use of her name. “— you’ve never told me many details about Samuel. Do you have other friends here you can talk to about him?”

  He’d taken her by surprise. Sadness crossed her face before she chased it away. “Why should I bother people about the past? This is a new country, people should look ahead.”

  “All the same, I’d like to know more about him.”

  Freida arched an eyebrow that might indicate suspicion of his sudden interest. But she dropped onto her love seat with an audible “huff” and started in as soon as he had sat as well. Or as soon as she could catch her breath.

  “My Samuel, people thought he was just a shopkeeper, until they got to know him. Meek and mild, they thought. Polite, good manners, considerate, so they guessed I walked all over him. But Samuel knew how to stand his ground. Me, I couldn’t respect a man who didn’t do that much. He had plenty to say for himself, I didn’t have to do all the talking.”

  Joshua recalled his most recent matchmaking debacle. “But — that lawyer did plenty of talking, and you didn’t . . . appreciate it.”

  Freida sniffed. “Samuel, when he talked, he had something to say! Not all, ‘I this, I that.’”

  He had derailed her train of thought, and must try to get it back on track. “So Samuel had interesting things to talk about.”

  Freida relaxed and smiled again. “My Samuel, when he wasn’t at work, he had more on his mind than buying and selling. He followed the news of the day, and he would tell me about it, no ‘This is men’s business.’ And my Samuel was an actor.”

  “A what?” A moment later he realized he might have offended her. Actors had never been part of his social circle. Or any circle above his.

  “Not a professional. He didn’t have the time, and he believed in financial security. Not something an actor has! But he would read plays to me, and play all the parts, even the women, it was a wonder what he could do with his voice. And he knew so much poetry, that man, all by heart, he could recite it for hours.”

  Joshua had a hard time picturing Samuel, or any man, holding the stage, so to speak, for hours without Freida interrupting. But just the possibility increased his admiration for the departed Mr. Blum.

  Freida sat lost in thought, or memory, for a minute or two. Joshua took advantage of the lull to do some thinking of his own. There was her work setting up the social library, and now this history. She should appreciate a man who knew his literature. It was too bad the local schoolteacher was female.

  But Rushing, the next town over, had a male teacher. Not quite Freida’s age, Joshua thought, but not so much younger, either.

  Before he could escape to explore the idea, he must perforce listen to Freida read a letter from her niece back in New York. “Such a lovely girl! She envied me when I told her I’d decided to go west, she’s a lot like me, too restless to live all our lives in one place. I’ve told her she should visit.” No doubt Freida’s next plan was in the making.

  Alton Farley, schoolteacher in Rushing, greeted Joshua with hospitality and curiosity. The teacher was a large man with something of a slouch, but well-groomed, with curly brown hair just starting to go gray. His face shifted easily from one expression to another, and there was something of a twinkle in his eye through all of them. If Joshua had been a middle-aged widow lady, he thought he’d be intrigued. Though Freida would be likely to nag about the teacher’s posture.

  Joshua managed to put off explaining himself until they were drinking Alton’s coffee in Alton’s small kitchen. Looking around, Joshua tried to imagine both Alton and Freida in the space. It would be a tight fit. Maybe they could find or build a house together in Rushing — or better yet, between Rushing and Cowbird Creek.

  Alton chewed thoughtfully on his lower lip. “I can’t say I’ve never thought about female companionship, and having someone to come home to. But I get along all right on my own. Always have. I don’t know how I’d shape up as a husband. And your friend sounds like —” His mouth twitched in a crooked smile. “ — like something of a force of nature. Not sure but that I’d get bowled over.”

  Joshua fumbled for ways to persuade him. “She loves books, the way you do. Did I tell you she’s setting up a social library? And she and her late husband used to read plays and poetry together.” Well, Samuel had read plays, but that was close enough to accurate. “And she would make any house a home. You’d find out just what you’ve been missing.”

  Alton tipped his chair back, gazing over Joshua’s head, probably running pictures in his mind. Then he thumped back down, planted his hands on the table, and declared, “I’ll meet this lady if you’re of the party, at least the first time.”

  Would Freida mind? Joshua thought not. In fact, she might feel more comfortable at first, having Joshua there to ease conversation along. And if the attempt fell flat, he could be the one to put a tactful end to things. “It’s a deal.”

  Since he’d emphasized Freida’s homemaker qualities, Joshua arranged for her and Alton’s first meeting to be at Freida’s home on a Sunday afternoon. That made it easy for her to greet Alton with a warm smile and an enormous slice of apple cake. He made an immediate good impression by consuming it with obvious delight. “So good to see a man enjoy his food!”

  Alton smiled broadly. “Enjoy your food, you mean. This is wonderful.”

  Freida cut another slice, almost as large, and shoved it at Joshua. “And you, still too thin, here!”

  Joshua took the plate and peered at Freida. “Aren’t you having any?”

  She shrugged. “I’m not so hungry. I can make more when I want it. Whatever’s left today, Mr. Farley should take it with him. A big man gets hungry at night, no?”

  When they had demolished their slices of cake, Alton took the initiative. “Doctor Gibbs told me of your interest in literature, and your work on the library. Do you have many books of your own here, or wasn’t it feasible to bring them west?”

  Joshua had left behind most of his books along with the rest of his life in Philadelphia. Reading so little these days besides medical journals and magi
c trick instructions, he had never thought to notice whatever books Freida might have. Under the circumstances, he was relieved to see her sit up and announce with pride, “Every book I could carry, I left half my wardrobe behind to make room. I could always sew more dresses, not so much write more books! Over here, you can look.” She cocked her head coyly. “And I have more in my bedroom, but I’m not showing you in there.”

  The books not off limits filled a bookcase near her front door where opening the door hid them from view. Alton leaned in to read the titles. “Oh, She Stoops to Conquer! I’ve always enjoyed that.” He turned his head to see Freida while still bent toward the bookcase. “Doctor Gibbs tells me you like to read plays. If I can recruit him, how about the three of us read this one?”

  Freida took a step back, a rare uncertainty on her face, as Joshua silently cursed his earlier fib. “Oh, I don’t know . . . .”

  Alton straightened up and turned toward Joshua. “Doctor Gibbs, help me persuade our hostess!” Then, to Freida: “I promise, I’m no critic. Remember how I spend my days. I am sure that compared to my students, you’ll be a shining example of the dramatic arts.”

  Freida shot an accusing stare at Joshua and then planted her hands on her capacious hips. “Well, all right then, just remember, you shouldn’t expect too much.”

  “Bravo!” Alton pulled the book from the bookcase and carried it back to the kitchen table. “Let’s see. You’ll read the ladies, naturally. Joshua and I will divvy up the gentlemen. It’s too bad we have only the one book to share, but we’ll make do.”

  Before they got started, Freida pushed a second slice of cake on both men, and to Joshua’s relief took one for herself. Alton opened the book with a flourish and read, “She Stoops to Conquer; Or, The Mistakes of a Night, by Oliver Goldsmith. Prologue. Hmmm. The prologue is on the long side, so we can take turns reading a few lines apiece.” He cleared his throat and intoned dramatically, “Excuse me, sirs, I pray—I can't yet speak—I'm crying now—and have been all the week. . . . .”