by Pamela Morsi
She'd been out on Sunday afternoon wrapping pinestraw around the trunk of the hazel tree. Their hazel tree. He always thought of it that way. They had planted it together.
"Do you think that will encourage our tree to produce something we can eat this year?" he'd asked her from the edge of his porch.
She glanced up, already grinning. She had a wide, big smile that came to her lips easily.
"I remain optimistic, Mr. Stefanski," she said.
Optimistic. That was a good word to describe Gertrude Barkley. He had been drawn to that sunny purpose right from the beginning. She had talked him into that tree. Maneuvered him into it, he supposed. Still, he didn't regret its existence. The hazel tree had been planted the year that they had met. The year that he had come to town. It was a tall, straight, shady haven they had planted together.
It was seventeen years ago, yet he remembered that day as vividly as if it were painted upon his memory. He was tired, he was hot and sweaty, not at all a fine condition in which to receive a young lady. But Gertrude Barkley didn't wait for an invitation, she merely appeared in his yard. Or rather in her own yard, at the border of his.
He was running a string along dig stakes that marked the border of his property. His house was nearly finished and he proposed to build a wall.
"Good afternoon, Mr. Stefanski," Gertrude greeted him with the cheerful politeness that he had come to expect.
Immediately he came to his feet and doffed his worn glove hat respectfully. He bowed slightly before he remembered that people didn't do that in America. He was raised as a peasant. Trained to show deference to his betters. Of course, in America a man had no betters. But with someone like Gertrude Barkley, it was hard to remember that.
"Miss Gwere-tood," he said in acknowledgment. He heard the sound of her name coming from his lips and knew that it wasn't quite right. English was still very difficult for him, the strange names especially. But for this young woman, his neighbor, he would practice until he got it right.
She was tall for a woman, standing just a couple of inches shorter than himself. She held her head high and her posture always seemed excessively straight. Somehow that rigidness seemed to enhance the soft feminine curves of her body. At least for Mikolai it did.
"It's a lovely day, is it not?" she began. She continued to talk, but Mikolai lost the thread of the conversation. It was very hard to concentrate on translating her words when all he could think about was how coarse and dirty he must appear.
He was dressed in his heavy workingman's duckings and hobnail boots; his hair and brow were drenched with sweat from the warmth of the afternoon. He had not bothered to shave that morning.
Gertrude smiled a little uneasily at him.
He realized that she must have asked him a question. He had no idea what it might be.
"Excuses?" he said, and then remembered that it was supposed to be "Excuse me." He didn't go back and correct himself. Perhaps she hadn't noticed.
He knew how he must appear to her. Uncouth, unlearned, unapproachable. Still, she did not seem to be at all afraid of him. Maybe she should be. There was something about her nearness that was distinctly unsettling. He hadn't been with a woman in a very long time.
He was still a young man then, only twenty-one. But he had none of the lightness or carefree air of youth. He was stark and solemn and determined. But Miss Gertrude . . . Miss Gertrude was laughter and life and ... her warmth of spirit lured him like a lighted window on a shivery winter's night.
With a gentle smile she gestured to something behind him. He turned to see what had captured her attention. In the sand, some distance away, his son was playing in the dirt. The boy's bright blond hair gleamed in the sunshine and he was galloping tiny wooden horses up and down the hills and valleys he had dug in the loose dirt.
"Hello, Teddy!" she called out to the little boy.
He had told her that the boy's name was Teodor. She had shortened it to Teddy. It sounded very American. Mikolai liked the way that it sounded.
Teddy raised his little pudgy chin and smiled at the adults watching him, his face grimy from the afternoon's adventure.
"He is such a nice baby, Mr. Stefanski," she said.
She was speaking more slowly now, carefully. Mikolai glanced back at his son with pride. Haltingly, he sorted through his meager vocabulary to come up with the right words.
"He is good boy," he said carefully. 'Today new . . ." The noun eluded him. In frustration Stefanski pointed to his own mouth. "New . . . zab, how do you say?"
"He has a new tooth?"
He sighed gratefully and nodded. "Yes, new tooth. My son, Teodor, has new tooth."
Gertrude smiled at him. Willingly she joined him in a quiet moment of unconcealed pride. It was one of the things that he longed for most, someone to share the joys of his life, the small successes, the private jokes.
He caught himself. Miss Gertrude didn't come out of her house to share anything with her neighbor but the afternoon sunshine. He cleared his throat, deliberately pretending to be anxious to get back to work. Still the woman lingered.
"Are you enjoying the weather?" she asked him.
Stefanski looked around startled. For a moment he had been unaware if it was spring or fall.
"Hot," he managed to comment.
"Yes, it is quite warm for such hard work," she agreed. "Whatever are you building, Mr. Stefanski?"
He looked at her in puzzlement for a long moment and then pointed to the huge red brick edifice behind him. "House," he said.
"No, not the house." Gertrude laughed lightly. "I know that you are building a house. What are you building here?" She pointed to the stakes and string and the partially leveled ground. "Are you building a wall here?"
"Yes! A wall," he said, feeling foolish. Of course she knew he was building a house. Everyone in Venice knew. It was nearly completed and he and Teodor were already living there. He hoped to complete the inside finish work during winter's bad weather. There was still much to do, but the brickyards were more important right now. Business was booming and he must not allow himself to be distracted. Competitors were everywhere, eager and anxious to relieve him of his customers if possible. "I build wall," he told her.
"That's not a good idea, Mr. Stefanski," she answered.
His brow furrowed "No?"
"No," Gertrude stated emphatically.
He hesitated thoughtfully, giving her words ample consideration. He couldn't lay claim to understanding American ways. Sometimes they made perfect sense. At other times they were unfathomable. Like Mr. Barkley, Miss Gertrude's father, being angry at him for building the house. Mikolai knew that the old man was furious about it, but for the life of him he couldn't figure out why. The woman before him probably understood perfectly. Still, he thought the wall a necessity.
"Yes, wall is good idea," he told her. "Stefanski is here. Line here. Your papa there." He pointed to the stakes for the east side of the wall. "This is mine," he stated firmly, indicating the stakes on the west side. "Clear line, no trouble."
He looked up at Gertrude searchingly. He knew his explanation was poor; he willed her to understand.
"Of course you are right, Mr. Stefanski," she said finally.
It took a moment for her words to sink in. Her words didn't, however, match her expression. She hadn't really agreed with him. There was more to be said, he was certain. He waited, leaning against his shovel, to hear what she had to say.
"It's such a shame about your porch."
He raised a curious eyebrow. "Porch?"
"Such a lovely porch on your house," she said, gesturing toward it.
Stefanski looked behind him at the wide expanse of covered porchway on the huge brick house. She liked his porch. He felt a moment of pleasure. It was the latest design. He'd seen it in a new American magazine. He'd hardly been able to read the words, but he'd carefully studied the drawings.
"Both the front and the side," Miss Gertrude continued with a sigh of approval.
> He nodded. He wanted to talk to her about airflow, bearing walls, living traffic patterns, and ascetics versus function. He wanted to explain to her about the designer's ideas and how he felt he had improved upon them. He wanted to tell her the whys as well as the what of it. But it was too much explanation for his meager vocabulary.
"It's good porch," he admitted modestly.
"Yes," Miss Gertrude agreed effusively. "And it is such a shame that all you'll be able to see is a brick wall. Not a very pretty view."
Stefanski eyed her speculatively. Even in an unfamiliar language he knew when he was being maneuvered. He didn't resist it.
"My bricks . . . very pretty," he said.
Gertrude nodded. "Oh yes, of course, they are lovely bricks. They are the most attractive I have ever seen."
"Strong brick," he said. "Very pretty and very strong."
"They certainly seem so," she concurred. "But don't you see bricks all day?"
"What?"
"Don't you see bricks all day?"
"Yes, I work all day, every day," he said, more than a bit of pride in his tone.
"So don't you think that perhaps when you are not working that you'd like to see something else?"
He looked thoughtful then and shrugged. "See your house?" he asked, not particularly pleased with the prospect.
"Not just our house, Mr. Stefanski. The woods and the lane and . . . Why, I'm sure that from your porch in winter one could see Buffalo Mountain. Have you ever seen Buffalo Mountain?"
"Buffalo Mountain?"
Mikolai had not even heard of the place.
"It's a lovely view on clear winter days," Gertrude assured him. She turned to point in the direction of the far-off hill that could barely be glimpsed that afternoon as a gray haze on the horizon. He heard the near-breathless enthusiasm in her voice and was drawn to it. He moved up to stand directly behind her, leaning forward slightly to follow the direction of her hand with his eyes. He caught the scent of her. Closing his eyes, he took in a deep breath. Rose water. She must rinse her hair in rose water.
"Do you see it?"
She turned her head then and she was close. Very close. Close enough that in a movement, a small and very natural movement, his lips could touch her.
Mikolai abruptly stood to his full height. His blood was pounding through his veins and he could still smell the soft, feminine fragrance that tempted him.
"Can't see," he said truthfully, though his words were more brusque than he'd intended.
"No, it's not truly very visible this time of year," Miss Gertrude admitted. "Winter is when we can most usually see it, when you will be able to see it from your porch."
Mikolai was having difficulty concentrating on what she was saying. The unexpected reaction to her nearness disconcerted him. "Sit on the porch in winter?" he asked.
Miss Gertrude was momentarily speechless. She stuttered momentarily. "Wh-wh-wh-why no. Of course no one would sit on a porch in bad weather. But frequently it will still be quite pleasant here in the winter and we can see snow on top of the mountain in the distance."
"Snow?" He repeated the word slowly. It sounded familiar, but he couldn't remember its meaning.
"Snow . . . white . . . like rain, it comes from the sky."
Miss Gertrude made curious little wavy motions with her fingers that at first he didn't understand, then suddenly he nodded as if he could see what was in her thoughts.
"Snieg," he said.
"Snieg?"
"Snieg is 'snow'."
"Yes," Miss Gertrude said, laughing. "Snieg on the mountain, very pretty."
"Pretty," Stefanski agreed. He laughed with her companion-ably.
"You have snow in your country?" she asked.
His eyes narrowed. He felt stung. "Amerika is my country," he said.
She flushed. He had embarrassed her. He was sorry, but she'd pricked his pride.
"Yes, yes, of course America is your country now," she said. "I was simply thinking of the country where you grew up."
He nodded at her and then gazed off into the distance toward the mountain that couldn't be seen. He should apologize for snapping at her. She couldn't understand what it meant for him to be an American, all that he had given up, all that he longed for that was yet to be realized. He wanted to explain, to confide, but there were too many words, or no words at all.
"Much snow in Poland," he said simply. "Much snow, much cold."
For a moment he was there once more. The wide unending stretches of rolling plain, green and fertile-looking so much like this Missouri that he now called home. He imagined himself once more working the fields with his father and brothers. Laughing with them, talking with them. He was not a strange, silent foreigner, but a clever hardworking son who hated baths, teased his sister, played tricks upon his brothers, and made his father chuckle.
He could see those fields again, hear those voices in his native tongue. And in his mind, once more he scaled that tallest tree, near Lida's house, where he stole his first kiss and gazed southward into the distance at the mountains of Carpathia.
"There was hill," he said finally.
He turned to regard Gertrude directly. His gaze was somber, but not without warmth. "For children very pretty."
Gertrude's eyes widened. They simply looked at each other for a long moment.
"Then you were very lucky that your father didn't build a high brick wall around your house so that you couldn't see it."
"What?" He was momentarily puzzled. He'd forgotten the purpose of their conversation. His expression turned wry. He bent his knee and propped his foot upon one of the marking stakes in the ground.
"Clear line, no trouble," he stated firmly once more.
Miss Gertrude nodded. "But does it have to be a wall?" she asked. "Couldn't we mark the line another way? With a shrub perhaps, or a tree."
Stefanski's expression turned thoughtful and he rubbed his chin. A wall would be better, still he wanted to please her. He wanted to have her smile at him again.
"A fruit tree would be nice," she said. "You could plant a fruit tree here, it wouldn't block your view and we would have no question about the property line."
Mikolai took time to consider that, his brow furrowed thoughtfully. Miss Gertrude continued to look at him hopefully.
"Is there some kind of tree that you like? Something that perhaps will remind you of your home in Poland? Or maybe a good-luck tree? My Aunt Hilly used to say magnolias are good luck."
Stefanski was thoughtful for a long moment.
"Hazel tree," he said.
"Hazel?" Gertrude nodded slowly. "I don't know if they will grow very well this far south," she said. "I suppose we could try.”
Suddenly Mikolai wanted very much to try. He also wanted to talk. He wanted to tell her the story of the hazel tree. He searched his mind for the words, the phrases necessary to tell the tale.
"Children's story," he said simply.
"There is a children's story about the hazel tree?" she asked, smiling. "You must tell me."
He hesitated only a moment before nodding. He sorted the story out in his head. When the Virgin Mary was fleeing King Herod she had sought shelter in the forest.
"Mother of God in trees," he said.
Gertrude's eyebrows raised in surprise. Mikolai continued, inexpertly explaining how the Virgin had asked the aspen trees to hide her and the Christ child so that the king would not find them and slay them.
"She talk to aspens."
He knew that was not quite what he meant. The aspens had been afraid of the king and they had begun to tremble in fear and pleaded with Mary to go away, for the king might find her there and would cut them down.
"Aspens say, 'Go away,'" he explained haltingly as he leaned back on his shovel and rested his elbow on the handle, relaxed in his pose.
The hazel tree heard what was happening in the aspens and bid the Madonna to come its way. It enfolded the Madonna and Child safely in its wide leaves and the king's men di
dn't see them and rode right by.
"Mary hid in hazel tree."
Miss Gertrude listened politely, nodding.
The hazel tree was blessed for its good deed and since that day, aspens shake even in the absence of the slightest breeze, trembling and fearful to the end of time. But the hazel grows strong and tall, shading any who pass by, and perpetually safe from storms and lightning.
"Hazel tree good for house, good for us."
Miss Gertrude smiled. Clearly she did not understand.
Mikolai sighed heavily. "We plant hazel for line," he said finally. "Same like wall and no trouble."
"Oh yes, let us plant a tree," Gertrude agreed. "It will serve just as well to mark the property and be something shady for the yard, too."
They smiled together for a long minute.
"Someday I tell story of hazel tree again," he promised.
She laughed then, delightedly. "Now all we'll have to fight about is who owns the hazelnuts?"
"Brickyards!" the trolley master called out, startling Mikolai from his reverie. A man shouldn't be dreaming of a woman when the workday was still upon him.
Chapter Four
GERTRUDE BARKLEY SAT writing at her desk near the window of her second-floor apartment in the Barkley house. It wasn't really an apartment, merely two connecting rooms that were set aside for her personal use. But she liked to call it her apartment, the use of the term gave her a feeling of independence.
Of course, she was independent. She had always been quick to remind anyone who suggested otherwise that she had her own rather successful career as a novelist and therefore her own money. Hadn't she made a deposit at the bank just that morning? Simply because she chose to continue to live in the house in which she was born—her father's house, now her brother's house—did not in any way diminish the fact that she was a modern, self-sufficient, self-reliant woman. If some unlettered, ignorant people in the town thought her to be an aging, dependent spinster, it was merely their mistake.
Her concern this afternoon, however, was not her own position in the community of Venice, Missouri but rather the fictional position of Weston Carlisle, the illegitimate son of Tye DuPree, patriarch of the DuPree family of Carlisle, Virginia, that concerned her.
