What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  In the days following his midnight trek along the riverbank with Miss Willems, Levi worked morning to night preparing his mill for spring’s busyness. Outside, he cleared the ground where he’d store the logs awaiting the saw’s blade, and he prepared pallets to hold the cut lumber so it wouldn’t sit on the damp ground. Inside, he oiled the gears, sharpened the blades, tightened all the nuts, checked the thick leather belts for signs of rot and the metal fittings for rust. He worked carefully. Steadfastly. Meticulously. The way his great-uncle had taught him.

  He paused, oilcan in hand, and allowed himself a moment of reflection. He hadn’t seen Uncle Hans in a dozen years. Was he still alive? He’d be fairly old by now—late seventies, for sure. A chuckle formed in Levi’s chest. If he knew his great-uncle, the man was as spry as a man half his age. Levi had never seen a harder worker than Hans Jonnson—and positive, to boot. When things went awry, Uncle Hans would smile and say to his son, “Väl, if this is the worst thing that ever happens to me, I think I will end my life in good stead.” If Far had adopted such an attitude, he might be alive today.

  Levi shook off thoughts of Far. The man was dead and buried, and it was best to leave him in his lonely grave. He put the oilcan to work again, his thoughts moving ahead to April, when the first load of logs he’d ordered from the timber company in Arkansas would be transported by tugboat up the Missouri River to the mouth of the Kansas River. There, he would retrieve them and make use of the waterway to bring them all the way home. He’d spend most of the month carting logs to his mill. Then in May he’d begin sawing those logs into usable lumber.

  Thanks to Uncle Hans’s patient tutelage—treating Levi like a son rather than a great-nephew—Levi had learned a trade that served him well. Still, in the back of his heart, he harbored the desire to use his cut boards for himself rather than sell them to be turned into sheds and crates and houses. Not that there was anything wrong with sheds, but how could a shed compare to a fine cupboard or a delicately spindled cradle? His earliest memories were laden with the scent of wood and resin and turpentine. When he carved an intricate rosette or a leafy design, the image of his father’s hands always formed in his mind.

  Such a fine craftsman Far had been. But working on his own, he hadn’t been able to build enough furniture to provide for his family. So he’d taken on a partner. And thus began his descent into a deep melancholy that crippled first his mind and then his body.

  With a grunt of aggravation, Levi thumped the oilcan on the workbench. He sat and lowered his head to his hands. Why all these thoughts of Far and Uncle Hans today? Hadn’t he left Wisconsin behind? Of course he had. He’d set off for Kansas and the opportunity for a new life. A life free of his father’s never-ending sadness and the pitying whispers of his neighbors. He earned a good wage with his cut lumber—enough even to set money aside so he could use the winter months to craft furniture for his pleasure.

  He straightened, determined to turn his attention to the present. He had the best life here on the rolling Kansas plains—making money with his sawmill and finding satisfaction in practicing his craft. And by keeping his operation small, he could depend only on himself. He might use the skills he’d learned from Far, but he would never, never become his father.

  Saturday morning Levi hitched his team to the wagon and headed for town. He had two purposes for this trip—to purchase his weekly supplies and to have the promised talk with Tommy. When he’d carried the boy into the banker’s house last Sunday—well, early Monday by the time he and Miss Willems had made it back to his house, awakened Wes, and then driven the poor farm wagon to town—both of the little runaways were exhausted, chilled to the point of constant shivering, and suffering from frostbite. Talking to Tommy then would have been as pointless as talking to a chunk of wood.

  So he’d returned to Brambleville Tuesday morning, his speech all prepared, but Mrs. Tatum’s cleaning lady had sent him away, saying Tommy was sick and needed to rest. But Tommy would be better by now, for sure, and they’d have that talk. Man to man. Where the boy was concerned, Miss Willems surely didn’t have enough starch to reprimand him. She treated him like an invalid even though she said he was bright. He was bright. Too bright to be allowed to get by with such shenanigans as sneaking out. And in the middle of a snowstorm, to boot.

  As the horses clopped toward town, Levi couldn’t help comparing today’s weather to that of a few days ago. The final days of February had been the coldest of the month, carrying snow on frigid blasts of wind. Although wind still coursed across the landscape, not even a small patch of snow remained. Instead, clumps of green were beginning to appear, the sky was clear, and the morning air—brisk but not biting—held a sweet scent. On this first day of March, it seemed as though Sunday’s foul storm had been a dream. If he lived in Kansas for a hundred years, he’d never stop marveling at the rapidly changing weather.

  He reached Brambleville’s main street, where the white painted Community Church with its tall bell tower sat on a corner. The banker’s home—a two-story, red-brick Georgian with round fluted columns supporting an arched porch roof—towered next to the church building. Levi bounced his gaze across the trio of gabled windows breaking up the stern line of the deep pitched roof. If the house were his, he’d soften those gables by inserting a lacy pediment. Would Mr. Tatum purchase such trims from Levi if he presented his idea to the man?

  “Whoa,” he called, pulling back on the reins. The horses obediently stopped. Levi set the brake and hopped down, removing his hat as he strode toward the door. He gave the raised panel oak door a solid bump, bump, bump with his knuckles, then waited.

  Moments later the door opened, and the banker’s wife stood framed in the opening. She gave him a puzzled look. “Mr. Jonnson … yes?”

  He nodded. “That’s right.”

  “How may I help you?”

  This woman spoke primly, the way Miss Willems did, but somehow Miss Willems fell short of sounding haughty. Mrs. Tatum might learn a thing or two from the poor farm director. He tapped one foot against the painted floor, eager to get this errand completed. “I’ve come for Tommy.”

  Her eyes grew wide. “You have?”

  “I came last Tuesday, but he was still sick. Is he better?”

  She stepped back, ushering him in with a wave of her hand. “Both he and Joe are fully recovered. They complain of some discomfort where they were frostbitten, but I suppose that’s to be expected.” She closed the door behind him, then headed up the wide, spindled staircase, still talking. Although she hadn’t instructed him to do so, he followed her. “I sincerely hope the scare they received from their time of wandering will be enough to keep them from ever attempting such a foolish pursuit again. Of course”—she paused and shot a sour look over her shoulder—“if Tommy hadn’t been here, Joe never would have gone. He was perfectly content with Harold and me.” A weary sigh left her lips. “But I needn’t worry about that anymore since you’re here.”

  The woman was putting a lot of faith in his being able to talk sense into Tommy. For the boy’s sake, he hoped it wasn’t ill placed. She turned a corner, and the staircase emptied into a broad landing with hallways stretching on both sides. Levi trailed behind her down the right-hand hallway, passing several white painted doors before stopping at the hallway’s end.

  She held her hand out toward the last door. “He’s in there, just where you deposited him earlier this week. The only difference is the latch at the top of the door. I had Harold install it so I could be certain Tommy would do no more wandering. His thoughtless behavior took a good ten years from my life span, I’m sure. His belongings are in there, too. I trust you know what is his since he stayed with you previously.”

  “His belongings?”

  “Well, certainly.” Her tone turned tart. “You’ll want to take the few things he owns with him.”

  Levi shook his head, furrowing his brow in confusion. “Mrs. Tatum, I just want to talk to Tommy.”

  She drew back. “But you sa
id you had come for him.”

  “I came to talk. Not to take him.”

  A mighty huff exploded, and she rolled her gaze toward the ceiling. “I should have known that woman wasn’t making any effort to find another location for Tommy.”

  “That woman …” He frowned. “You mean Miss Willems?”

  “Yes, Miss Willems! I’ve tried to be patient with her. She was, after all, quite ill, thanks to gallivanting all over the countryside in search of those two reckless boys.”

  Levi’s heart lurched. She’d been ill? How ill?

  Mrs. Tatum continued in a grating tone. “But even though the Spencer family took Joe and Florie two days ago, which indicated she’d been well enough to make arrangements for the twins, she’s sent no one for Tommy. I suspect Miss Willems is trying to teach me some sort of lesson by forcing me to care for the boy.” Her chin quivered, and plump tears appeared in the corners of her eyes. “She all but accused me of being cruel to him.”

  Mrs. Tatum had locked him in a room by himself. That didn’t seem kind to Levi. But he could understand the woman’s reasoning. After having the boy escape, she probably felt extra responsibility for keeping him safe. He scratched his chin. “I wouldn’t know anything about that, ma’am. I’d just like to speak to Tommy if you don’t mind.”

  She reached up and unhooked the silver clasp, then pinched her skirts between her fingertips and flounced up the hallway.

  Levi opened the door and peeked into the room. The window shades were pulled, and no lamp lit the space. With the room cloaked in shadows, it took a minute for his eyes to make out the two beds covered with patchwork quilts, a tall bureau, … and Tommy, seated on the floor in the corner with his forehead on his knees and his arms wrapped around his legs. Despite Levi’s intention to dive into a stern lecture, sympathy twined around his heart. The boy looked plenty dejected. And his morose pose raised memories of another time, another place, another person … Levi swallowed.

  “Tommy?”

  Tommy’s head bounced up, and his palms landed flat on the floor. “Mr. Jonnson?”

  The joy in the boy’s voice sent a shaft of unexpected emotion through Levi. Affection. He genuinely liked this boy. “It’s me.” He covered the short distance between them, took Tommy by the arm, and hoisted him to his feet. “We have some talking to do, yes?”

  Tommy’s bright expression faded.

  Levi drew in a deep breath, ready to give the boy his promised talking-to, but then he expelled the air in one big whoosh. “Let me gather up your things first. I’m taking you out of here.”

  Chapter 17

  Christina dipped her pen and recorded, A new family in town, the Spencers, are now providing shelter for Joe and Florie. This is the children’s second placement. I am gravely concerned the children’s security has been shaken. Different homes mean different structure, which makes it difficult for children to adjust, especially children at the impressionable ages of Joe and Florie. She paused and blew on the ink to dry it. Leaning forward tightened the thick wool sock wrapped around her neck, and she reached to remove it.

  Across the table Cora gave a squawk. “No, ma’am! Rose said I was to make sure you kept that on all day! Said it’s sure to make your throat better.”

  Although Christina’s fever was completely gone and she’d regained her strength, she still spoke with a raspy voice. Earlier that morning Rose had arrived with a gray sock soaked in some kind of potent mixture. Christina had nearly gagged from the smell, but Rose had insisted the mixture of herbs, garlic, and camphor would have Christina’s throat better in no time. She’d been wearing it for more than an hour, and, thankfully, her nose had adjusted to the unpleasant aroma, but she still sounded as if someone had run sandpaper over her vocal cords. So rather than replying to Cora’s reprimand, she merely nodded and turned her attention back to the letter on the table.

  While Cora shelled peas and the calico cat dozed under the table between Christina’s feet, she read back through her entire missive to the mission board. She’d filled two pages, updating the board on her charges’ situations. Alice, Laura, and Francis all shared one small room, which was dreadfully uncomfortable for them. Wes continued to reside in a stable. After living in Brambleville for a half-dozen years, surely Herman and Harriet were pining away from loneliness in their new location. Cora always looked wan and tired—the work at the boardinghouse was too hard for her. Tommy was without a place to stay. Louisa and Rose had no complaints about their present location, but they missed having a home for which to care and a garden to tend.

  The garden! Before long they’d need to plant vegetables and put in their corn and hay crop for animal feed. She’d always been proud of how much money she saved by canning vegetables and gathering berries and nuts to feed the poor farm residents. Would the board delay repairing the house until it was too late for Wes and her to plant seeds for a good harvest? She picked up the pen once more and added a reminder about the importance of being settled in time to put in the garden. She supposed Mr. Regehr might find her request impertinent since he’d been adamant about not leaving her in charge. But even if she was forced to step aside—oh, how her heart ached at the thought!—the others would still need to be fed, so a garden was imperative.

  Just as she prepared to sign her name, someone tapped on the back door. Cora set aside her bowl and crossed the floor to answer the knock. Mr. Jonnson, with Tommy in tow, stepped over the threshold. Christina’s heart fluttered at the sight of the tall, blond-haired man. Although she’d never been given to girlish infatuation, she recognized stirrings toward the mill owner. She gave herself a shake. Those kinds of thoughts had to be quashed. She had too many responsibilities to allow herself to become enamored with a man, no matter how strong and handsome.

  She shifted her attention to Tommy. The boy remained just inside the door, his hands clasped before him and his head bobbing about in his typical manner of trying to gain an understanding of his surroundings. As she moved toward him, hands outstretched to deliver a hug, his face pursed into a horrible scowl.

  “Something stinks!” He pinched his nose.

  Christina came to an abrupt halt. Heat flooded her cheeks, and she touched the sock at her neck. “You can smell that?”

  Mr. Jonnson burst out laughing. “Miss Willems, a skunk would be less noticeable.” He wrinkled his nose, his green-blue eyes dancing with merriment. She wished he’d stop looking so young and attractive. His appearance was doing funny things to her middle. He angled his head away from her. “What is it you’ve got there?”

  Christina cringed. “A concoction one of the poor farm residents stirred up to help my throat.”

  He nodded but kept his distance. “I can tell you need something. You sound like rusted gears. But that smell … phew!”

  Tommy inched backward until he collided with the closed door. “Miss Willems, you smell terrible.”

  Christina shot the boy a disgruntled look, which was silly since he couldn’t see it.

  “Now don’t get all ruffled up, ma’am,” Mr. Jonnson said, his eyes twinkling despite his stiff stance. “Usually you smell very nice.”

  She did? She blinked at him, startled.

  Pink streaks crept from his collar toward his clean-shaven jaw. He rubbed his finger under his nose, an embarrassed chuckle rumbling. “This just isn’t one of those days.”

  Behind him Cora snickered. Then she giggled. And then a full-blown laugh—the first Christina had ever heard from the young woman—poured from her. Laughter doubled her over. Mr. Jonnson shot Cora a grin before joining in, and then Tommy began to laugh, too—the three of them creating a joyful trio of merriment. In spite of herself, Christina found herself unable to squelch her own laughter. She did stink. And in that moment it was funny.

  Laughter rang for several seconds, and for a moment Christina’s troubles seemed to melt away. How good the unfettered laughter felt. How long had it been since she’d allowed herself such an expression? Too long …

 
; Mrs. Beasley stormed into the kitchen from the hallway. The cat darted beneath Christina’s skirt, and Christina, Cora, and Mr. Jonnson fell silent. Tommy’s chortling gurgle rang loudly on its own for a few more seconds before he sucked in a big breath and stifled it.

  Hands on hips, the boardinghouse owner glowered at the now-silent circle. “What is the meaning of this ruckus?” She fixed a squint-eyed glare on Mr. Jonnson. “And what is he doing in my kitchen?”

  Christina turned toward the aggravated woman. “I apologize for the noise, Mrs. Beasley. We—”

  The woman backed away, her face crunching into an expression of horror. “You reek! It turns my stomach!” Waving both hands at Christina, she backed up. “Get rid of that before you stink up the whole house. We’ll discuss this later.” She escaped down the hallway.

  Someone sniggered. Christina whirled around to see Cora covering her mouth with both hands. An apologetic look crept across her face. “I’m sorry, Miss Willems, but I’ve been trying to find a way to keep her from comin’ in here an’ hollerin’ at us. Reckon we just found one.”

  Christina knew she shouldn’t, but she couldn’t hold back a chuckle. “Well, from now on I’ll allow you to wear the sock. I believe I’ve had quite enough of this aroma for one day.” She removed the offensive length of gray wool and tossed it into their sleeping room. Then she pulled Tommy into a hug, kissing his wind-tousled hair. He smelled of springtime—a delightful scent—and she filled her senses with it. Her arm around Tommy, she looked at Mr. Jonnson. “As Mrs. Beasley asked, what are you doing here?”

  The twinkle faded from his eyes, replaced by a deep concern. “I’m here about Tommy. I guess you could say I just kidnapped him.”