More Than Words (21 page)
Loyco sliced his arm through the air like a swinging sword. “No! She takes nothing from you. Go back to the camp, Lalah.” Confusion clouded the girl’s eyes before she bid me good-bye and scampered away like a frightened rabbit. A branch crackled beneath Loyco’s foot. “When we came to your store, I liked you very much. I thought you might be different from the rest, who are always so quick to judge us, but you’re not. My child will not be in your store, and I will not be there, either.” He leaned a little closer. “Go home and don’t come back here.”
He didn’t have to tell me twice. I ran until pain cut through my chest like a sharp knife and I could no longer draw enough air to continue. I doubled over a short distance later and gasped until air filled my lungs. After a glance over my shoulder to ensure I wasn’t being followed, I forced myself to slow down and inhale long, deep breaths while I offered a silent prayer of thanks for my safety.
I’d almost given up hope of hearing from Mr. Finley when he reappeared like an unexpected cold breeze on a hot day. He bounded toward the front counter with a smile splitting his face. I noticed the sales case dangling from his hand, and my pleasure at seeing him dissipated. Apparently he wasn’t here to stay.
He slid the case onto the counter. “You are a sight for sore eyes, Miss Kohler.”
His intense stare caused me to glance away. Heat crept up my neck and spread across my face like hot flames. “Thank you. I am pleased to see you, as well.” I lifted my eyelids only far enough to gain a brief look at him. “I was beginning to think you had completely forgotten the Amana Colonies and your desire to move here.”
“Never. How could I forget one as lovely as you, Gretchen?”
He’d moved from addressing me as Miss Kohler to Gretchen in short order, but he’d not mentioned a word about returning here to live. Of course, he’d only just arrived. He’d hardly blurt everything he had to say immediately upon his return. “And how does your aunt fare?”
His forehead creased with wrinkles, but he soon regained his smile. “She’s doing some better. Thank you for asking.”
“What ailed her? You never said in your letter to my Vater.”
“Some sort of palsy, but my uncle never fully explained. Upon my return, she decided it would be better to have a woman come in to assist with her care. Still, I was needed to take charge of business matters.”
“And your uncle is now at home and can manage his own affairs?”
“Not entirely. That’s what I’ve come to explain to you—and your father. I do believe my ability to move to the colonies is going to be delayed yet again. Depending on my uncle’s schedule, I’ll be able to return from time to time. But until my aunt is much stronger and able to attend to everything while Uncle Frederick is away, I’ll be needed in Chicago.” He snapped open his case and looked around the store. “I know your father is at the train depot, but is anyone else within earshot?”
“Oma is resting in her room, but there’s no one else in the store,” I said.
“Good. I’m eager to give you some good news.” He lifted a magazine from his case and flipped open the pages. He tapped his finger near the center of one page. “Look at this!”
I quickly scanned the first few lines before my jaw went slack. I couldn’t believe my eyes. “That’s my poem.
And my name
.” My voice cracked at the reality of seeing my words printed in the magazine. I traced my finger beneath the letters. My stomach roiled, and fear raced up my spine like a bolt of lightning. What if somebody saw this? I’d be relegated to children’s church for sure. The pure embarrassment of having the entire colony know that I’d performed a glaring misdeed—one that would demote me to the confines of children’s church—was enough to cause my toes to curl.
He chuckled “I know it’s your name. My friend suggested I submit it to a magazine for publication. He says you have a great deal of talent and it should be shared with others. And the editor of the magazine agreed.”
“But you didn’t ask my permission,” I hissed, fearful Oma might make an appearance.
He traced his fingers through his shock of unruly brown hair. “Here I thought you would be pleased. Instead, you’re acting as though I’ve committed some terrible crime.” He slapped the pages together and thrust the magazine into his case.
“Give that to me! I might not be pleased that you’ve had it published without my permission, but I want at least to read it.”
He reached into the case and removed the periodical. I didn’t miss his sly grin as he shoved it in my direction and pointed to my name beneath the poem. “Your name looks good in print, does it not?”
I clutched my apron in my hand. “Nein! You should not have put my name in the magazine. What if someone should see it? There would be no end of trouble explaining how I permitted this to happen.”
“If anyone brought it to the elders’ attention, they would have to explain why they were reading a periodical such as this, wouldn’t they?” He rested his elbows on the counter and tipped his head to the side. “Even if someone should read this and recognize your name, they won’t take it to the elders. You have nothing to worry about.” Reaching into his case once again, Mr. Finley withdrew an envelope and handed it to me.
The envelope had been inscribed with nothing more than my name. “What is this?”
He beamed and pointed to my hand. “Open it. You’ll see.”
After unsealing the envelope, I removed and unfolded the single sheet of paper. It was from the magazine editor. He’d written that he was pleased with the poems provided by Mr. Finley and would like to publish all that had been submitted to him. I continued to read and then looked up at Mr. Finley.
“He says you negotiated to sell him my poems, and that he has paid you for them. I cannot understand why you would not write and request my permission before doing such a thing.”
Once again Mr. Finley’s smile diminished. “You make it sound as though I’ve done something terrible when I’ve actually done something for which most people would be grateful.”
He withdrew an accounting that reflected the list of poems and payment made for each one. “Your money,” he said, sliding the funds across the counter.
I wasn’t certain whether I should refuse the money or scoop it up and tuck it into my pocket. Sunlight gleamed across the counter, and the coins winked at me like twinkling stars. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad to take the money just this once. I could put it in my trunk and save it. To explain how I happened to have legal tender in my possession would be impossible, but one day the money might be more important than any required explanation. I gathered the money and shoved it into the pocket of my skirt.
“I must have your word that you will not publish any more of my poetry, Mr. Finley. I did not send it to you with thoughts of such a thing. I had only hoped for a few words of encouragement from your poet friend.”
Mr. Finley glanced toward the bulge in my pocket. “If your hope was only for a few words of praise, I think you should be mightily encouraged. Unless you furnish me with additional poetry, I will be unable to submit them for publication.” He pushed the magazine close to my hand. “You should keep this. One day you will be pleased to have a memento of your first published poem.”
I did my best to appear nonchalant when I gathered the magazine and placed it beneath the counter in a spot where it would be well hidden until I could take it to my room. “Are my other poems in this periodical, as well?”
“No. Some of your other work will be published in a future edition, and I’ll do my best to make certain you receive a copy.” He flashed a smile. “I do hope that I’m forgiven for my indiscretion. I should have asked your permission or at least refrained from using your name. I can request the editor remove your name or we could give you a pseudonym.” He snapped his finger and thumb together. “That’s it! We’ll make up a name, and no one will be the wiser. Is there a name you think would be appropriate?”
Using a false name would be ideal. Then there would be no embarrassment to the colonies or trouble for me. I did my best to think of something stylish and grand, but nothing came to mind. “I can’t think of a suitable name.”
Mr. Finley straightened to attention. “I know! What about Gretchen Allen?”
“You want me to use
your
name?”
His shoulders slumped, and he looked like a deflated balloon. “I’m not attempting to take credit for any portion of your writing, but I thought since I’d submitted your work and had acted as an agent of sorts, that it would be fine. If there’s some other name you prefer, I am open to your suggestions.”
“No, of course not. Gretchen Allen will be fine. No one will associate me with that name, especially since so few people have ever read my poetry.”
“And those who have don’t read periodicals,” he added.
“Except for you.”
He grinned and nodded. “My friend has a keen interest in the stories you’ve been sending, particularly the last few. He hoped you might have one or two more for him to read when I return to Chicago.”
I didn’t immediately answer his question. Instead, I decided to ask one of my own. “Exactly when will you return to Chicago?”
“I’m sorry to say that I must leave in the morning. I’m here only long enough take orders from your father, and then I must return to help with my uncle’s business.”
Obviously, Mr. Finley wasn’t as interested in learning about our community as I’d first thought. And I found his uncle’s traveling obligations less than clear.
“I don’t understand why you must return so soon.”
He picked up his hat and placed it over his heart. “Dear lady, please tell me you don’t believe I am telling you a falsehood, for it would truly break my heart.”
His silly playacting caused me to giggle. “I wouldn’t want to break your heart, but I would like to hear the truth.” I turned more serious. “You have given me cause to be concerned about some of your decisions, Mr. Finley, and I hope there will be no further surprises.”
“Ah, but surprises are good for the soul. They keep us young and carefree.”
“Or turn us old and troubled before our time. I am far too young to become old and troubled, Mr. Finley. I hope you will do nothing to speed that process.”
He bowed from the waist and swept his hat in a grand gesture. “I would never want that to happen.” He straightened and signaled toward our rooms. “You never said whether you have more stories for me. I know my friend is going to be despondent if I return empty-handed.”
I’d had time to write only one more story since I’d mailed my others—the ones Conrad had seen on the counter. Between my work in the store, worry over Oma, and spending time with Conrad most every evening, I’d fallen into bed far too weary to think about writing. Even my journal hadn’t received proper attention over the past weeks. Besides, I couldn’t imagine that my writing was so magnificent that his friend would be disheartened.
“I have only one story, and it isn’t quite complete. This is a busy time of year, both in the store and with our farming. We completed the onion harvest while you were gone. It would be gut if you could come and help with the potato harvest. You would then see how we all work together for the common gut.”
He shifted his weight and nodded as though he was interested in the harvest. “I would very much like that. I’ll do my very best to be here when the potato harvest begins, but why don’t you write a story about the onion harvest. I’d feel much more prepared.”
“Ja. I suppose I could do that.” The minute I’d agreed, I recalled my promise to Conrad. “I think it would be better if I sent any mail to your aunt rather than directly to you. I wouldn’t want anyone to think I’m conducting an improper correspondence.”
“Well, I suppose that would work. I can explain to her. Let me write her address for you.” I handed him a pen and paper.
“While you write out the address, I’ll go and fetch the story from my room.”
I leaned down and removed the magazine from beneath the counter. I didn’t want Stefan to discover I’d received another periodical from Mr. Finley. I hurried through the parlor and into my bedroom. Instead of placing the magazine in my trunk, where Stefan might find it, I opened my wardrobe. A surprising surge of pride swept through me when I took a moment for one final peek at my name in print before I buried the magazine beneath my undergarments. For sure, pride was something I would need to guard against. Using a false name should stifle such feelings— that’s what I told myself as I closed the wardrobe door.
I lifted the lid of my trunk and slid my hand deep inside until I could feel the hard edge of my journal. I pulled it from under the quilts and removed the loose pages that lay inside the front cover. I’d not had sufficient time to correct the story or even complete it the way I’d planned.
After reading this tale, Mr. Finley’s friend would think that any talent I’d once possessed had evaporated. If that occurred, it would erase any of my worries about becoming prideful. Rolling the pages into a tube, I closed the trunk and hurried back to the store.
Mr. Finley extended his hand to take the pages. “You were gone so long, I thought you weren’t coming back.” He flashed a quick smile and shoved the pages into his case.