What Once Was Lost

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Mr. Jonnson balled his hands into fists.

  Christina caught hold of one of his fists. With her eyes she begged him not to start a fracas. She knew all too well how unpredictable Ham could be, and she didn’t want Tommy caught in the middle of a ruckus. To her relief Mr. Jonnson seemed to recognize her silent plea, because he eased back onto the seat. But he kept his steely gaze pinned on the man.

  Ham laughed again, lowering his hands to rest on the wagon’s high edge. His eyes aimed at Christina, he addressed Tommy. “These folks don’t seem to cotton to me, Tommy-boy, so I reckon I’ll just mosey on for now. I’m stayin’ in the Brambleville Hotel for a while, bidin’ my time between business deals.”

  Christina wanted to ask with which business he had become associated, but she feared it might be something unscrupulous, so she held her question inside.

  “Maybe we’ll see each oth …” He paused, scratched his chin, and released another chuckle. “Well, better find a different way o’ saying that. Hmm. How ’bout ‘maybe our paths’ll cross sometime soon, an’ we’ll have us a chance to talk an’ get all caught up’? Would you like that, Tommy-boy?”

  Tommy scuttled on his toes and hands like a crab to the front of the wagon, where he cowered against the back of the seat. His breath came in little puffs, his face white. When she put her hand on his shoulder, this time he didn’t pull away.

  “Mr. Dresden, I think it best if you move on.” Mr. Jonnson spoke firmly.

  Ham gave a slow nod, his grin intact. “Why, sure, mister. Got better things to do than lallygag here on the street with you folks anyhow.” He tipped his hat. “Bye now, Miss Willems. You, too, Tommy. Have yourselves a good day, ya hear?”

  He kicked up dust with his shoes as he ambled around the wagon and headed toward the center of town.

  As soon as he was far enough away to be out of earshot, Christina squeezed Tommy’s shoulder. “Are you all right? I’m sorry he frightened you so.” She didn’t care for Hamilton Dresden either—the man made her skin crawl. But Tommy’s fear seemed extreme. Did the boy sense some kind of evil in the man?

  Tommy panted, his chest rising and falling. “Wanna go back to the mill.”

  Christina gave a start. “But I thought—”

  “Wanna go back to the mill.” He pawed the air until he found Mr. Jonnson’s hand, which rested on the seat back. “Take me there now, Mr. Jonnson.”

  “Tommy, I—”

  “Take me back!” The boy’s voice rose with panic. “I can find my way around the mill—all I gotta do is follow the ropes. You can go get your logs an’ not fuss over me. I’ll stay outta your way, I promise.”

  Christina stroked Tommy’s hair, cringing when the boy jerked away from her gentle touch. “Tommy, won’t you please tell us what has you so upset?”

  Tommy hunkered down, his head bouncing here and there as if seeking something no one else could see. “No. Don’t wanna talk. Just wanna go to the mill. Take me back!”

  Mr. Jonnson looked at her, silent questions filling the air between them. She gazed back, captured by the depth of emotion in his eyes. As much as she longed to keep the boy in town where she could explore his unexpected fear-stimulated rebellion, she now wondered if it was better to distance him from Ham Dresden. Tommy harbored an irrational but very real aversion to the man. But she wouldn’t tell Mr. Jonnson what to do. She’d trust him to make the best decision for Tommy and for himself.

  With his gaze locked on hers, he drew a slow breath and turned his face slightly toward Tommy. Even then, his eyes bored into hers as if reluctant to release her from his sights. “All right, Tommy. We’ll go back to the mill.”

  Chapter 30

  Cora took another subtle peek over her shoulder as the congregation settled into the benches following the hymn singing. Time for the sermon to start, and still no sign of Miss Willems. An image of the woman’s heartbroken appearance after she’d sold her papa’s watch haunted Cora. Her own pa had disappeared when Ma was carrying her fourth child, and he hadn’t left anything of value behind. But if Cora had something from her pa as special as that watch, she wouldn’t want to give it up. Might even make her sick to do it. Her heart twisted. Maybe Miss Willems was too sorrowful even to get out of bed.

  Worrisome ideas kept her from listening to the sermon. She gazed at the squares of stained glass forming a frame around the clear, rectangular pane on her left. The rippled panes in red, yellow, green, and blue were so bold and pretty compared to her dark thoughts. Was Miss Willems sick? Was she too tired to come to church, working all by herself for that persnickety Mrs. Beasley? Had she given up all hope because the mission board wouldn’t help her get the poor farm going again?

  The final thought scared her the most. She tried to remember the last time she’d heard Miss Willems pray. Really pray, like she and God were close friends. But the last prayers Cora could recall were ones said over their vittles—mindless prayers lacking feeling. Cora didn’t know how it felt to be close to God, but she’d envied Miss Willems’s strong faith. What must it be like to be so certain that God was there, that He cared, and that He’d help folks who asked Him to? But things sure didn’t seem to be going right for Miss Willems, so maybe God wasn’t really there after all. Maybe Miss Willems had figured it out and had given up on church, the way Mr. Jonnson had.

  Beneath the buttons of her new blue-checked dress, purchased from the ready-made rack with her entire first week’s pay, Cora’s heart gave a painful lurch. God surely had no use for people like her and Emmet Wade—the ones who’d done things that went against His holy Word—but He ought to be proud of someone like Miss Willems. She’d spent her whole life taking care of folks in need. So why didn’t God help her?

  Tears threatened. Seemed like lately she could cry at ’most anything. Tears always sat there behind her eyes, ready to spill. She sniffed hard to keep from giving in. Crying wouldn’t fix nothing. Never had. All the crying she did when she missed her first monthly hadn’t made the next one come. So she wouldn’t cry. But she’d sure try to think of some way to make Miss Willems feel better, to help her somehow. After all she’d done for Cora, she owed her.

  Turning her attention to the front of the church in a pretense of concentration, she began to plan.

  Monday morning Christina thanked Louisa for her willingness to assume her duties, lifted the little valise that one of Mrs. Beasley’s boarders had lent her, and headed for the train station. The March morning smelled of dew and grass—delightful aromas. Long shadows painted the ground, and she found herself trying to plant the soles of her shoes on the splashes of sunlight filtering through gaps in the trees. A childish game, perhaps, but it gave her heart a small lift. She’d often seen the twins leap from one patch of sunlight to another like a pair of errant toads. She couldn’t wait to bring them back and witness their joyful antics again.

  Rose already waited at the Atchison, Topeka, and Santa Fe Railway station, pacing back and forth beneath the overhang where passenger benches sat in a straight row. She rushed at Christina. “Here you are! I came far too early, but I couldn’t wait. Oh, such an adventure we’re taking!” She leaned close, her eyes sparkling. “I’ve never ridden a train before. Sixty-two years old and finally riding a train!” She laughed, and Christina found herself laughing with her. How wonderful to have a reason to laugh! The laughter refreshed her.

  She’d lain awake last night, worrying about Tommy. She hated to leave town with the boy so distraught, but once she’d returned with the twins, she would ask Louisa to handle one extra day at the boardinghouse so she could drive out to the mill and spend time with Tommy. Somehow she’d pry from him the reason for his unsettling behavior, and then she’d enlist Mr. Jonnson’s assistance in correcting the problem. She gave a little start. When had she begun depending on Mr. Jonnson for support? She couldn’t pinpoint a time, yet it felt perfectly natural to expect his collaboration.

  “Have you got the tickets?” Rose held out her hand expectantly.

 
Christina cast aside her reflections of Mr. Jonnson with a reluctance that puzzled her and fished the squares of stiff paper from her bag. Rose snatched one and pressed it to her skinny chest, her smile bright. Although Christina had initially cringed about spending money for two tickets instead of one, happiness now filled her breast. Rose’s absolute delight was worth much more than a $1.40 railroad ticket.

  “Shall we sit over here and wait for the train?” Christina pointed to the row of individual seats joined to create long benches. “It’s due in at seven forty-five for an eight o’clock departure, so we have—” Automatically she reached for her watch. Sadness struck when her hand clutched only air. She finished lamely, “… a bit of time to relax.”

  Rose nodded in reply, the graying bun on the back of her head bouncing with the movement. She took Christina’s arm and guided her to the seats. They perched side by side with their bags in their laps, but after only a few seconds, Rose stood and began pacing. Christina wished she possessed as much energy as the older woman. Tiredness brought on by the worries of the past weeks had robbed her of her usual vim. But once she’d righted the wrong she’d committed against the poor farm residents by reestablishing a place for them to live, this great burden would lift, and she’d finally be restored. She clung to that hope.

  “It’s coming!” Rose’s excited cry brought Christina to her feet as AT&SF Locomotive 645 approached with a rumble that vibrated the ground. She joined Rose and watched the shiny black engine chug toward town, steam billowing and mighty crankshafts pumping. The screech of the brakes nearly pierced her eardrums, and Rose laughed when Christina covered her ears. Then she threw her arm around Christina’s shoulders and bellowed, “Let’s board!”

  The porter accepted their tickets and offered the use of a small wooden stepstool. Rose moved with a sprightliness that left Christina feeling as if their ages had been reversed. The older woman slid onto a green velvet cushioned bench in the center of the car, placed her small travel bag at her feet, and pressed her nose to the window. Christina dropped beside Rose and leaned her head on the backrest.

  Were it not for the five stops between Brambleville and Topeka, the train’s amazing forty-mile-per-hour speed would have delivered them to their destination by nine thirty that morning. But the ticket master had warned her that each stop added another fifteen minutes to the journey. They would reach Topeka at ten forty-five instead. Sufficient time for a lengthy nap. She wanted to be well rested when she reclaimed Joe and Florie.

  “Rose?”

  Rose flicked a smiling glance over her shoulder. “Yes?”

  “I’m quite weary. I intend to sleep. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” She gave Christina’s knee a brisk pat. “You just rest easy. I’ll keep an eye on the countryside and wake you when we get to Topeka.”

  With a grateful sigh Christina closed her eyes. But despite her efforts sleep proved elusive. The rocking of the train jarred her head back and forth. Additionally, the porter’s bellowed announcements of upcoming stations, the shrieking application of brakes followed by shuddering stops, and the noisy activity of passengers boarding or disembarking provided constant intrusion. By the time they reached the Topeka station, Christina couldn’t wait to alight from the car and find a quiet place to gather her senses.

  But the bustling station proved far from quiet. Christina took Rose’s arm, and they weaved their way across the tile floor until they emerged on the opposite side of the enormous brick-and-mortar building.

  On the sidewalk Rose swiped her hand over her brow and let out a wheezing “phew.” Her gaze seemed to rove across the arched window frames and along the row of spindled posts supporting the roof of a full-length porch. “Mercy, at least half of Brambleville’s businesses could fit inside this station.” She shook her head. “I’m more relieved than ever that I thought to come with you. A city of this size is downright overwhelming!”

  Christina agreed. Her stomach churned in nervous apprehension. She withdrew the paper on which she’d recorded the address for the Kansas Children’s Home. Should she summon a cab to transport them to 614 Kansas Avenue? As she pondered the best course of action, Rose suddenly grabbed the paper from Christina’s hand.

  “Why, look there! Kansas Avenue is just ahead.” She swung her head right and left, one hand above her eyes, and surveyed the area. “Looks to me like once we land on that street, we need to go south. Let’s go!”

  Christina had little choice but to trot alongside the eager woman. When had Rose taken charge of this excursion? She cringed as Rose pulled her into the street, where carriages and wagons rattled over cobblestone. Somehow they made it to the other side unscathed, and Christina started to ask Rose to please exercise caution. But Rose gave her no time to speak. Her hand gripped firmly around Christina’s elbow, she propelled her along at a brisk pace, eagerly taking in the towering brick buildings.

  “Oh, what would it be like to live in a city like this! Look at the shops! Anything a person could ever want, it’s ready and available.” Rose babbled, her words jumping out between breaths. “I’ve never been one to hunger for riches, but it would certainly pleasure me to be able to—” She stopped abruptly, nearly pulling Christina’s arm from its socket. She released Christina to point excitedly at a wooden placard attached to the side of a three-story, brown brick building. “This is it!”

  A flowing script announced Kansas Children’s Home Society, President: Rosswell L. Cofran. Christina’s stomach lurched in nervous excitement. “This is it,” she repeated in a much more subdued tone than Rose’s.

  Rose giggled—a girlish sound. “Let’s go in. I can hardly wait to wrap my arms around those two urchins!”

  Once again Christina found herself being dragged along by Rose. But she didn’t mind. She shared Rose’s desire to be reunited with Joe and Florie. They stepped into a deep, narrow entryway. Painted white plaster walls reflected the sunlight pouring in through a pair of tall, uncovered windows. A railed stairway on their right led to the other levels, and a wall with wide double doors stood closed on their left. The mumble of voices carried from behind the doors.

  A large wooden desk faced the front door. A woman in a blue dress, starched apron, and ruffled mobcap sat behind the desk, scribbling in a ledger. Rose pointed to the woman, and Christina nodded. Christina’s elbow still caught in Rose’s grip, they crossed the polished dark wood floors and placed their bags near their feet.

  The woman looked up, a smile on her round face. “Hello. May I help you?”

  Rose opened her mouth, but Christina placed her hand over Rose’s in a silent request to allow her to speak. “Yes. I understand two children—Joe and Florie Alexander—were delivered to the children’s home two weeks ago by Mr. Silas Regehr.”

  The woman began flipping pages in the ledger. “Alexander … Alexander …” Her face lit, and she jammed her finger against an entry penned in black ink. “Yes. You’re correct. Mr. Regehr transferred Joseph and Florence Alexander, whom he stated had been orphaned, into our care.” She bounced a curious look from Christina to Rose. “Are you relatives of the children?”

  “No. I’m Christina Willems. My father and I served as directors for the Brambleville Asylum for the Poor.” Christina reached for her watch, needing a connection with Papa. Its absence again took her by surprise, and she stammered out her next words. “Th-the children were left in our care more than a year ago.”

  “That’s right,” Rose added, leaning slightly toward the woman. “Miss Willems took excellent care of Joe and Florie. Just because the poor farm house is now—”

  Christina gave Rose’s hand a gentle squeeze. “Mr. Regehr was not authorized to relocate them. So I’ve come to take them back to Brambleville.”

  A frown appeared on the woman’s face. She stood. “Our understanding, Miss Willems, is the Brambleville Asylum is under the directorship of the Kansas Mission Board and is being disbanded.”

  Rose’s shoulders squared. “What utter nonsense!” She
turned a disbelieving gaze on Christina. “That’s not true, is it, Christina?”

  Christina swallowed, seeking an honest yet reassuring reply. “The poor farm house sustained some damage from a fire and is in the process of undergoing repairs as we speak.” She stretched the truth, but surely the promise of lumber and the funds to purchase plaster counted as progress. “Granted, it isn’t ready for us to occupy as yet, but I have placement arranged for Joe and Florie until which time we are able to move back into our home. So”—she drew a breath, angled her head, and fixed a firm look on the children’s home worker—“I would greatly appreciate you retrieving the children and their belongings so we might be on our way.”

  The woman pursed her lips. For a long moment she frowned at Christina, and Christina sensed she was forming a fierce argument. But then, without saying a word, she left her station and disappeared behind a door. Minutes later she returned, followed by a second woman wearing a utilitarian navy skirt, a crisp white blouse, and an air of authority. The woman in the mobcap took her seat behind the desk again. The other advanced upon Christina with her hand extended.

  As Christina took her hand, the woman said, “I’m Miss Wallenstein, director of the Kansas Children’s Home Society. Judith tells me you are Miss Willems from Brambleville.”

  Christina offered a polite nod and withdrew her hand from the woman’s dry grasp. “That’s correct. I’ve come to collect Joe … er, Joseph and Florence Alexander.”

  Miss Wallenstein locked her hands behind her back and peered at Christina through the round lenses of her spectacles. “Are you related to the children?”

  “No, ma’am.”

  “They have been orphaned?”

  Christina quickly shared the same explanation she’d given Judith. “But they are my responsibility, so if you’d kindly—”

  The children’s home director shook her head. “I’m terribly sorry, Miss Willems, but I’m inclined to agree with the gentleman who brought the children to our facility. A poor farm is not an appropriate placement for young children.” Her face registered a brief, sympathetic look before she added, “Besides which, we’ve already made arrangements with a Kansas City couple to adopt the twins.”