More Than Words (26 page)
She wrapped me in a fleeting embrace. “Thank you. I won’t come unless it is necessary. And I will do my best to keep Alija from placing a curse on you.”
I thanked her and suggested she go out the back door in case Alija or one of the other Gypsies had followed her. If they thought she’d befriended me, they would make her life even more miserable. I could only hope that Loyco would return before his band of followers decided to move on without him.
In the afternoon I greeted the latest group of visitors that had arrived on the train. “If you’re interested in hearing about our people and how they came to America seeking religious freedom, you may gather near the counter.”
It was then that one of the women called out, “You going to tell us about how you attend church every evening and three times on Sunday?”
Her question surprised me. “In truth, we attend only twice on Sundays, though on special holidays we sometimes attend more than twice.”
One of the men grinned. “How about making the wine? Do we get to see those upstanding churchgoers who get drunk on the church wine?”
What was wrong with these people? I’d never encountered such a group before. They snickered and laughed throughout my entire speech. On several occasions I wanted to stop and tell them they were behaving worse than undisciplined schoolchildren, but I held my tongue. They were our guests, and I would treat them with hospitality—even if they didn’t have any manners.
While I helped one of the ladies with a choice of fabric from the calico factory, her husband drew near. “I’d rather come back and help with the grape harvest. Maybe we could get some of that good wine.” He chuckled and nudged his wife before he strolled down the aisle.
“Don’t mind him.” A pink hue tinged her cheeks. Whether from embarrassment or the heat, I couldn’t be sure, but she immediately returned her attention to the fabric.
By the time they boarded a wagon to begin their ride to Main Amana, I was pleased to see them leave. There were few visitors who’d ever caused me such discomfort. Their comments and attitudes had been most puzzling.
My father was at the rear of the store when Brother William bounded across the threshold, panting for air. He bent forward, holding a palm to each side of his oversized belly. After two giant breaths, he waved a piece of paper in my father’s direction. “Got your reply, Brother George!” He continued his labored breathing while my father hurried forward. “Not gut news.” Brother William shook his bald head back and forth.
Father snatched the telegram from the man’s thick fingers and scanned the response. “But this is nonsense. Of course he is employed by their company. He sold us their products. This is a mistake. Confusion of some sort.”
I tried to peer at the telegram, but my father wouldn’t hold still long enough for me to read it. “What does it say, Vater?”
He handed me the telegram, then raked his fingers through his thick hair. The telegram said the company did not have an employee by the name of Allen Finley. My breath turned shallow, and for a moment I thought I might faint. I agreed with my father: This had to be a mistake. I forced myself to inhale deeply before trying to speak.
“I think you are correct, Vater. This has to be a mistake. Perhaps Mr. Finley is no longer an employee. Maybe he had to quit because of his aunt’s illness, and this Mr. Hiram Medlow is new to the company and doesn’t know Mr. Finley had been an employee.”
“And how do you explain the last part?” My father tapped his finger on the final lines of the telegram. “This says their company has never sent salesmen to Iowa.”
I gasped. For sure, something was wrong. “There must be an explanation. Maybe you should send a telegram to Mr. Finley and tell him you have urgent questions.”
My father scratched his head. “How can I do such a thing? I have only the address for his company.”
Brother William stood between us, his head swinging back and forth like a door on a well-oiled hinge. How I wished he would return to his duties, but I knew that wouldn’t happen. He was enjoying the unfolding drama far too much.
Turning away from the men, I scurried behind the counter. “I believe he left his home address with his other account information. Let me see if I can find it, Vater.”
“That Gretchen is a godsend, for sure, Brother George. Who could ask for someone to keep better records for you, ja?”
While I searched, I kept a watchful eye on the two men and hoped Brother William would keep my father busy while I retrieved the address from my journal. As they continued to talk, I copied the address onto Mr. Finley’s paper work, then called to my father. “Here it is. I’ve located Mr. Finley’s home address.”
My father stepped to the counter and turned the ledger for a better look. He squinted and leaned close to the page. “Strange, but I don’t remember seeing this address on here when I looked at this earlier today.”
Brother William clasped my father’s shoulder and chuckled. “You are not getting any younger, my friend.” He pointed to his own eyes. “You should think about wearing spectacles.”
My father grunted. “Quit talking about my old age and write down this address so you can send the telegram and have it delivered to Mr. Finley.”
Brother William made another remark about my father’s advancing age before he took up the pen and copied the information. He pushed the paper toward my father. “You should write what the telegram should say.” My father jotted his message and handed the paper to the stationmaster.
Urgent. Contact immediately. George Kohler, General Store, Homestead, Amana Colonies.
The stationmaster hooked a thumb behind one of his stretched-too-thin suspenders and gave the elastic a tug. I took a backward step. If one of those suspenders snapped, I didn’t want to be within hitting distance. “That is all you want to say?”
“That is enough.” My father’s firm tone was enough to discourage further questions from Brother William.
He folded the paper and tucked it into his pocket. “Then I will get back to the station and send your message.”
Once the stationmaster was out of sight, my father narrowed his eyes. “I cannot understand Mr. Finley. I thought he was a truthful man with a gut heart, but I may have been wrong. Worried I am that he has deceived me.”
Though I didn’t say so, I was worried Mr. Finley had deceived more than my father, but I wanted to be wrong. I wanted Mr. Finley to appear in the doorway and announce he’d been detained because of his aunt’s illness. I wanted him to say there had been a misunderstanding about his employment with the lace and trim company. I wanted him to tell us he’d returned to become one of us. Instead, I feared I might never see him again. Even worse, I feared I would never again see the stories or poems I’d sent to him.
There had been no response to the telegram, but two days later a young man appeared with a group of visitors from Chicago. Like the past several groups that had visited the store, this group chuckled and made unpleasant remarks while I gave my talk about the colonies. Each time this occurred, I became more perplexed. Until the past week, I’d never before experienced such unseemly behavior. Now they took great pleasure in making a joke of everything I told them, and I was relieved each time a new group departed the store.
The lad remained at a distance from the others and didn’t exit with them. “May I assist you in locating a special item?”
In one hand he held a package wrapped in brown paper. “Miss Gretchen Kohler?”
I tipped my head to gain a better view of him. I didn’t think I’d ever seen him before. “Yes. I am Gretchen Kohler. How may I help you?”
He extended his arm and thrust the package toward me. “I was asked to deliver this to you. It is from a Mr. Allen Finley.”
As soon as I accepted the package, he turned to leave. “Wait! I have questions about Mr. Finley.”
The young man glanced over his shoulder and made a slow turn. “I don’t have any answers for you, miss. I work for a messenger service. I was told you worked in the general store and that I was to personally deliver the package to you. That’s all I know.”
Not for a second did I believe him. I stepped near and grasped his sleeve. “Please tell me what has happened to Mr. Finley.”
He looked down at his arm, and I begrudgingly released my hold. “I have never seen or met Mr. Finley. This package was delivered to our office yesterday by a courier from the
Modern Ladies’ Journal,
who provided the delivery instructions. Maybe if you open the package, your questions will be answered.” He took a backward step. “If you’ll excuse me. I’m going to the train station.”
He kept a watchful eye on me, as though I would once again attempt to detain him. Thankful my father wasn’t in the store to question me about the delivery, I set the package on the front counter. After the young man left, I untied the cord. My fingers trembled as I peeled back the brown paper. I blinked at the glossy cover of the
Modern Ladies’ Journal
. The likeness of a young woman wearing a gauzy white dress embroidered with pink rosebuds adorned the cover. Confused, I lifted the magazine from its brown paper cocoon. It was then I saw an envelope bearing my name.
I ripped open the seal and withdrew the contents. When I unfolded the pages, a bank draft fluttered in the air and landed on the counter. The draft was payable to me, and I had to look twice before I could believe my eyes. Why was Mr. Finley sending me a bank draft for so much money? I’d sent him only two more poems, and even if he’d been successful in having them published, this was far too much money for two poems. And where were the stories I’d sent him? Those were what I’d been waiting to receive from him.
His bold script covered the cream-colored writing paper in firm, even lines.
Dear Miss Kohler,
Please know that it is difficult for me to write this letter. I am not proud of my behavior, but I live in a different world than you. In order to advance in my position with
Modern Ladies’ Journal
, it was necessary for me to provide the editor with a unique story for our anniversary edition of the magazine.
Inside the pages of the recently released copy, you’ll find the stories you penned about life in the Amana Colonies. Most writers would be pleased to receive such news, but I doubt you will take pleasure in seeing the finished project. Please know that I strongly discouraged use of the cartoons that accompany the stories, but my suggestion was ignored. Your stories have been received with great enthusiasm by our readers, and the magazine is selling in record numbers. Few changes were made to your writings. Unfortunately, my editor insisted upon using your real name.
A knot formed in my stomach. I dropped the letter onto the counter and flipped through the pages of the periodical. Near the center of the magazine, my eyes locked upon a title in large, bold print.
Visit the Amana Colonies: Where Spirits Are Mixed With Religion
. In the columns below and to the right of the glaring title was my story about growing and harvesting grapes and making wine. To the left was a cartoon of two men and a woman sitting in the meetinghouse basement drinking wine. The woman was perched atop one of the barrels with her cap askew and her skirt hiked above her ankles. The men were portrayed with bulbous noses and eyes at half-mast while they sprawled across the floor. All three were holding wine-filled glasses high in the air.
“How could he!” Fury raged within as I turned the magazine pages and saw more horrid drawings. Mr. Finley had made a mockery of the stories—even more, he’d made a mockery of our people and our faith. Every story I’d written had been published in this special section they had titled “Treat for Travelers.” He’d been so eager to gain his promotion that he hadn’t even insisted the editor protect my identity. My stomach clenched, and I pressed a fist to my mouth to silence the sobs that threatened to rack my body.
What kind of man would do such a thing? Mr. Finley never had any intention of living in the colonies. He’d simply used me to promote himself with his employer. No wonder the recent visitors had been making rude remarks when they came into the store. And how long would it take before the elders discovered what I’d done and the mockery that had been made of our community. Guilt and shame assaulted me. How could I ever atone for the humiliation our society would suffer because of my reckless behavior?
I slapped the magazine onto the counter. As if to mock me, the bank draft floated in the air before dropping back to the counter. I shoved it into the magazine, then looked at the final page of the letter. It was addressed to my father and detailed how Mr. Finley’s appearance had been a complete sham. He explained that a friend who worked at Marshall Field had supplied him with the products and catalogs. If my father wanted to purchase more of the trims, he could make arrangements directly through the company in England. He said he was sorry to have misled members of the community with his falsehoods, but he hoped an increase in visitors and sales would help mitigate any pain caused by his dishonorable behavior.
A silent scream lodged in my throat.
