What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  But she shouldn’t harbor vengeful thoughts. Father had taught her to turn the other cheek, just as Jesus instructed. She only wished it weren’t so hard.

  Linking arms with Cora, she aimed their feet toward the back of the boardinghouse. “Thank you for telling me.”

  Cora hunkered forward, squeezing Christina’s elbow against her ribs. “What’re you gonna do?”

  Christina raised her chin. “I’m going to ignore the senseless chatter. After all, we know that Tommy isn’t to blame. Next week two representatives from the mission board are coming by train to inspect the property.” She eagerly anticipated the men’s arrival. The sooner the mission board provided the funds to rebuild, the sooner she and the poor farm residents could gather under one roof again. Although her days were busy working for Mrs. Beasley, she missed the camaraderie and feeling of satisfaction her ministry at the poor farm offered. “When they discover the source of the fire, the gossip will burn out just as the coals at the house did.”

  Cora followed Christina through the back door into the kitchen. While Christina removed her coat, Cora lingered near the door, toying with the buttons on her coat. “So you gonna leave Tommy out there at the mill or bring him in to the Tatums? Seems like if the banker an’ his wife took him in, it’d show folks they aren’t worried about Tommy doing something dangerous in their house.”

  Christina nibbled her lower lip, considering Cora’s question. Mrs. Tatum had indicated Tommy would be welcome if Christina changed her mind about his placement. Harold Tatum was well respected, and surely the townsfolk would see his acceptance of the boy as proof there was no reason to fear him. If bringing him into town would end the speculation about the boy, then it would be worth it.

  Once more the image of Tommy’s bright smile, pride radiating from his face, intruded. She scrunched her eyes closed, sending the memory away. Mr. Jonnson had asked her to find another place for Tommy as quickly as possible, and she’d agreed to do so. She should keep her word.

  Christina hung her coat on a peg beside the door, defeat bowing her shoulders. “I’ll take the poor farm’s wagon to the Jonnson mill one day this week and fetch Tommy. You’re right. He needs to be here in town with the rest of us.”

  Cora beamed.

  Christina tried, but for reasons she little understood, she couldn’t conjure a smile in reply. “Let’s get supper started before Mrs. Beasley scolds us, shall we?”

  Chapter 8

  Levi stepped out into a bright, clear morning. He paused at the edge of the porch, taking in the expanse of blue overhead. For weeks gray clouds had masked the Kansas sky. Even though the wind stung his cheeks and made the inside of his nose burn, he let his gaze drift from horizon to horizon. Such a big sky. And blue. Everywhere blue. Much like Mor had described the sky over the ocean when she and Far had crossed from Sweden before Levi was born.

  If his parents had stayed in Sweden, would Far still be alive, healthy in mind and body?

  Thoughts of his father tarnished his pleasure in the crystal-bright sky. He set his feet in the direction of his mill. His boot heels thudded on the hard-packed earth as he made his way to the slope-roofed, sturdy plank building waiting at the edge of his property. As he closed the distance between his house and the mill, anticipation built in his chest. Another day of labor. Easier labor, he admitted, than what he performed in spring and summer, when the river ran free and turned the waterwheel to power his saw, but such rewarding labor. He would savor these final days before the layer of ice on the river melted, which would mean setting aside his planer, adz, chisels, and awls.

  Regret pricked. Such pleasure he found in those tools. Tools with wooden handles worn smooth by his grandfather’s hands, first used in a country far away from these rolling Kansas plains. Using them to craft beautifully detailed pieces of furniture, fireplace mantels, and jewelry boxes filled him with a satisfaction unlike anything else. If only—

  He gave himself a little shake as the past threatened to encroach on his present. There was honor in his warm-weather work, too. He only made boards in the warmer months, but boards were important. Boards from his mill became houses and stores and barns. He made straight cuts, true cuts, so whatever was built would be square and strong. As long as people had the good sense to put the building on a firm foundation and protect the wood with a coat of paint, he wagered his thick-cut boards could withstand a century of Kansas’s erratic seasons.

  The hinges creaked on the wide door when he swung it open—a familiar sound. Comforting as a lullaby. Here in the sanctuary of his mill, the place that allowed him to make an honest living with his two hands, he spent his most peaceful moments. Always busy in here. Which meant no time to think.

  Although the walls blocked the wind, the mill was frigid, its windows and even the exposed square heads of the iron nails pounded into the rafters holding a coat of frost. With a hurried step he crossed to the bricked corner where a black potbelly stove hunkered. Kindling filled a basket, and split wood waited in a neat pile beside the stove. He reached for the kindling first, earning a spark with two quick strikes of his flint.

  Within minutes a tiny fire crackled. With practiced ease, he layered wood over the blaze, blowing gently to encourage the fire to grow. He watched the flames lick upward, darkening the creamy white wood, and although he welcomed the warmth, he couldn’t deny a sense of regret at what must be sacrificed in order to stave off the cold. How it pained his craftsman’s heart to see wood that could become carved medallions or turned legs or delicate spindles turned to char. He slammed the iron door shut with a solid clank.

  A startled intake of breath sounded behind him, and he whirled around. “You!” Hands clenched into fists, he stomped across the sawdust-strewn floor and took Tommy by the upper arm. Everything within him wanted to shake the boy senseless, but he kept a rein on his anger. At least where his hands were concerned. He grated out harshly, “What are you doing here?”

  “I-I followed you.” Tommy’s teeth chattered. His eyes, blue as the cloudless sky, seemed to stare at Levi’s chest. “Wanted to know what you do out here. It … it smells good.”

  The boy’s comment took the edge off Levi’s fury. Was there any sweeter smell than fresh-cut wood? He couldn’t fault the boy for following his nose to the source of the aroma. But he shouldn’t have come on his own. Levi loosened his grip but didn’t release the skinny arm.

  “Listen to me. You can’t come traipsing out here. The mill is next to the river. What if you’d missed the building and stepped on the ice instead?” A shudder rattled Levi’s frame as he considered the possibilities. He gave Tommy’s arm a shake. “It was foolish to leave the house.”

  The boy jutted his jaw. “It’s lonely in there all day by myself. Why can’t I be with you?”

  Levi closed his eyes, stifling a groan. The empty black behind his eyelids brought a rush of empathy he didn’t want to feel. He snapped his eyes open. Tommy stood sullen before him. Helpless as a lamb being led to slaughter. What must it be like, sitting day after day in a dark world with nothing to do? Of course the boy wanted companionship. Needed companionship. But Levi didn’t.

  He turned the boy toward the doorway. “You can’t be out here, Tommy. A mill is a dangerous place for a boy who can’t—” He swallowed. “For a boy. You have to go back to the house.”

  Tommy dug in his heels. “Lemme stay. I’ll sit still, an’ I won’t touch nothin’. I promise. I just don’t wanna be all alone again. The days are so long when I’m by myself.”

  Levi sucked in a big breath and held it. He liked working alone. Liked his solitude. And he had real concerns about the boy stumbling around in the mill, running into things the way he did in the house sometimes. He huffed out his breath. “Won’t be much fun just sitting.”

  “That’s all I do in the house—just sit.” The boy’s voice held an edge.

  “And it’s colder out here than inside.”

  “I can keep my jacket buttoned.”

  “I’ll be
working. I won’t be paying you any mind.”

  “Don’t care.” For a moment Tommy’s chin quivered. When he spoke, he’d lost the hint of beligerence. “It smells good out here …”

  Levi shook his head. He must be losing his senses to give in so easily. He marched Tommy to a nail keg near the stove where he’d catch some warmth. “Sit.”

  The boy eased onto the keg’s lid.

  “And stay there.”

  “Yes, sir.” A triumphant grin tipped up the corners of Tommy’s lips.

  Grinding his teeth together, Levi stomped to his workbench. He un-cranked a wooden vise. “You’ll be hearing funny noises, but don’t you get up to explore. You just stay right on that keg.”

  “What’cha doin’?”

  “Never mind that. Just do as I say.”

  The boy’s shoulders lifted and sagged. “Yes, sir.”

  Levi turned his back on Tommy and set to work clamping a square of wood between the vise’s jaws. When the wood piece was secure, he picked up a chisel and positioned it to begin a rosette in the square’s center. But something made him pause and peek over his shoulder.

  Tommy sat, hands pressed between his knees, chin raised and eyes closed. His nostrils flared as he sucked in air, and a smile—one of pure satisfaction—formed on his face.

  Something seemed to roll over within Levi’s chest. He jerked his gaze back to his workbench and bent over the piece of wood. Miss Willems needed to get the kid out of here. And soon.

  Tommy listened to scritch-scritches and rasping scrapes and rattling clank-clank-clanks. He sniffed his fill of the rich, almost sweet smell that permeated the building. Just as he’d promised Mr. Jonnson, he neither moved nor said another word. But as the minutes turned into hours, his backside became so numb he could no longer feel the wooden keg beneath him. He needed to get up.

  Cocking his head, he focused on the whisper-whish coming from somewhere across the room. Each whish sent a fresh essence to his nose. If he shifted to sit on the floor, maybe he’d be closer to whatever made the funny sound and good smell. Mr. Jonnson had told him to sit. Sitting on the floor wouldn’t be disobeying.

  His legs reluctant to unbend, he slowly pushed himself upright and stood for a moment, stretching his back. Warmth from a stove touched his left side, so he inched right before easing himself to the floor. His palms encountered bits of grit. He brushed them together, and the scent increased. He lifted his hands to his nose and sniffed. Something was sucked into his nose, and he fought off a sneeze.

  Cross-legged on the floor, he brushed his palms on his pant legs and then reached out again to pat the floor in search of something new to explore. His fingertips encountered a hardened, curled strip. He lifted it. Sniffed it. The curl carried the same aroma as everything else. But it didn’t make him sneeze. Pleased, he stretched his hands as far as he could reach and gathered more of the curled strips. He filled his lap with as many of the pieces as he could find. Then, eyes closed and tongue poked out in concentration, he began fitting the curls together.

  His fingers gently flattened the curls, layering them this way and that. He tried to picture them in his mind, drawing on his memories of when his eyes could see color and form. Somewhere along the line, his brain had forgotten how things appeared, but he continued to toy with the curls until he’d formed a chain of sorts. Pleased, he let out a little chortle.

  “What’re you doing?”

  At Mr. Jonnson’s question, Tommy dropped the chain. He planted his hands on the gritty ground and pushed himself upright. What had he been doing? He couldn’t find a description. He patted the air, seeking the makeshift seat.

  Scuffs warned of Mr. Jonnson’s approach. Tommy shrank back, uncertain how the man might react. Too often Pa’s anger had exploded out of nowhere. Mr. Jonnson hadn’t hurt Tommy before, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.

  “Who taught you to weave?”

  Tommy frowned. Weave? He remembered his ma weaving reeds into baskets. But she hadn’t taught him to do it. He’d just watched. “N-nobody.”

  “Then how’d you learn?”

  “Learn what?”

  A snort—amused or disgusted, Tommy couldn’t be sure—left the man’s lips. “To weave.”

  Tommy hunched his shoulders. Although heat still eased along his side, he shivered. “I … I don’t know how to weave.”

  For long seconds silence reigned in the mill. Then a chuckle rumbled. Not a mean chuckle intended to make fun, but one that held a note of humor. Tommy’s stiff shoulders relaxed.

  “Yes you do.”

  Tommy tipped his head. “I do?”

  “Well, you must. Feel what you did here.”

  Mr. Jonnson’s palm cupped the underside of Tommy’s hand and lifted it. The smooth curls he’d played with dropped into his waiting grasp. His fingers trembling, he gently pinched the curls. To his surprise they held together. “I weaved?”

  Another chuckle. “Well, kind of. Come here.” Mr. Jonnson’s hand gripped Tommy’s elbow. Tommy scuffed alongside the man for several paces. Then Mr. Jonnson took his hand and pressed it flat against something smooth. “Feel that.”

  Tommy gingerly ran his fingers across a flat yet somewhat bumpy surface. Curious, he curled all but one finger back and explored slowly, thoughtfully, tracing the line of the bumps with his fingertip. In the back of his mind, a memory teased—sliding his fingers along the slick reeds of one of his ma’s homemade baskets.

  “You’re feeling the seat of a chair.” Mr. Jonnson spoke with great patience, but Tommy detected a thread of excitement in the man’s tone. “It’s woven from strips of reed, but it isn’t called weaving. It’s called caning.”

  Tommy dropped to his knees and slipped one hand beneath the seat. With curious fingers he explored the top and bottom of the seat’s intricate pattern. “Why’s it called caning?”

  “I’m not sure. Maybe people originally used strips from cane to make the seats.”

  Tommy nodded. The pattern intrigued him, the narrow strips going side to side and crosswise, over and under. Automatically, his eyes closed as his fingers traced up, back, up again. “I like the way it feels.”

  “You think you could do it?”

  Tommy jerked, settling his backside on his heels. “Wh-what?”

  “Could you do it? Weave strips together that way?”

  Tommy swung his head this way and that, trying to get his bearings. Was Mr. Jonnson making fun of him? He didn’t sound like he was teasing, but still … Pa’s voice taunted from the past: “What’samatter, boy? Can’t you do it? If you can’t even milk a cow without missin’ the bucket, what good are you?” Tommy’s mouth went dry.

  “C’mere.”

  Once more a hand grasped his elbow and guided him to another place in the mill. Mr. Jonnson took hold of his wrists and slid his hands onto something slender and hard. As tall as Tommy’s chest. With flat slats leading up and down. Another chair. With gentle pressure Mr. Jonnson pushed Tommy’s hands to where the seat should be, then let go. His hands plunged through an opening.

  “A mouse chewed the cane on this chair.” There was a long pause, almost as if the man was trying to decide whether to say anything more. Then his words rushed out. “Do you want to fix it?”

  Tommy ran his hand over the seat, feeling the edges of chewed cane. Prickly. Tattered. So different from the completed seat on the first chair, which had felt smooth and orderly. He wanted to fix it, but apprehension coiled his insides into knots. Sliding a few discarded curls together didn’t mean he could cane a chair. A lump of longing filled Tommy’s throat—a longing to be useful. The desire nearly choked him.

  “I’d like you to try.”

  He wanted to try, too. He swallowed and dared to share his worry. “I might mess it up.”

  That chuckle came again. Soft. Gentle. Soothing. “You can’t make it any worse than it is right now.”

  Tommy’s finger scraped the chewed-away edges of cane. He snickered.

  “So you g
onna try?”

  Tommy drew in a breath and released it slowly, gathering courage. “Yes, sir. I’ll try.”

  Chapter 9

  Brisk wind raced across the smoke-smudged limestone wall of the beautiful Victorian and sent a chill straight through Christina’s wool coat. She’d waited more than a week for the mission board to send representatives to examine the fire-damaged house, and during that time she’d anticipated their commitment to rebuild. How could they allow such a lovely place—a house with leaded-glass windows, a spindled and gingerbread-bedecked wraparound porch, and fish-scaled turrets—to languish? Even more significant than its proud appearance, the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor provided a needed ministry, one she and her father had committed themselves to filling. The men’s somber, negative reaction to her desire to reopen the house chilled her even more deeply than the relentless Kansas wind.

  “But I can’t just walk away. This is my home.” Christina hugged herself, battling tears.

  Wes, standing behind Christina’s shoulder, leaned in. “House itself ain’t ruined. Place just needs new walls an’ a new roof on the back where the kitchen used to be.”

  The older of the two men who’d been sent to examine the property cleared his throat and pushed his round-lensed spectacles higher on his bulbous nose. “Do you have experience in construction, young man?”

  Wes crunched his lips to the side. “You mean, have I done any buildin’?”

  “That’s precisely what I mean.”

  Wes’s broad shoulders hunched into a sheepish shrug. “Chicken coops an’ fences.”

  The two mission board men exchanged a look. The older one spoke again. “Although I’m certainly no expert in carpentry, I admit it appears the main body of the house is unscathed. Smoke damage, of course, but nothing structural. Even the roof—with the exception of the area above the kitchen add-on, obviously the place where the fire originated—seems to have been spared damage.”