“We’ll get full approval before we do this,” Helena told him. “We’d not put you in a compromising situation. You can be certain of that.”
The three of us giggled like schoolgirls as we walked from there to Karl Ruge, basking in our first success. I didn’t even go over the details of what had just transpired, for fear Helena might have second thoughts about a sin of omission. At Karl’s house, I led with our request as though Wilhelm had already approved.
“Karl,” I said, “Professor Finck tells us that having a mixed boys and girls’ choir sing at the dedication would be a glorious thing.”
“I’ve heard nothing about it,” he said.
“But there’s nothing scriptural to preclude it, is there? Surely Wilhelm would note such a thing, ja?” I said. “Or John Giesy would.”
“Ja, well, I see no problem. It might put the dedication back if we need long rehearsals, though. Wilhelm would like to proceed quickly now.”
“Henry didn’t seem to think there’d be any delay,” I said. “We’ll be ready when the bells are.” I bent down to scratch Po’s head. He had trotted along with us, as much mine as my children’s now, to visit his old master.
“I bet he’s spoiled by the girls, but then every dog in the village is spoiled by someone.”
“The dogs see us as we are and never complain about it,” I said. “Who could be a better friend than that?”
He put tobacco in his long pipe, then grinned at me, and we chatted a bit longer about the weather and wondering when the bells would arrive. Then we marched off to Chris Wolff.
“Dr. Wolff,” Helena said. “Is there anything scriptural to preclude having both boys and girls sing together in the church? Say for a dedication?”
“Or even elsewhere,” I added. Helena frowned, and I realized I might have overstepped my bounds, pushing into a field before we’d gotten the gate open.
“Handel’s Messiah is composed for orchestra and the voices of men and women. Why would Wilhelm question the scriptural nature of it? Or is it you women who are worried over such a thing?” We looked demure. “Well, nothing to worry. It would be a lovely thing for our dedication, to go with our bells. I’m sure Henry has something properly arranged, ja?”
“He’s probably working on it right now,” Kitty said.
From there we took our list of support to Wilhelm.
“Do you think we should talk with Louisa first?” I asked as we walked up the hill.
Helena shook her head. “I don’t want to involve her, for if we fail in winning Wilhelm’s support, she would have to bear the brunt of his refusal. He might forbid her to come to…your gatherings. She wouldn’t want that,” Helena said. “She enjoys coming to your home, Emma.”
“Does she?”
“We all do. Well, every now and then.”
I took that compliment in.
It had been some time since I’d seen Keil’s workroom next to the root cellar. The earthy smells would always remind me of nursing Ida, seeing Brita for the first time, the day I faced off with Jack. Here, too, I’d learned that Keil had arranged my sons’ lives away from mine.
“To what do I owe this visit of three lovely Fräulein?” Keil asked as he waved us in.
Kitty said, “Emma’s not a Fräulein, she’s—”
“The question has arisen as to the appropriateness of having both men and women sing for the dedication,” Helena cut her off briskly.
“What? Of course both choirs can sing,” Keil said. “The human voice is a gift from God and one that must be given back. First the boys will sing, then the girls.”
“Ja, my thoughts exactly,” Helena said. “But Karl and Chris Wolff and Henry Finck seem to think it would be quite a feather in your cap if we blended the choirs for the first time. Not unlike the great German composers combining voice with instruments, men and women, together.”
“Only if you approve, of course,” I said.
“Or maybe you already approved it, and that’s the reason they’re so enthusiastic,” Kitty said. My sister has possibilities.
He paused, frowned. “I might have approved it…ja. I think something was said a while back.” He pulled at the gray strand of beard below his chin. “You women needn’t worry yourselves over it. It is for a worshipful event. We men will take care of the theology of things. Men and women can sing together, ja. Sometimes you women are so simple in your thinking.”
Kitty opened her mouth to speak, but I squeezed her arm with my fingers. She looked at me while Helena nodded sagely. We said our good-byes and stepped outside the root room. The sweet scents of earth and a warm March breeze greeted us.
“Why didn’t you correct him?” Kitty said. “His thinking we women are such simpletons of thought.”
“Sometimes it’s good just to be happy, rather than being right,” I said.
“Let’s sing a round to celebrate,” Kitty said as we started down the hill.
“There’s only the three of us,” I said.
“You can do it, Emma,” Kitty said.
“She can do most anything,” Helena agreed, but she put her hands over her ears when I sang my part, because as always, it was quite out of tune with the other voices.
The bells at last arrived. One large bell and two companions of graduated size had been shipped out of Ohio from the Buckeye Bell Foundry, by ship down the Ohio to New Orleans, then around Cape Horn, up the Pacific coast to the Columbia, up the river to the Willamette, to a landing area not far from Butteville. Then a new road had to be scoured out all the way from the river to Aurora, because the terrible weight of the bells would have ruined the existing road. Jonathan and my father and brothers joined the workers laying down boards for the wagon to skid across. My father acted familiar with the landing site, suggesting the best way to bring the vehicle up the bank’s grade, talking to Wilhelm and John as though they were old friends, pointing, directing.
The children made an adventure of it, and all other colony work stopped as the wagon with four ox teams slowly made its way from the Willamette toward the Point, where the church stood with its empty belfry, awaiting those bells.
Several of us rode out in regular wagons, bringing food for the trip that took two days. The work group and those who served them rested midday. Now, returning to the effort, the labor took on a festive air, with singing and laughter and shouts of direction and joy when the wagon skidded forward. There were several pauses for ham slabs, water, and rolls.
“It’s an everyday feast,” Kate said as we served.
“An everyday feast. Yes. As each day should be,” I told her, then sent her off to give Christian and Andy special cinnamon rolls. I’d seen them in the distance with a group of boys and made sure there were enough for all of them, even that quipping Finck boy.
It would be quite an event, lifting the heavy bells into the belfry, but it was a reassurance to us all that they’d actually arrived. At last there’d be the dedication. Helena giggled like a schoolgirl, skipping along beside the flat wagon pulling the heavy bells.
“They’re so perfect,” she kept saying.
Extra teams were added to bring the heavy load up the hill past the gross Haus. That night, the bells were left covered in the wagon, while the men planned the next day’s work. They talked of using pulleys and teams of horses and boys who were willing to ride up with the bells to help set them in place.
Andy volunteered.
“It’s dangerous,” I told him.
He shrugged his shoulders. “It’s not as if I’m going to stand on my head on it,” he said.
The next day we watched with held breath as the huge bells were lifted into the belfry, a slow pull using a team of horses, thick ropes, and dexterous young men who guided the hooks into the specially built rafter. In the end, no one had to ride up on the bells, which were cradled in a web of stout ropes. I was grateful for that. When the men reached the opening to the belfry to receive the largest bell first, several pulled it toward the iron hooks. A cheer ro
se up as the clanger rang out. After lifting the second and third into the belfry, they set them on the floor, no time left to hang them until the following day.
People slapped one another on the back, and the men cheered the food we served them, as though we feasted at a cotillion. Even my family participated. My brothers came back from Oregon City to help. My mother brought Aepfel Raist, a toasted bread and apple pudding I remembered from my childhood. Geraniums bloomed a flashing red in a bucket on the table. My brother William grew them. How he got such huge flowers was a mystery.
“It’s nice, isn’t it, Mama? William’s flowers are so large! I wonder how he does that.” I sighed. “It’s just so nice to have everyone happy together, like when we were in Bethel.”
She didn’t say anything at first. “I didn’t think you were ever happy back there, with Christian gone so often. Isn’t that why you left us to come west?”
“I was happy. I wanted to be happier,” I said. “To go where my husband went.”
“And did you get what you wanted?”
I looked at her. My mother had rarely offered to be reflective with me. She sounded like I’d abandoned them by leaving with Christian. Maybe she’d expected that she’d have a daughter close by, to help with the raising of my younger brothers and sisters. I hadn’t thought of that before.
“Not everything. The boys…but I’ve made the best of what’s happened. It took me a while, but I think my choices have been better. At least they’ve been mine, Mama.”
“They haven’t always turned out well.”
“Things happen, whether I make plans for them or not,” I said, “but I decide how to react. That’s always mine to choose.”
“You weren’t raised to think with such…self-centeredness.”
It was the most she’d said to me of how she felt about anything in years. I wished I didn’t have to disagree with her. “Not self-centered, Mama,” I said gently. “Maybe in the beginning, ja, I stumbled and fell, but I let others help me up. I walked my way back from that dark time.” I paused. “Maybe it is selfish to want a good life, a meaningful life formed of a simple one. You’re one of the kindest, most generous women I know. You took in Christine. You tend my sisters. You’ve brought many babies into the world as a midwife. You’ve done those things for others, but didn’t they bring you happiness too? That doesn’t make you self-centered. It makes you…loving. I’d like to think I’ve honored how you raised me. I’m truly sad if you think I haven’t.”
She picked up the bowl that had once held her pudding. It was empty now. She stared at it, then said, “I might have spoken out of turn, Daughter. You’ll have to forgive me.”
She walked away before I could think of anything more to say.
After everyone had gone home but the sun still hugged the horizon, I asked Kitty if she’d like to take a walk with me.
“To the labyrinth?”
I shook my head no. “To the church.”
“We’ll be there all day tomorrow with the bells getting set,” she said.
“There’s something I want to do there,” I told her. Christine agreed to watch the girls as we made the quarter-mile trek, across the village and up the ravine toward the church. The sunset burned vibrant orange, and the trees formed perfect scissor cuts, like Scherenschnitte against the sky. Po trotted along beside us, sniffing at the history that had passed that way hours before.
As we walked by John Giesy’s home, Kitty said, “I never noticed before, but John and Barbara’s house has two front doors, like yours.”
“My house was built first, so he copied me,” I joked.
“Isn’t copying a way of saying they like what they see?”
We carried our lanterns high—we’d need them later—and hiked up our skirts, tucking them into our apron bands so we could take longer strides. Once outside the church, we stopped to catch our breath. Crickets chirped now and swallows swooped, already finding a place in the belfry to claim as theirs. I thought a bat might have dipped from out of the firs and swirled back, waiting for the moon. The windows were framed in a Gothic look, with arches that flowed away from the point in graceful ways. I didn’t know who had designed the window frames, but they looked artful. That pleased me, to see our little colony weaving art into useful things.
“So what is it you want to do?” Kitty asked. “Now that we’re here.”
“We’re going up into the belfry,” I said.
“What?”
“Think of the view.”
“I’m not going up there. I don’t like heights.”
“You won’t be alone,” I said. “We’ll do it together, for the adventure of it. Don’t you sometimes want to do something just because you can?”
“Not really.”
“I do. There’s so little in my life I can really make happen, and this is something I can. Come on.” We went inside, but Kitty refused to climb the stairs into the belfry. So I wrapped twine around my skirts at the ankles and climbed up by myself.
The flight up reminded me of the mill in Willapa, how I looked out over the landscape to see a whole new world that awaited me. I’d made a mess of that world not long after, but I’d come through it. I was here. Safe. My children were safe. They had futures. Even my parents had joined me, and our relationship held promise of change.
As I caught my breath, I ran my hands over the medium bell sitting on the belfry floor. The bell came up to my chest. Fortunately, it stood next to the smallest bell. I set the lantern down, took off my shoes, and used the smaller bell to climb up onto the medium bell. The metal felt cool, the top slick with condensation from the cooler evening, but my stocking feet eventually took hold. Careful not to bump my head on the bell already hung, I bent over and put my hands flat against the metal. I pushed myself up like a caterpillar unrolling and lifted my feet skyward. It had been years since I’d done such a thing! Then I looked out through the open portals into the sun-settling night.
“What are you doing up there?” Kitty shouted up. “Let’s go.”
Blood rushed to my head, and my skirts slid up my legs against the twine, but I could see the sunset reflect against the smaller bell. “Just a little longer,” I whispered more for me than for Kitty. Out through the window openings, the world was upside-down and bathed in a kind of smoky grace, a quiet confusion that had its own order, just not what one expected. I’d done this sort of thing as a child, stood on my hands upside down to see the world a new way. It was who I was, I decided, always looking at things from a different angle, standing on a precarious edge. The view was new and unique.
I looked down at my hand. The crooked fingers would always be a reminder of Jack. But they’d remind me, too, of my strength, my ability to take necessary next steps for my family. Maybe I wouldn’t bring a dozen people to the faith the way Christian had; maybe I wouldn’t tend a large family as my mother did; maybe I’d never be as faithful as Helena and Louisa, but I was who I was; I would leave a legacy of everyday devotion both to my family and to the delights of life, including standing upside down on a bell.
I let my feet come down, then slid to stand upright. I panted. My arms were still strong, but they quivered from the exertion. I looked out through the openings. The landscape wrapped around me. Beauty from mountains to rivers. Fir-lined paths leading to prairie flowers spread like petals at a wedding on the grass. This was a place of belonging. Christian had never been a part of this, and yet he was. I’d brought him here through his children, through my growing, changing faith. I didn’t have to go back to where he was or to what had been; I’d taken him here, just as I could keep finding myself here, in this place.
“Get down here,” Kitty shouted up at me.
I looked for a moment at the smallest bell, holding the lantern high above it, and laughed.
“What are you laughing about up there?” Kitty said.
“Come up and see,” I shouted down.
A pause, then, “Oh, all right.”
It took her a while. �
��Don’t tell anyone we were even up here,” she said, panting. She held the sides of the room as though it would fall apart if she let go. “Now, what’s so funny?”
“There are cherubs carved into the bell. At least the smallest bell. See?”
She peered. It was growing dark. “Well, that’s fitting,” Kitty said. “For a church bell. What’s funny about that?”
“They’re naked cherubs,” I told her.
She looked aghast. “I wonder if Keil noticed!”
On our walk back in the dark, I told her I’d stood on my hands on the bell. Kitty asked, “What made you do that?”
I swung my sister’s hand. “Something Andy said when I tried to caution him about the dangers of riding up on that bell. He said, ‘I’m not standing on my head on it,’ and I thought of how often I get upset or worried over things better left to Providence to manage. Everything isn’t dangerous, but I make it so sometimes. In my mind.”
I could stop fighting to get my sons back and fight instead to ensure they had all that they needed, that my daughters had what they deserved to live good lives. In the meantime, I’d enjoy time with them all as I could. “Instead, I could enjoy life,” I told her. “Kick up my heels on a bell, nice and safe.”
“And only a little strange.”
The men finished hanging all three bells. Helena said that the light of the Holy Spirit had visited those bells in the night; she’d seen a light coming from the belfry. She called it a miracle, though others told her it must have been the moonlight reflecting against them. They tolled the bells then, one after the other, mellow, rich tones that reached across the valley and would in time be the hallmark of our village, announcing the need for firemen, ringing in celebrations, and mourning a colonist’s death.
A Mending at the Edge: A Novel (Change And Cherish) Page 30