Waiting for Summer's Return (6 page)

When all was nearly ready, he said, “I will see if
Grossmutter
is ready to join us.” He tapped on the door leading to her room and entered. The old woman sat on her bed, curled forward over her well-worn Bible. She looked up at him, and as always her eyes reminded him of Elsa’s. Elsa’s had not been lined with wrinkles or topped with such heavy gray brows, but the expressiveness was the same. He read hurt in them now and wondered at the cause.

“
Grossmutter
? Supper is now ready.” He used her beloved German when speaking.

Slowly she shook her head.

“You will not eat? Hungry you will be when morning comes if you do not eat.”

The old woman pursed her lips into a stubborn expression and looked back down at her Bible.

He sighed. “Very well. You rest then.” He gave her shoulder a gentle pat and returned to the kitchen, leaving the bedroom door standing open. The chaperone should not be shut away from those she was meant to watch.

When Thomas started to sit, Peter shook his head at his son, scowling. The boy stepped behind his chair, waiting with Peter for
Frau
Steadman to sit down. She removed the apron and hung it on a wooden peg, but then, to Peter’s surprise, she put on her coat.

“Mrs. Steadman, aren’t you going to eat with us?” Thomas asked the question before Peter could form words.

She tied her long scarf over her hair. “No. You two enjoy your meal.”

“But you hardly ate lunch, either.”

The woman paused at Thomas’s protest. Her cheeks still appeared pink—from the heat of the cookstove, or something else? “I don’t wish to intrude.”

Peter gestured toward a chair. “You would honor us with your presence,
Frau
Steadman. Please, sit down and eat with us.”

Many silent seconds passed before she removed her coat and put it back on the hook. Her steps seemed stiff as she moved to the table. She seated herself, and Peter pushed in her chair. She lowered her gaze, her hands in her lap. Thomas thumped his chair backward and sat across from her, and Peter sat between the two.

Thomas reached his hand for Peter’s, as was their custom, and Peter took it. Peter closed his eyes and prayed, remembering to use English. “Dear Lord, bless this food and the hands that prepared it. Let it nourish our bodies so we may do your service. Amen.”

Thomas took a slice of bread and carried it directly to his mouth; Peter wished to wilt from embarrassment. “
Ach,
the boy forgets his manners.” He reprimanded, “Wait until a full bowl you have and all have been served before you begin to eat.”

The boy blushed, and Peter took up the ladle to dip servings of soup into their bowls. He filled
Frau
Steadman’s bowl first, but she did not touch her spoon until he and the boy also had filled bowls. Finally she took a small bite of cabbage and carrots, putting her spoon back on the table while she chewed.

“Do you like it?” Thomas asked hopefully.

She swallowed, nodding. “Yes. It’s quite flavorful.”

Thomas beamed at Peter. “I shared Grandmother’s recipe with her. She said she’d never had
kraut borscht
before.”

“One has not lived until one has eaten good
kraut borscht,
” Peter proclaimed.

A small gasp escaped
Frau
Steadman’s lips, and she dropped her spoon with a clatter against the tabletop.

“Are you all right?” Thomas sent the woman a puzzled look.

She picked up the spoon once more with a hand that trembled. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” But she did not laugh at herself, and she could not force herself to eat any soup.

Peter and Thomas each ate two servings between a constant flow of banter and sharing of the day’s events. When his own stomach was full and the boy had put down his spoon, Peter instructed, “Clear the table now, son, but leave the pot on the stove in case your
Grossmutter
chooses to eat some later. I will walk
Frau
Steadman to the
shariah
.” Peter shrugged back into his jacket while
Frau
Steadman put on her coat and scarf. After retrieving a lantern, he held the door for her. She passed in front of him, and then they walked in silence through the twilight. While most women he knew were talkers, this one was not. He wondered if he should try to fill the quietness between them, but his clumsy tongue could not find words of worth to say. Not until she was ready to duck through the tunnel did he finally speak.

“
Frau
Steadman, I thank you for that fine supper.”

Her delicate profile, lit by the lamp’s glow, showed the muscles of her jaw tensing. “I enjoyed cooking at a real stove again after … after so many campfires.”

Peter nodded. He had not considered cooking could be enjoyable, only necessary. He cleared his throat. “I started a fire in the stove out here before I left, so you will have heat. It is only a tinners’ stove, for to heat a tinners’ shears”—he shrugged, wishing for the wealth to provide a better source of heat—“but Nickels assures me if you keep closed the back damper and open the front one, you will feel warmth. It also has a hot plate on top. Later we will get you a coffeepot, if you would like.”

“That would be nice.” Her voice was a mere murmur.

“I will see that your woodbox stays well filled. A lamp sits beside the bed.” He dug in his pocket, bringing out a packet of matches.

“Start these on the stove to light your lamp. When you need more oil for the lamp, tell me, and I will bring a jug.”

She still wouldn’t look at him. “I appreciate your efforts to make the
shariah
comfortable for me.”

“In time, I will find a chair for you so you need not always sit on the bed.” He realized these plans indicated he expected her to stay. He felt the heat in his neck building at his presumptuousness.

But the woman did not seem to find insult in his words. “Thank you,” she whispered.

They stood silently in the lantern’s glow while the wind teased her scarf, tossing it to and fro beneath her small, pointed chin. Finally she lifted her eyes to his. “Good night.”

Such a peculiar expression on her face. As if she were waiting for something. What did she want from him?
“Guten nacht. Schlop die gesunt.”
The words slipped out effortlessly.

She tipped her head, her brow furrowed in puzzlement. “What?”

“I said for you to have good night and to sleep well.”

Her brow smoothed. “Oh. That-that sounds lovely.” But she didn’t smile. She turned toward the tunnel. “You sleep well, too.” She slipped inside the shelter, sealing the door behind her.

6

S
UMMER TOUCHED THE HEAD
of a wooden match to the flame within the belly of her new stove. When the match flared, a memory of a campfire appeared behind her eyes, and with the image of the campfire’s glow came a row of faces, shadows dancing across their dear features. Then came the image of a row of headstones bearing the names of her children. Pain stabbed her heart. She lit her lamp quickly so she could blow out the match.

The lantern illuminated her small room well enough to see her new bed of strapped saplings and rope holding up a plump mattress of blue and white ticking. She pressed both palms to the mattress. The resulting crackle let her know what was inside. Turning, she seated herself. The ropes creaked as she settled her weight. While the straw mattress was certainly not as soft as the featherbed to which she’d become accustomed in her previous life, it would be much better than a bedroll on the ground. It was kind of Mr. Ollenburger to ready it for her.

Thanks to the stove—a tinners’ stove, Mr. Ollenburger had called it—the room was considerably warmer than it had been last night. Between the new warmth and the new mattress, perhaps she would be able to sleep tonight. But probably not.

She closed her eyes, replaying supper as the ache in her chest grew. She hadn’t wanted to sit at the table with the man and his son. She hadn’t wanted to remember past meals with Rodney at the head, herself at the foot, and the children seated along the sides of their cherry dining room table. Of course, the simple room, the chipped crockery bowls and tin cups on the rough table—none of these things were reminiscent of sitting down for a meal in her home in Boston. Yet when she’d seated herself at Mr. Ollenburger’s table, she had been transported to a former time and place.

When Mr. Ollenburger prayed and asked God to bless the hands that had prepared the food, she had almost fled. Then when he said one hadn’t lived until sampling
kraut borscht,
she regretted not having done so. None of her children had sampled the soup flavored with dill weed and vinegar. None of her children ever would. The longing for her family nearly overwhelmed her. Sitting here alone in the shanty, all she had were her memories.

And memories were not the best company.

From her coat pocket, she withdrew the scrap of paper Mr. Ollenburger had discovered by the river. She unfolded it, pressed it flat against her lap, and read down the list: Vincent Rodney, Rose Amelia, Tod Frederick, and Matilda Nadine. With each name came a vivid mental picture. She closed her eyes, savoring the images, crushing the paper to her chest. For long seconds she allowed herself to imagine that she held her children next to her heart rather than only their names printed on parchment.

With a deep sigh, she set the paper on the little crate beside the bed. She crossed to the chest to bring out blankets, pleased Mr. Ollenburger had left the trunk for her use. Although she didn’t have much to store—only her remaining two dresses, her coat, reticule, and nightgown—at least she could keep those items dry and clean in the trunk.

She turned, arms laden, to make her bed. She stood still for a moment, examining the crude yet sturdy construction. Thinking back on the day and all Thomas had shown her—the log barn, animal pens built of neatly trimmed saplings, the towering gristmill—it seemed clear Mr. Ollenburger was a man who could fix things. Her foolish heart had come close to asking him to pray for her when he’d walked her to the
shariah
this evening. Perhaps his prayers would be strong enough to fix her broken heart. Her own were to no avail.

With a sagging spirit, she put her bed in order and blew out the lamp, sealing herself in a mournful, murky gray. She slipped between the covers and pulled the rough blanket clear to her chin. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the dismal gloom, and she stared at the rough beams overhead, her mind picturing the flower-sprigged paper that covered the ceiling of her bedroom in Boston.

Boston … If only she hadn’t found that newspaper article. If only she hadn’t shown it to Rodney. Rarely had she gotten her way with Rodney, but this time she had been persuasive.

“Think of it, Rodney—working side-by-side under the sun, building our house and plowing our fields, depending on no one but each other. How adventurous it would be! Can you not imagine it?”

Her words came back to haunt her, bringing with them another fierce stab of pain. Why couldn’t she have been satisfied to remain in Boston? Why couldn’t she have simply tolerated the distant affection offered by her husband? Why had she thought she needed more of his time and attention?

When her parents died, her brother had taken her in with reluctance. His wife had said boarding school would be beneficial, and off she was sent. When she reached a marriageable age, her brother and his wife had introduced Rodney to her and indicated it would be in her best interests to become his wife. Rodney had chosen their neighborhood, their home, and most of their furnishings—things befitting the son of bank owner Horace Steadman. Rodney had said they would start their family immediately, and they had, bringing into the world four wonderful children in the space of eight years.

Summer resented that so many decisions had been made for her. Never had her life been her own. Not until she found the article and convinced Rodney to go along with her scheme of beginning life anew in the lands of Oklahoma. She remembered the joy of moving through their spacious home, selecting which items they should sell and which they should take to pack into the wagon they would purchase in Missouri. Rodney often scowled, but he allowed her to have her way for the first time in their marriage.

They had argued fiercely over the box of books. Books are heavy, Rodney had insisted; books are necessary, she had countered. She had been told the frontier lacked reading material, and she would not allow her children to grow up uneducated. Finally Vincent’s pleas convinced Rodney to allow the crate. How her heart had leaped with satisfaction as the train to Missouri had pulled out of Boston. A new life of her own choosing!

The bitter taste of regret was like bile on her tongue. Look what her choices had brought her—no husband, no children, no belongings, no home. Her eyes flitted around the room, another of her choices. A windowless hovel with a dirt floor and a bed made of cut saplings, rope, and straw.

Should she break her agreement with Mr. Ollenburger and return to the hotel, then arrange to take a train to Boston? The answer came immediately: no.

Her children’s graves required tending, and so did Thomas. He wasn’t her boy, and she had no desire to make him her boy, yet he was a child on whom she could bestow affection and care. Her heart needed someone to care for.

Summer frowned, remembering the constant watchful gaze of the old grandmother today. As Mr. Ollenburger had indicated, the woman had not spoken to her at all throughout the afternoon. She had only watched Summer with an expression of worry in her faded wrinkled eyes. Summer had no idea what worry the woman held, but she hoped it would be set aside. It was unnerving to always be watched.

Her eyelids drooped, sleepiness taking hold. Although the
shariah
carried a perpetually musty odor, the fresh smell of straw beneath her head pleased her nostrils. She rolled to her side to bring her nose closer to the source of the smell, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

Thomas formed the letters to spell the word
beast
. Summer felt the grandmother’s eyes on her from the rocking chair in the corner, but Summer kept her focus on the boy. He held the slate toward her, his eyebrows raised in query. She nodded, and he swept away the word with a rag and took up his slate pencil, ready for the next word.

“Instinctive.” She watched the boy’s brow furrow in concentration as he bent once more over the slate.

It had surprised Summer to discover the variety of books the Ollenburgers owned. After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, Thomas had proudly shown her his shelf containing reading and spelling primers, the most recent volume of Barnes’s
United States History,
Reed and Kellogg’s
Higher Grammar,
and Robinson’s
Practical Arithmetic
. In addition to the instructional books, he had several volumes of Twain’s work and
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
by Harriet Beecher Stowe. When Summer had voiced her astonishment at the Stowe book, the boy confided that he didn’t like it much.

“Not because it isn’t good. It is a good story. But it makes me sad.” He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh when I read than cry. Sometimes Twain makes me cry, too.”

Thomas was so different from Vincent, although both boys enjoyed reading. Vincent would choose the saddest story, then read it aloud with great drama, bringing his audience to tears. Summer pushed aside thoughts of Vincent to ask, “Where did you get so many books?”

The boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Pa buys them for my birthdays and Christmas.”

Summer would never have guessed the man would choose reading material as gifts for his son. Tools, yes. Perhaps even a rifle. But books? Summer asked, “Does your father read to you, then?”

Thomas frowned. “I read to Pa.”

Summer turned the spelling primer to the page Thomas had indicated and began reviewing. But his statement repeated itself in her head: “I read to Pa.” Although Thomas hadn’t said it directly, Summer surmised Mr. Ollenburger couldn’t read.

“Did I get it right?” Thomas held up the slate, bringing her back to the present.

Summer pointed. “All but one letter. Instinctive needs an
e
at the end.”

The boy made a face. “You can’t hear it. Why does it have to be there?”

“Well …” She blinked. “I don’t know. But the word requires it, so put it on and then write it correctly five times. That way you’ll remember it.”

Thomas’s scowl deepened, and she wondered if he would argue. Then, with a sigh, he followed her direction. She stifled her own sigh of relief at his acquiescence. She didn’t care to grow stern with him while the grandmother observed her every move.

She rose and poured another cup of coffee while she waited for him to finish. Through the window, she observed Mr. Ollenburger at the chopping block, where he was turning logs into kindling. The thud of his ax had sounded for nearly an hour now. He had rolled up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt, and even from this distance, she could see the bulge of his muscles as he raised the tool over his head.

With a mighty thrust of the ax he split a sizable length of log into two halves, then
thunk! thunk!
—the halves became quarters. He lifted all four pieces and carried them to the woodpile, where they were added to a neat stack. He repeated the process with another log. Did the man never tire?

Every task Mr. Ollenburger performed was done with precision. His woodpile was as straight as a row of soldiers marching in parade. The grounds of his property were neatly kept. The house, though far from fancy, had a tidy appearance. She knew it could use an additional sweeping and dusting—those were things a woman would notice more than a man—but it was obvious the man took pride in everything he did. He also took pride in his son. The stack of books, purchased by an illiterate miller, were proof of that.

Turning from the window, she noticed the grandmother’s expression had changed from worry to something else. Her thick brows hung so low her eyes were mere slits, and her jaw was firmly clamped. Her gnarled hands wrapped around the arms of the rocker, her posture stiff. Was she all right? Just as Summer prepared to ask, the old woman seemed to relax, easing back into the chair and putting her hands in her lap. Although her focus never wavered from Summer’s face, the tense look disappeared. Puzzled, yet afraid to address the woman, Summer turned her attention back to the boy.

Thomas put down the pencil and held up the slate. She crossed to the table and examined the writing. “Well done. That’s the last word on your list. Shall we move on to arithmetic?”

He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t I take a break?”

She allowed her expression to answer. Although he blew out a breath of aggravation, he reached for his arithmetic book. They spent an hour on long division. Thomas’s quick mind absorbed with ease the concept of remainders, and Summer discovered she didn’t need to teach him but merely direct him.

When Mr. Ollenburger came in for lunch, she told him, “You were right. Thomas is a very bright boy. He’ll be caught up with the studies he missed and perhaps even ahead of his classmates by the time he returns to school.”

The man’s eyes shone. “Oh, that boy takes after his mother, for sure. A very smart woman she was.” He tapped his temple. Turning to the old woman, who had remained in her chair all morning, he said something in German. A wary smile flitted across her face. He turned back to Summer. “I tell her what you say about the boy.”

He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is a good thing two parents a boy has. From me he gets his big size and from his mother he gets his good head. Together he becomes a boy strong in body and mind. A good mix, for sure.”

Summer sensed an undertone in his statement. Definitely she saw that he was proud of his son, but there was something else. A sense of inferiority, perhaps. Being illiterate must be difficult. How did he run a business if he hadn’t the ability to read? A fleeting idea crossed her mind—should she offer to teach him? While Thomas undoubtedly read things for his father now, what would the man do if Thomas chose to leave Gaeddert when he came of age?