The Love Letters (11 page)

Up the road, a Yankee farmer was burning a brush pile, the dark plume billowing high and scenting the atmosphere. Further along, they came upon two little Amish girls riding in a red wagon pulled by an older boy. Small Jay pointed out cattle, hogs, sheep, and hen houses to Boston, who seemed to enjoy the ride, humming a tune and occasionally murmuring to himself. Sunshine sparkled off the big silo just ahead, like the jewels Small Jay had seen in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue at one of the English neighbors'.

At Joe's General Store, Boston helped him tie up Razor, taking time to stroke the sleek pony's mane. If he wasn't mistaken, Boston whispered something about a sugar cube, which made Small Jay smile. He carried Sassy up the store steps, the leash wrapped around one hand to keep her away from the many trinkets and things inside. Small Jay figured Boston would want to take time to explore the place, though he hadn't an inkling how they were going to pay for much food.

Mamma will wonder what I bought,
he thought, remembering that his father liked black licorice. Maybe he'd buy a bagful for Dat . . . if Boston didn't need the money, that is.

“
Willkumm
, Small Jay. Haven't seen ya here lately,” Joe Stoltzfus greeted him, an eye on Boston, who ran a hand over his chin whiskers before waving to Joe.

“Hello again, sir,” Boston said. “Might you have some sugar cubes for the pony out back?”

Small Jay liked the sound of this and was pleased when Joe nodded his head and darted off to look. “What are ya hungry for, Boston?” he asked while they stood at the wooden counter.

“Beef jerky, some cocoa powder mix, Wheaties, and a half-gallon of milk will be fine. Oh, and dog food.”

Surprised at the short list, Small Jay asked if he wanted to buy more hot dogs. “Or maybe some ground beef to make hamburgers?”

“I can easily cool the milk in the creek, but fresh meat won't keep longer than one can snap a finger,” Boston replied, explaining that Allegro, or other animals, might be tempted to snatch it right up. “Don't you agree?”

Small Jay didn't think there were any coyotes or foxes over near the mill, but he could be wrong. “By the way, I brought some coins from my—”

“Young man, I have plenty to cover what is needed, sugar cubes included.” Boston opened his wallet and flipped through a wad of bills—more than Small Jay could begin to count.

“I might be able to get the pony cart again,” he said quietly, “but ya still might want to stock up. It takes a long time to walk over here.”

Boston nodded absently, his eyes on the row of shelves behind the counter.

“Some sticky buns would taste
gut
with chocolate milk,” Small Jay suggested.

“All buns are sticky when you spread jam on them, wouldn't you say?”

Small Jay flashed him a grin. Boston had him there, for sure.

Pretty soon, Joe returned with the sugar cubes. Boston counted out the amount, thumbing through his dollar bills, and Small Jay couldn't understand how this man had so much money, yet no place to call home.
No place to wash up properly, either.

Boston also needed a shave, unless he was deliberately
growing a beard, which Small Jay doubted. At least the man didn't stink like some of his father's hardworking men after a long, hot day in the hayfield. No, for now, Boston was getting along just fine, washing up in the creek. Small Jay certainly wouldn't be allowed to go without washing at least every other day during the summertime.
Mamma sees to that,
he thought, wondering suddenly how long it might be before someone from the community might just burst into the store and see him with Boston.

Once he'd made his purchase of black licorice, Small Jay reached to open the door and smiled at the familiar jingle. Then, forgetting himself, he opened the door a second time . . . then a third.

“You sure like that bell, don't ya, Jake?” asked Joe, his expression pleasant. Pleasant with a stiff sort of pucker around his lips, that is—which made Small Jay wonder if he was only pretending to be pleasant.

“Sounds mighty nice.”

Again, Boston opened his wallet. “Do you happen to sell such bells here?”

“Ain't any 'cept that one, I'm afraid.” Joe was looking hard at Boston, scrutinizing him like the bishop did a wayward church member.

It made Small Jay nervous. “That's all right. We'll be on our way.”

Boston stuffed his purchases into his shoulder bag, which he must have emptied out before they left the mill.

“You two travelin' together?” Joe was really frowning now, one hand rubbing his light brown beard.

“I gave him a lift here, is all.” Small Jay felt he'd better
speak up, or the grapevine might grab hold of his secret and spoil everything.

“I see.” Joe suddenly seemed his old agreeable self again. “Have a
wunnerbaar-gut
day, then. Both of yous.”

“Same to you,” Small Jay said, eager to open the door right quick. This time not to hear the bell ring but to escape.

O
n the ride back to the mill, Small Jay felt like talking, but Boston didn't reprimand him for talking a blue streak, like Dat sometimes did. “Razor sure likes getting out and trotting fast,” he said, gripping the reins.

Boston nibbled on his beef jerky, his hand trembling, but he seemed to enjoy the ride. “I might have gone hungry today, had it not been for you.”

Small Jay sat up straighter. Besides his Mamma, few people ever said such nice things to him. His former neighbor, Timothy Martin, had been one.
And more than once,
he recalled. The older man had been the kindest person ever.

The pony was really going to town now, and Boston held on to his side of the cart, his hair blowing back over his ears. “I do so wish to remember this day . . . this amazing ride!” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Small Jay was as pleased as pudding. “We can ride again, if ya want,” he told his friend.

“Thank you kindly. I believe I'll take you up on that.” Boston was grinning.

Small Jay had always liked the tickle of the wind on his face, and he was glad he'd thought to push his straw hat down under his knees. It was the best way to cool off on such a warm day.

“If you have the time, I'll show you around my place,” Boston said as they pulled into the driveway later.

“Your place?”

“My waterfront property. A mansion, young man!”

“I see.” Small Jay smiled, reminding himself of Dat just then. “
Jah
, I'd like to see where you and Allegro stay.”

The man's eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”

“Your dog—Allegro.”

Sassy had crept into Boston's lap during the ride and was still sitting there, looking content. Boston had to hand her over to Small Jay so he could get himself out of the cart. He carefully heaved his heavy shoulder bag, making no further comment about the dog's name.

Before they went in, Small Jay tied the pony to a tree, and Boston pulled out a sugar cube and gave it to Razor, holding his hand out flat for the pony.

“'Tis the best way,
jah
,” Small Jay said, observing.

“I rode a horse once or twice long ago, but don't ask me where that was, or why.”

Small Jay listened, not questioning his friend. He found it interesting that the man who always wore a bow tie was so comfortable around Razor. “I sat on my pony's back once without a saddle,” he said. “Hung on to the mane for dear life.”

As they entered the interior of the large mill, it felt cool and dark inside and surprisingly comfortable. Someone had turned the place into a house with wood flooring and high walls, dividing things up right pretty. There was not a speck of furniture, though.

Over in the corner, near a window, Allegro awaited his master. He whined when he saw them, and Small Jay offered to fill his dish with creek water.

Later, when the dog had eaten his fill of the new chow, Boston suggested they go outside again and sit near the millrace. “I have a confession to make,” he said quietly. “I fear my eyes are weakening . . . perhaps even failing. Can you read to me, young man?”

“I learned in school.”

Boston studied him. “How old a student are you, son?”

“I finished up eighth grade last month. I'm fourteen.”

Boston didn't say it, but his frown indicated that he, like most people, didn't believe Small Jay was that old. He turned and walked to the nearby windowsill, where letters were stacked high, and removed one of them. Holding it against his chest, he patted it like the letter was a treasure. “Do you mind reading this to me?” he asked as he motioned toward the door.

“I'll do my best. That's what my teacher always said to do.” Small Jay wondered why the man didn't wear glasses like some older men, including his Dawdi on his mother's side. But, remembering it was important to be polite, he didn't ask.

“Before you begin, I must say that I don't know the letter's origin, nor that of the others.” Boston sighed deeply. “But they must be significant, because they're always in my satchel, including for my . . . shall we say, adventure here?” He stopped and turned to stare at the creek. “Or did I dream that?” he muttered. “Maybe I'm mistaken, thinking I've been carrying them everywhere on all my many trips.”

Small Jay's ears perked up. It sounded like Boston didn't know why he'd brought the letters along, or even how they'd
gotten here. Yet he had been carrying the bag around since the first day Small Jay had met him. Truly the man was befuddled.

And what trips does he mean?

They sat together near the tailrace, and Boston handed the letter to him. Immediately, Small Jay recognized the handwriting as the same as that on the grimy letter he'd found near the bridge. Had Boston discovered that one and returned it to the rest?

“Go ahead, young man.”

“I'm Small Jay,” he prompted.

“Yes, of course. Like the bird,” Boston murmured, a bright smile on his face.

Small Jay glanced at his newfound friend, more honest than most folk, then looked again at the letter and began to read.

My dearest darling,

It has been a long and rather dreary day here, chilly and raining for hours. Perhaps it is because I miss you so that the weather seems bleak. There are days when it seems this time apart will quickly end and you will return soon. Other days, alas, it seems as though you have been gone for nearly a lifetime.

“What was that last line again?” Boston asked, leaning forward and peering at the letter. “Reread it, if you please.”

Small Jay did just that, then paused, waiting.

“Oh, what I wouldn't give to know who penned such tender words.” Boston interlaced his long, smooth fingers and raised them to his lips. “Who would write such intimate things?” He reached for the letter and scanned it, apparently looking at the bottom for a name. “Ah, it was Abigail who wrote it. Signed,
Yours for always.
”

Small Jay felt as heavy as if a boulder had rolled over him.
“Was Abigail writing to you?” he asked, looking down at the end of the letter.

Boston acted like he hadn't heard him. “To whom is the envelope addressed?” he asked.

“I don't see any envelope. But I could look in your satchel, maybe,” Small Jay felt compelled to offer. After all, it was wrong to read letters—love letters, at that—meant for someone else. Even so, he kept his thoughts to himself and waited for further instruction from the bewildered man.

Boston hesitated, then handed over the shoulder bag. But Small Jay found no envelopes, just letters and pages covered with strange dots and squiggles on sets of five lines, odd symbols he'd never laid eyes on before. On one of those pages, the words
“Melody of Love”
were written at the top, with the name Eleanor off to the right.

“Who's Eleanor?” asked Small Jay.

Boston's eyebrows rose, then drooped. He frowned hard, as if trying his best to remember. “Eleanor . . .” Sighing, he said at last that he did not recall.

Just then Small Jay realized with some degree of horror that he saw no sign of Sassy, who had been romping with Allegro along the creek's edge not so long ago.

“Here, kitty-kitty,” he called, his heart relieved when she came into view. Poor Sassy was a fright, dirty and with grass in her fur, yet she purred contentedly. “We should be gettin' home with the pony cart. Mamma will wonder where we've been.”

Boston's head jerked around. “Mamma, you said?”

“That's right. Why do ya ask?”

Rubbing his hand slowly across his forehead, Boston began to moan. “Oh, what was I saying? My memory is slipping.”

Small Jay was about to remind him when the man reached
for his bag and uttered something in what sounded like a foreign language.

“What was that, mister?” Small Jay asked.

“Thank you, young lad.” Boston sounded aloof.

“Will ya tell me when you run out of food?” Small Jay said, standing to go.

The man sighed again and looked puzzled at the question, and Small Jay felt a little worried for him.

“Do ya like livin' here?” he asked, trying to get Boston's mind back on the here and now.

With a look of surprise, Boston leaned his head back where they sat and stared up at the large four-story stone structure. His mouth gaped open. “Do I own this place?” He turned to look at Small Jay. “Is this my house?”

“I don't think so. I'm not sure where your home is.” Small Jay shook his head, his words choking in his throat. “Maybe Abigail is your wife. She sounds awful nice,” he said at last.

Despite his dog, the man seemed so alone, and Small Jay had a strong feeling there was someone, somewhere, who had loved Boston, or who loved him still and might be missing him.
Maybe even right now!

“My wife left me, so I doubt the letter is from her.”

“Left you how long ago?” If he remembered right, the letter had been dated years ago, in 1955.

Boston placed his hand on his heart and shook his head. “My dear Abigail has long since gone, I'm very sorry to say.”

Gone to Gloryland?
Small Jay wondered . . . and trembled.

That afternoon Mammi insisted on their purchasing a baby stroller for Angela Rose, much to Marlena's surprise. While
Marlena shopped in town with her grandmother, she noticed a renewed vigor as Mammi picked up one so-called “necessary” item after another. It was clear from the purchases, she must think the baby was going to be with them for quite a while. As much as Marlena loved the little one and was willing to do her best to care for her, she truly hoped this arrangement would not last much longer.

“I wonder if my beau has ever laid eyes on Luella's baby,” she mentioned as she and her grandmother returned home in Mammi's black-bumper Chevy. “I really doubt it.”

“She's a precious child,” Mammi said, her words seeming to catch in her throat. “This is all so very sad.” She glanced over at Marlena, who held the sleeping baby on the passenger side of the front seat.

Marlena looked down at Angela's tiny eyes fluttering and squinting under the white eyelet sunbonnet—Mammi's idea. She recalled the other pretty things her grandmother had insisted on buying: two little cotton sundresses and a white one with lace edging for Sundays. All rather fancy compared to the way Amish mothers dressed their babies. There were tiny socks with lace edging, too, and a skein of soft white yarn with silver threads woven through for crocheted booties. “It's not possible to spoil an infant, is it?” she asked softly.

Mammi gripped the wheel, her wrinkled knuckles white. “Well, hardly at her young age.” She paused, then added, “Not unless ya hold her all night,
jah
?”

“
Ach
, I did that so she wouldn't wake you up, Mammi.”

Mammi's eyes had a playful glint. “I guess we'll see how easily she falls asleep on her own from here on out.”