More Than Words (23 page)

There wasn’t the slightest hesitation before he said, “I will call for you at two o’clock.”

If the determined set of Conrad’s jaw could be used as any measure, he’d expect a detailed report. And I would give him one. I hoped it would set the matter of Mr. Finley to rest. There was no need for jealousy.

We parted as we neared the meetinghouse. The men entered through their door while I walked with Oma to the women’s door, where Mina greeted me. I was pleased and surprised to see her. “You don’t have to cook today?”

She shook her head. “Sister Marguerite is taking a turn. About time, I say.”

I grinned at her reply. Most of the kitchen bosses took their turn working in the Küche on Sundays, but Sister Marguerite was an exception. She didn’t like to miss meeting and seldom took a turn working on Sunday mornings. Since Mina was second in charge, Sister Marguerite assigned her to supervise most every Sunday.

“Why the change of heart?”

Mina glanced over her shoulder. “Because I told her I was going to request a move to another Küche.”

I followed Mina across the threshold and into the meetinghouse. Sun shone through the curtainless windows and splashed streaks of gold on the wooden floor. The shimmering rays of sunshine emphasized the stark whitewashed walls and rows of narrow benches. I tugged on her sleeve and nodded toward one of the benches.

She turned and shook her head. “I’m not sitting way at the back. You can sit there next Sunday when I’m working.”

I followed in silence. No need to argue. I wouldn’t win. Besides, Mina was right. She should get to sit where she wanted. After we edged into the row, I sat down with Oma on one side and Mina on the other. But instead of listening to the readings and message from the elder, I worried over my explanation to Conrad and how he would react when he discovered I’d given another story to Mr. Finley.

Would he be so angry he would want to set aside our courtship? At moments such as these, I longed to have my mother at my side. How I longed to ask for her opinion and advice. Instead, I confided in my journal. Not a suitable replacement, since the journal never offered an opinion or advice. And it was a mother’s advice I needed right now. Time hadn’t softened the feelings of loss that frequently washed over me. In fact, as I grew older, I longed for her counsel and guidance even more.

Sometimes Mina provided me with the listening ear I needed, but she’d never had children of her own. For Mina, the solution to any problem was to follow the rules. She didn’t think any rule should ever be broken, or that a problem could be examined from more than one angle. And in matters of love, Mina could lend no help at all. Of course, that didn’t mean she was without an opinion on the subject. She had a very strong belief: If you follow the rules, you won’t fall in love, and you’ll never be required to understand men and their strange ways.

I leaned forward an inch or two and peered across the aisle. Conrad sat on a bench on the men’s side of the meetinghouse. He was staring toward the front of the unadorned room, his gaze fixed upon the elder reading from the
Psalter-Spiel
. I thought his color appeared somewhat improved, but given the distance between us, I could be wrong.

Before I could gain a better view, Mina poked her sharp elbow into my side. One glance at her disapproving stare and I sat up straight. Her stern look didn’t cause me to focus upon what was being said, but I kept my eyes trained toward the front of the room for the remainder of the service.

When the final prayers were uttered and we stepped back outdoors, Mina grabbed hold of my arm. “Would do you more gut if you listened to what was being said during meeting.” She tapped her finger to her head. “What’s being said needs to go in up here and then settle in here.” She touched her finger to the bodice of her dress, directly over her heart.

There was no reason to disagree. I did need to listen during meeting. But even Mina’s harsh looks hadn’t been enough to hold my mind captive this morning. Today my thoughts were on Conrad and our looming conversation. For once, I was glad Mina had to return to her kitchen duties. I had no desire to be lectured at length.

Conrad drew near before we arrived at the Küche. He wasn’t quite so pale. “If you have no objection, Stefan mentioned he would like to come along with us. He thought we might go to the river and he could try to catch a fish.”

Taking Stefan along hadn’t been in my plan, but Conrad and I couldn’t go off on our own. I’d anticipated taking Oma with us. Once settled on a blanket beneath a leafy tree, she’d permit us the privacy to talk. With Stefan, there’d likely be constant interruptions. Then again, I didn’t know how my talk would progress with Conrad. I might be thankful for a bit of disruption.

Stefan spotted Conrad outside the parlor window and raced to answer the door before I could object. “We’re ready.” My irritation mounted when Stefan waved at Oma and me to hurry.

I stepped to my brother’s side and nudged his arm. “You may be coming along with us, but Conrad has come to call on me,” I whispered. “You are not in charge.”

He ignored my comment and jerked away. “Did you bring your fishing pole, Conrad? Freddie Miller said he caught some big fish last week. I’m hoping we’ll do even better.” Stefan pointed toward the door. “I already got my pole from the shed. It’s on the porch.”

“I haven’t been feeling too gut, so I don’t think I’ll be doing any fishing. I’m going to count on you to outdo Freddie’s catch.” Conrad ruffled Stefan’s hair. “Besides, I want to talk to your sister.”

Stefan shot me an annoyed look before going outside to gather his fishing pole. I stepped to Conrad’s side. “I don’t think your answer met with his approval.”

“He’ll get over it once he gets a worm on his hook and begins to fish.” He gestured toward the blanket Oma held in her arms. “Let me carry that for you.”

My grandmother didn’t hesitate to relieve herself of the burden. She patted Conrad’s arm. “Thank you, Emil.”

I locked eyes with Conrad and then looked toward my father to see if he’d heard my grandmother’s mistake, but he had his latest catalog open and was looking to see the new products. Oma clung to Conrad’s arm, and I motioned for him to leave.

“We’ll be back before time for supper. Try to rest this afternoon, Vater.”

He nodded. “You have a nice time, and tell Stefan he is to listen to you and Conrad. I don’t want him running off as he pleases. He should stay close by.”

“I’ll be sure to tell him.” It would have been better if my father had spoken directly to Stefan. He’d be more inclined to listen. My instructions were often brushed aside without a second thought. But this wasn’t the time to linger. From the way Oma was behaving, she was slipping into one of her bouts of senility, and it would be better if Father didn’t know.

It didn’t take long to confirm my suspicions. We’d gone only a short distance, and when I attempted to speak to Conrad, Oma moved between us and pinned me with an angry stare. “Emil is a married man. You should find yourself someone who doesn’t have a wife.” She flicked her wrist as if to shoo me away.

Stefan had run ahead, but the three of us stopped, and I looked into Oma’s rheumy eyes. I needed to break through the foggy haze that had overtaken her mind. “Oma, this is Conrad Wetzler, the barber in Homestead. He is courting me.” I touched Conrad’s arm to reinforce what I was saying. “I am your granddaughter, Gretchen. Your husband, Emil, died many years ago.”

She jerked back and pointed a crooked finger beneath my nose. “You pretty girls are all alike. You try to steal any man you want.” She clutched Conrad’s arm in a viselike grip. “You can’t have Emil. He loves me, not you.”

Instead of helping, my words had caused her to become frantic. I shot a worried look at Conrad. With a gentle touch, he placed his large hand over Oma’s gnarled fingers. “No need to worry. Everything is fine, Sister Helga.”

His gentle tone soothed her, and she rested her head on his arm for a brief moment. Sadness swept over me like a tidal wave. She’d gone without one of these bouts for a brief time, and I’d built false hope they were gone for good. Today proved I was wrong, yet it also affirmed Conrad’s deep concern for my grandmother. The depth of his kindness never failed to amaze me. Even as a boy Stefan’s age, he’d been kind and considerate. He’d never lost those qualities, and his ability to manage Oma didn’t surprise me. But sometimes it caused me to feel inadequate. How was it possible I lacked the ability to soothe her, yet only a few words from his lips would calm her?

The fishing spot Stefan and Conrad had chosen wasn’t far from where the Gypsies were camped. Had they told me in advance, I would have asked Conrad to choose another spot. But he hadn’t asked, and it would be best if I didn’t voice my opposition now. I’d already upset Oma. No need to have Stefan angry, as well. And with Conrad along, there should be no problem with the Gypsies.

Conrad spread the blanket in a comfortable spot and assisted Oma to the ground. She leaned heavily upon his arm before finally settling against the trunk of a large oak. I’d filled a basket with her knitting and a tin of crackers from the store, but neither interested her. “Why don’t you try to take a little nap, Sister Helga. I’ll sit here beside you.”

My grandmother smiled at Conrad before she shot a warning look in my direction. “Stay away from him. You hear me?”

“Ja. I will remain here on this side of you, and Conrad will sit on the other side.”

“Emil! His name is Emil. You are not so smart.” She shook her head and gave me a pitying look that made me want to laugh for the first time today.

Conrad chuckled and lightly touched her hand. “Gretchen is a little slow, but she’s very nice.”

Oma snorted and turned her back to me. “She wants to steal you. I know her kind.”

While Conrad reassured Oma that she had no need to worry, I wondered if someone had once attempted to steal Opa’s affection from my grandmother. Had an incident from decades ago stirred some long-forgotten memory when she slipped into this hazy fog of senility? There was no way to know for sure, but I wanted to believe that something similar had happened in her past, something that would leave me feeling less wounded by her attack upon me. After a short time she dropped off to sleep, and Conrad carefully settled her and moved to my side on the blanket.

“Now we must talk,” he said. “I am troubled by the things I have heard about you and Mr. Finley.” He placed his palm across his chest. “It hurts me deep inside to think you have affection for this man.”

“Then you don’t need to hurt any longer, because I do not have any affection for Mr. Finley. I think of him as a friend, but nothing more. You know that I have a desire to write and he—”

“Ja, ja. I know he was giving your writing to a friend in Chicago. But you promised the correspondence would end. Then I discover all of these other things, and what am I to believe?”

I inhaled a deep breath. The only way I could hope to restore Conrad’s trust would be to tell him the truth and pray that he would believe me. I would also need his forgiveness for sending the latest story. He listened without interruption while I explained all that had happened since the day he’d been in the store and seen the envelope addressed to Mr. Finley.

“So you took this piece of paper with a new address for what reason? To send him more of your stories even though you told me you wouldn’t correspond with him?” Conrad clasped his hands around his bent knee and stared into my eyes.

“The stories are supposed to be sent to Mr. Finley’s aunt. I can show you the slip of paper if you don’t believe me.” I was trying to remain calm, but defending myself proved more difficult than I expected. Perhaps because I didn’t want to admit I’d committed any wrongdoing. But my heart told me otherwise. I had broken my word, and even though I was sending the mail to Mr. Finley’s aunt, the contents were intended for him.

Conrad’s features softened as he looked into my eyes, and I was heartened to see his coloring much improved. “This writing is very important to you, and I do not want to make you unhappy. I am not opposed to the writing, but I think it serves no gut purpose to send these stories or poems to Mr. Finley or to his friend.”

“He can send me advice on how to improve my writing. I want to compose beautiful stories and poems. He can help me do this.”

He lifted my chin with one finger and looked into my eyes. “I am sorry. I hope you’ll forgive me for questioning your involvement with Mr. Finley. After all these years, our trust in each other should run deep.” He lifted my hand to his lips and gently kissed my fingers. “I am sorry, Gretchen. I promise to trust you always.” He tapped one finger against his chest. “But that Mr. Finley, I do not trust. I think he plans to win your love.”

My heart twisted in a knot as I listened to Conrad’s apology. I should have told the truth. Now it was going to be even more difficult. But if I waited until later, I might never tell him. “You don’t owe me an apology, Conrad.” I bowed my head, fearful of the anger or betrayal I might detect in his eyes. “While I want my writing to be an offering to the Lord, I also have taken pleasure in the kind words from Mr. Finley’s friend.” I wanted to defend my actions and tell him no one else cared about my writing, but that didn’t make my behavior acceptable. In truth, pleasing myself had been more important than pleasing God. And though it was difficult, I finally confessed to Conrad.

“I am so sorry,” he said.

The sadness in his voice cut to the quick. I had expected him to rail against me, not say he was sorry. Still, those words could mean so many things. Did they mean he no longer wanted to marry me? Did they mean he was sorry I had lied? Did they mean he was sorry I was a prideful woman? When I could bear the silence no longer, I looked at him. “Why are you sorry? You’ve done nothing wrong.”

He bobbed his head. “Ja. I have been wrong because I didn’t read your stories and because I didn’t show understanding for all you must do each day. That is not gut. Who can say? Maybe one day you will write the words to a song that we will sing in meeting.”

“I’ve already had one of my poems published in a magazine.” Bolstered by his kindness, I blurted the admission without proper thought.