Another Homecoming (12 page)

“I’m not sure,” Kyle murmured. She wanted to run away, and she wanted to stay. She wanted Maggie to stop saying these words that left her feeling so vulnerable and shaken, and yet she wanted her to keep talking for all her life long.

“You need to ask the Lord into your life, my beloved little one. You need to have His presence guiding you, showing you the path your feet should be walking.” Maggie inspected her with a gaze so penetrating that Kyle felt as though it reached deep into her confused heart.

“I’m not—” Her response was cut off by the sound of the front doorbell. “Who is that?”

Maggie stepped back a pace, bringing her face into the shadows, and once more she became a gray-headed old woman. “I have no idea who that might be. Deliveries always come to the back door.”

Kyle listened but did not hear Bertrand’s measured tread. “I suppose I’d better go see who it is.”

As she turned away, Maggie settled a hand upon her arm. “Here, let me take your apron.” After removing it, Kyle handed it over, and the woman said, “Will you think about what I have told you, child?”

“Of course.” Yet as she walked through the kitchen door and entered the grand foyer, Kyle felt the words slip from her. Like a cloak left behind after a hard summer shower, she cast them aside. She had no choice. Here in the harsh reality of her beautiful home, as her heels clicked across the polished marble tile, Kyle felt as though the words had no place. Nor the sentiment. She could not survive with an open heart. Not here, not around her mother and her mother’s friends. They would grind her down and devour her, unless she somehow could learn to be as hard and as cold as they were.

Kyle stopped in front of the oval mirror and checked her reflection as her mother had trained her to do before answering the door. But she caught herself looking into a pair of sad, hopeless eyes. And she had a fleeting glimpse of a thought:
What if Maggie is right, and they are wrong?

The doorbell sounded again, bringing her from her reverie. She straightened, turned, and opened the door.

Old Mr. Crawley, Randolf and Emily’s father, stood in the entrance. “Hello, Kyle.”

“Good morning, sir. Won’t you come in?” she invited warmly, remembering this man’s years with her beloved father. “Was Mother expecting you?”

“Not exactly. We are planning the reading of your father’s will, as you know.”

“Of course.” It was circled in red in her mother’s social calendar and had been for over a month. Abigail’s secretary had typed letters to each of the family, inviting them all, as though it was some important social event. Every time Abigail spoke of it, she did so with a spark of barely repressed excitement. It left Kyle reeling to see her father’s memory reduced to such crassness. But as always, Kyle had remained silent. And safe. “But isn’t that on Monday?”

“It is indeed.” For some reason, the old gentleman seemed nervous. “There’s a certain matter . . . well, I thought it best to speak with you two in private.”

Bertrand appeared, apologetic at having been caught away from his post. “Miss Kyle, excuse me, I was out back making arrangements with the caterer for Monday’s reception, and didn’t hear—”

“It’s quite all right. See if you can find Mother, won’t you?”

“Of course, miss. Right away.” He gave Mr. Crawley a stiff bow and turned away.

“Perhaps we’d be more comfortable in the library, Mr. Crawley.” She held none of the negative feelings for the older gentleman that she had for his offspring. Mr. Crawley had married late and was a good twenty-five years older than his wife. He possessed the stiff bearing and formal manners of another generation. But he had always treated her with reserved courtesy. There was nothing false about him, nor any of the cold deceit she felt from Randolf Junior. “Can I offer you a cup of tea?”

“No, thank you.” He entered the library, took the offered seat, set the bulky briefcase beside his chair, and waited in some inner tension. When steps announced Abigail’s passage across the marble foyer, he almost leapt to his feet to greet her.

“Why, Randolf, what an unexpected treat,” Abigail said, entering with her hand outstretched. The formal smile said that in truth his arrival was anything but a pleasure. “If you are looking for your son, I’m afraid he’s already come and gone.”

A fleeting expression of alarm passed over the old man’s features. “You’re sure he’s gone?”

“Yes, of course, I saw him off myself.” She allowed herself an instant’s curiosity over his attitude, but clearly there were more pressing matters on her mind. “I’m so sorry I can’t invite you to join us for lunch, but I really must—”

“I’m not here for a meal,” the older gentleman said grimly. “And I know how busy you are. But we really must talk.”

Abigail lifted her chin a fraction, so as to give the impression of looking down at the taller man. “Really, what on earth can’t wait until our meeting Monday?”

“I have asked myself the same thing, and wondered if I am not breaking your husband’s instructions by being here,” he responded crisply. “But as you have refused to listen to my entreaties for the first reading of the will to be held in private, I feel I have no choice.”

Abigail showed an instant of uncertainty. She gathered herself with an effort and said, “Won’t you sit down?”

“Thank you.” Stiffly he resumed his seat.

“As I have already told you,” Abigail went on, “I can see no reason for agreeing to this odd request of yours. Lawrence has no doubt shown his relatives the same generosity that he has always demonstrated.”

“My suggestion had nothing whatsoever to do with how Lawrence has treated the others. What you may not be aware of, Abigail, is that your husband retained me to take care of some very private matters.”

This time, the woman’s surprise could not be masked. “I beg your pardon?”

“Matters so private,” Mr. Crawley persisted, “that not even my son was to know of them. By Lawrence’s own instructions I was ordered not to divulge them, not even to you, Abigail, until the reading of the will. But because of your persistence in making this a public event, I felt it necessary to speak to you personally in advance.”

There was the sudden focusing of energy so potent that time seemed to slow. Kyle felt as much as saw her mother’s tension. Abigail began turning toward her, but the movement seemed to go on forever, and all around them rose the invisible swirling cyclone. “Wait outside, please, Kyle.”

“As a matter of fact,” Mr. Crawley interjected, “this very much pertains to your daughter.”

“I said wait outside.” Her mother’s voice was so flat it sounded metallic.

“Abigail—”

“You may have affected some secret relationship with my late husband,” the agitated woman snapped, the cords in her throat standing out. “But I am still mistress of this house, am I not?”

Mr. Crawley observed her as he would a witness on the stand, then turned away with a brief harrumph and began shuffling papers brought from his briefcase. Kyle rose and left the room in silence. Quietly she closed the tall double doors behind her, glad to be away from the gathering storm.

But she had scarcely made it halfway across the foyer when Abigail shrieked at the top of her voice, “
WHAT?
”

Kyle stopped in her tracks. The kitchen door popped open, and she was joined by Maggie and Bertrand. Together they stood and gaped at the library’s closed doors.

There was the low murmur of Mr. Crawley’s voice, then a long silence, followed by Abigail’s shout,
“You cannot be serious!”

A further low murmur was cut off by Abigail shrieking, “
I will not stand for this!
” But the murmur persisted, rising slightly, yet remaining too low for them to make out the words. Kyle was not sure whether she was sorry or glad to be unable to understand what the old gentleman was saying.

Suddenly the library doors were flung back with such force they banged upon the side wall, knocking down one of the portraits. Abigail stalked out, her face drawn and white, her lips a thin line. She shot a single furious glance at Kyle, then fled in a staccato beat of her high heels.

Mr. Crawley emerged, wiping his forehead with a white handkerchief. He gave Kyle a look of pure sympathy. Yet all he said was, “I can see myself out.”

10
 

There were many things
that Joel found disconcerting about the Miller household. But they were not why he felt so nervous as he walked up the path and climbed their front steps that Sunday morning. He paused on the porch to adjust his tie and slick down his hair. Before he could raise his hand to knock, Ruthie had already opened the door.

“Hello, Choel,” she welcomed in her softly accented brogue. Little Ruthie was what she was called around the house because she had the same name as her mother, but Ruthie was not small. Just an inch shy of Joel’s own height, she had the look of a healthy, hearty farm girl. Her height and strength only added to her pleasant attractiveness. As always, she wore the same homespun blouse and long skirt as her mother, but the kerchief in her hair was of a brighter color. She stood straight and tall, her face full of her sweet nature. Ruthie held the screen open for him. “I wish you good Lord’s day, Choel,” she added formally.

“Thank you,” he murmured, uncertain quite how to react. The family became so traditional at certain moments. As he entered, he had a closer look at the sadness in her eyes, and he said, “I’m sorry about . . . about your farm home . . . being so far away, Ruthie.”

She rewarded him with a look of such gratitude that it warmed him all the way down. “I am glad you are come, Choel,” she replied. “You make happy the whole family with your coming.”

“Choel, hello, welcome.” Simon approached in his simple clothes and lace-up boots. “It really happened yet. To believe it is hard for me. You have come.” Simon’s accent was stronger today, and the words came out sounding like
you haff gom
.

Joel allowed himself to be guided into the living room where the family was gathered. They all called a hearty welcome—even the baby cooed a hello. Yet as Joel settled himself into place between Simon and Ruthie, he could feel that sadness still cast a pall over the gathering. He felt his own thoughts sobering. He shuffled and cleared his throat, his eyes passing from one face to another.

He found that Mrs. Miller was watching him from grave, dark eyes. He heard her say, “Such a feel for folks you have, Choel. You come, you sit, and already you know how we ache some more.”

Joel was astounded by her words. He stared at the fine-featured woman with her brown hair tucked under a kerchief and wondered how she could know this. He had a lifetime’s experience at keeping himself hidden, yet this woman was aware of his thoughts and how he studied others. He lowered his eyes and nodded. “You miss your farm,” he said simply.

From her place beside him, Ruthie gave a quiet sigh. Across the room, her younger sister, Sarah, choked back tears.

Mrs. Miller turned to her husband. “Did I not tell you? A tender heart has the young man.”

Mr. Miller nodded slowly. He was a big man, his work-hardened hands twice the size of Joel’s. His sparse blond hair rose back from a broad face that seemed perpetually sunburned. His beard was reddish brown and cut so it ringed his chin and left his mouth clear. He rumbled in his heavily accented way, “Such a greeting we give to Choel, our honored guest. Such a sadness on the Lord’s day.”

When Joel first had come to the Miller home, he had found it very difficult to understand what Mr. Miller was saying, since he was missing every other word. But with time Joel had come both to understand him and to feel the same relaxed comfort around the big man as he did around the rest of the family.

The youngest boy, Gerth, whimpered softly, “I want home again, Papa.”

“Me too,” whispered Sarah.

This was greeted with none of the impatient anger Joel would have found in his own home. Instead, Mr. Miller nodded his head again, the motion slow and measured, the eyes grave. He stroked his long beard a moment. “Yah, yah, this have I heard now many times.”

Joel felt his glance drawn to Mr. Miller’s right pant leg, which was folded and pinned back above where his knee should have been. The first time Joel had seen the man without his artificial leg, he had felt sick to his stomach. But he had come to pay it as little mind as Mr. Miller did. In truth, the big man moved about his home and carpenter’s shed as agilely as any other man would on two legs.

But today seemed to be different, because Mr. Miller bent forward and began massaging the end of his stump. His wife’s face instantly showed her concern. “Choseph, something the matter is?”

“Ach, it is chust a little soreness. Nothing. Nothing.” But he did not stop his rubbing. Instead, as one great hand massaged his leg, the broad face with its rounded features turned and stared at each of his children in turn. He said nothing, but a sense of growing power seemed to fill the room. A sense of communication on a level far beyond that of words.

“Something to help, Choseph?” Mrs. Miller asked.

“Perhaps my shot should I have early this day,” he said.

“Yah. So I think too.” Mrs. Miller was up and moving for the kitchen before she finished speaking. The room was silent enough for Joel to hear her open the refrigerator, shut it, and hasten back. “Here now.”

“Thank you, wife.” Without taking his eyes from his family, he pulled the stopper from the needle, pointed the syringe straight up, tapped the glass base, and pushed the plunger until a little liquid squirted up.

Joel knew from Simon that Mr. Miller had to have these injections several times a day. But when Mr. Miller swabbed a patch of skin, pointed the needle downward, and prepared to plunge it into his arm, Joel had to look away. He turned to his friend. Simon’s gaze remained fastened upon his father. His brow was furrowed, as though he was concentrating hard, trying to understand something. Some lesson, some message that he was attempting to grasp.

“Well, now.”

Joel allowed his gaze to return to Mr. Miller as he set the syringe on the side table and lifted the big family Bible. “Why do we not show our guest how we like to sing? Ruthie, you choose, why not.”

She suggested something that Joel did not understand, and only when they began singing did he realize that the words were in German. But it did not matter. The whole family sang. But it was more than just
singing
. Each took a part of the harmony, even the youngest girl, and made music together with such ease and beauty that Joel could scarcely believe what he was hearing.

He glanced from one face to the next. They sat in a loose circle around the room, some in chairs and some on the floor. There was no accompanying instrument. Some sang with eyes closed, others with eyes gazing unfocused. But there was an effortless calm to each one, a sense of having cast aside all the world and joining with one another in song.

Hymn followed hymn. As the music continued, Joel stared at the bare walls and saw how the lack of pictures and decoration matched the simple majesty of their music. He looked at the plain table and chairs and hook rug and saw in the homemade quality the same strength of spirit and self-sufficiency that he heard in their voices. The home held neither radio nor television. Yet it now seemed complete in a way he could not understand.

Finally the music drifted away, but the calm remained. Mr. Miller adjusted the big Book in his lap and said, “Choel, you speak no Cherman, yah? So I read the Cherman, then another for you to read in English. Who? Ruthie? Yah, you with the lovely voice. Good. We start with Isaiah, chapter fifty-two, verse seven.”

Slowly he intoned the unknown language, one that seemed to roll much more comfortably from his tongue. Then Joel listened as Ruthie read carefully from a smaller Bible, “ ‘How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him who bringeth good tidings, who publisheth peace, that bringeth good tidings of good things, that publisheth salvation, that saith unto Zion, “Thy God reigneth!” ’ ”

“Good, good. And now chust one more, I think, yah.” He turned the pages, licking his thumb and tracing one finger down the page. “Here at Matthew, chapter ten, verse thirty-four.”

Ruthie waited until he had finished before reading, “ ‘Think not that I came to send peace on earth. I came not to send peace, but a sword.’ ”

“Such a dilemma,” Mr. Miller said when Ruth had finished. “Such a paradox.” He cast an eye to Joel and said, “Such words I understand because they are the same in Cherman. But my English, so bad it is. Can you understand?”

“I understand you fine,” Joel said, liking the big man very much.

“Good, good, you listen well, you try, you understand. That is good. So. These verses, do they talk of two men? No, how can it be, for does not Isaiah speak of the one who brings salvation? There is only one who this great thing can do.” He smiled down at the little girl at his feet. “And who is that, my sweet Sarah?”

“Jesus, Papa. He can.”

“Yah, only Jesus. But He the one is who says He comes with a sword. Such a paradox. How peace and conflict can exist together yet. In one world. In one family. In heaven or on earth? Such a mystery, yah? Such a great problem.”

He looked from one face to the next. His expression was somber, yet his eyes were glowing. “So. Let us think. What could this mean? Perhaps it is this. Perhaps peace is not meant to be man’s at all.”

Ruthie cried out, “But, Papa—”

“Wait, my little one. Chust wait and think. Not man’s.
Never
man’s. But that does not tell us, peace we can never have. No. It says, peace is only God’s. All other peace, it comes, it goes, you cannot hold any more than you hold water with a fork.”

He paused a moment, then asked, “So a peace that comes only from what we have, will it stay?”

There was a long pause before Simon quietly responded, “No, Papa.”

“And why not, my son?”

Joel was surprised at how Simon seemed embarrassed as he replied, “Because it is earthly peace, not God’s.”

“Yah!” Mr. Miller cried triumphantly. “Peace to earthly things cannot be tied. Why? Because they come, they go, they are cut from us like with a sharpened sword. We lose this and that, health and puppies and even maybe a farm. But does this mean that saddened we must be?”

Joel watched as one head after another gave a small shake in response.

“But God, peace He has. God says, turn to me, and peace always yours will be. Peace is His to give. A great peace, yah. But also a
dividing
peace.” Mr. Miller’s eyes continued to search, probe, look from one to the other with a force that seemed to press each to look within, to think, to find the answer for themselves. “God’s peace, it is a sword. God’s peace says to us,
choose
. Between heaven and earth, we must choose. And those who choose, those who seek, those who for Him live, peace He gives.
His
peace. For us to have. For us to
keep
. For now, for always. Ours, because His we choose to be, and true peace is with Him
only
.”

Joel sat at the Millers’ big kitchen table, silent and watchful, and waited as dinner was set in place. Here in this noisy family, all was so different from what he was accustomed to in his own home. Mrs. Miller brought her dishes to the table with a beaming pride, as though not just her work but somehow her heart was involved with what she made for dinner. The children, all five of them, chattered and laughed at once, and the father was there in his big chair at the head of the table, inhaling the steam from the dishes and already complimenting his wife.

But it was more than just the words and the smiles. There was something else. Something Joel could not describe, yet he knew was there. The mystery that had seemed to surround their Sunday service was wrapped around them now, even though the solemnness was gone with the sadness, and all was laughter and happy talk.

“All right, now,” Mr. Miller said in his funny accent. “Am I forgetting something, maybe? Do we chust eat now? What for is it to do next?”

“The blessing, Papa,” Ruthie said as she came over with a huge platter of mashed potatoes, then explained to Joel, “That’s a not-funny choke Papa says every dinner.”

“All chokes are funny, they chust need good ears to hear them,” Mr. Miller said good-naturedly, then motioned for all at the table to bow their heads. Mrs. Miller placed one hand upon her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes. For once, Ruthie was quiet and stood by her chair, her head bowed with the others.