Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  That thought brought to her to an abrupt halt. Vincent was gone. He would no longer sit at her feet, looking up with rapt attention as she read to him from Byron or Longfellow. Tears threatened, and she turned away from Thomas lest he see them and question her. She couldn’t bear to speak of Vincent—not to this boy who might have been his friend.

  “This-this is a wonderful gristmill, Thomas. I see why you have chosen this as your favorite spot.” Her words sounded stilted, even to her ears. But the boy didn’t seem to recognize her change in demeanor.

  “It’s my favorite spot when the harvest is done, for sure.” His smile was bright. “I like listening to the grain go through the grinder. It rumbles and makes your tummy feel like it’s growling from hunger. Then puffs of flour come out around the spout when it’s filling the sacks. Goes right up your nose and makes you sneeze!”

  He offered another controlled laugh, and Summer’s lips twitched as they fought to respond with an answering smile.

  “Pa ground the last of the wheat from around here only last week. He’s all done now for the winter.” He heaved a sigh, as if disappointed, but then with a quicksilver change, brightened again. “When I grow up, I’m going to be a miller, just like Pa.”

  Summer nodded. Didn’t most boys want to be just like their fathers? Vincent had always said he would be a banker, like Rodney. Rose had wanted to be an artist. Little Tod had made her laugh with his declaration that he would be a cowboy—he had been most excited about the journey to Oklahoma, where he might meet real Indians. And dimpled Tillie had been too young to make plans. How sad to die before reaching an age to even make plans. Anger pressed at Summer’s heart. It was so unfair that her children’s dreams would never see fulfillment.

  “Mrs. Steadman?”

  Thomas’s voice brought her back to reality. She looked at the boy, who squinted against the sun that tipped his wheat colored hair with golden highlights.

  “Sun’s straight overhead. Should we go get some lunch now?”

  Summer looked skyward, confirming the boy’s observation. “Now that you’ve shown me the property, we’ll get lunch fixed right away.”

  Though she had no desire to eat, this boy must be fed. He must be fed and kept healthy so at least his dreams would one day become reality.

  Why’d Pa bring home such a sour-faced lady? Thomas wondered as he chewed bread slathered with butter and honey. He knew Pa was worried about him falling behind on schoolwork—lessons were important to Pa. Hadn’t he been telling Thomas since he was little that he should learn all he could? He understood Pa wanted someone around who would help him keep up with studies, but why this lady?

  Thomas watched out of the corner of his eye as Mrs. Steadman pushed the carrots back and forth on her plate with a fork. Even though she looked real hungry, she didn’t eat. He couldn’t imagine someone not eating—he liked to eat. He reached for another piece of bread and the butter knife. Everybody he knew liked to eat. This lady was different from everyone else he knew.

  And it wasn’t just the eating. She wore her hair different, her voice sounded different when she talked, she never smiled. Of course, Thomas admitted, grumpy Frau Schmidt in town never smiled, either. This woman Pa had brought home didn’t seem grumpy, but she sure didn’t seem happy. Thomas scrunched his forehead. Was she sad? Mad? He wasn’t sure.

  He glanced at Grandmother. She sat at the table, and she wasn’t eating much, either. She had a funny look in her eyes, like she was afraid something bad was about to happen. It made Thomas’s heart skip a beat. Was she afraid of this lady? He sat up, resolve straightening his spine. Well, Grandmother didn’t need to worry. He would make sure this stranger didn’t bother Grandmother. He’d keep watch over her. Grandmother had nothing to worry about.

  Peter slapped Roth’s hindquarters as he left the ox chewing contentedly in his stall with his mate. He swung the barn door shut behind him and trudged across the yard, his feet stirring dust as his heels dragged. He released a heavy sigh—what a long day it had been. But all the tasks he’d set for himself had been completed.

  Sturdy planks covered the shariah’s steps. The shelter held a new rope bed with a freshly stuffed straw mattress. The tinners’ stove from Nickels’ Dry Goods sent forth its warmth, and a full woodbox promised the warmth would continue. Boxes and barrels were now stored safely in the loft. Peter rubbed his hips, grimacing with the memory of carrying so many loads up the loft ladder. Out of consideration for the woman’s needs, he had left a small crate beside the bed to hold a lantern, and the large blanket chest still stood in the corner to hold her belongings.

  When he allowed himself a sigh of satisfaction, his breath hung in the evening air. Stars glimmered in a sky of deep blue tinged with pink at the horizon. His feet stilled, and he tilted his head back to search for the North Star as his own father had done at day’s end. He remembered standing on the deck of the ship, his arm snug around Elsa’s waist, the two of them looking upward at the polestar. It had given him pleasure to think of the star as a link between his old country and his new country. Now, knowing the same star had shone for his father and his father’s father, he felt connected with those who had gone before—and with those who were yet to come.

  He smiled at the sky and then turned toward the house. The lamp glow in the windows beckoned. He pushed his tired feet to move again. When he opened the door, the aromatic smells of ham and cabbage and bread filled his nostrils, making his stomach turn over in readiness. But the sight of Frau Steadman, with a wooden spoon in her hand and Elsa’s apron wrapped around her waist, gave him pause. He remained in the doorway as an odd feeling gripped him. How long it had been since any woman besides Grossmutter had stood at his cookstove?

  He turned to find his wife’s grandmother in her chair in the corner also watching the woman. Grossmutter’s eyes, which had faded in color with age and were now a pale blue, seemed watchful, wary. Peter crossed to the old woman and placed a kiss on her wrinkled cheek by way of greeting. She nodded at him, a brief smile tipping up her lips before her attention went back to the woman.

  “Hi, Pa.” Thomas rose from the table and set his slate aside. “Did you get everything done?”

  “Ja, all is finished.” Peter removed his cap and coat and hung them on wooden pegs beside the door. He glanced again at the woman. Her attention seemed to be on the wooden spoon that she dragged through the simmering pot. He addressed Thomas. “Frau Steadman will not sleep on the floor of a cold shelter tonight, or slide on steps of dirt.” The woman glanced in his direction, but she didn’t speak. He cleared his throat. “Son, did you have gut day?”

  Thomas nodded, his hair flopping. “Yes, Pa. I showed Mrs. Steadman the gristmill.” He leaned forward, dropping his voice to a whisper and slipping into German. “Clever she thought it was.”

  Peter’s eyebrows shot up. “She said this?” He, too, lowered his voice and used his familiar language.

  “By the way she looked, I could tell.”

  Well, the boy was prideful, Peter thought. He would read things in the woman’s eyes that were not truly there. He glanced again at Frau Steadman and saw her lift the pot, using the apron to protect her hands from its hot handles. Elsa’s apron in the woman’s slender hands constricted his chest. He spun from the sight, concerned how Grossmutter would feel about the woman using Elsa’s things. But the old woman was no longer in her chair.

  “Son, where has Grossmutter gone?”

  Thomas looked over his shoulder, as if surprised, then stretched on his toes to whisper again. “Hiding from Mrs. Steadman, probably. Her eyes snapped all afternoon.”

  This news made Peter feel unsettled. Two spatting women would be an unpleasant thing to deal with each day. But he only smiled and tousled Thomas’s hair, slipping back into English. “Set the table, son. It seems Frau Steadman is ready for us to partake of the fine meal she has made.”

  Frau Steadman placed the pot in the center of the table. Thomas set out crockery bowls, plates, and spoons
while Frau Steadman turned a crusty loaf of bread into thick slices with several strokes of Peter’s best knife. Peter washed his hands, then poured milk into tin cups, imagining how good it would taste to dip chunks of bread into the milk. It was a cozy feeling, working together with his son and the woman to put the meal on the table.

  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

  SUMMER 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.