Waiting for Summer's Return

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  Many times Peter had fought a desire to reach out and hug the boy against his chest, so good the feeling had been. A day only had so many hours, and a boy’s childhood only so many years. Then he would be a man—a man who would find his own way. Peter swallowed the lump in his throat and gave Thomas’s neck another slight squeeze before dropping his hand.

  “A fine fence it is, boy. A fence of which to be proud.”

  “Summer’s gonna love it. Won’t she be surprised?”

  “Ja, surprised for sure. She was expecting an outhouse and cellar today. And she gets an outhouse, a cellar, and a white picket fence.”

  Thomas stretched a finger toward one of the pickets, but Peter admonished, “That paint is not yet dry, son. You will leave a smudge.”

  Thomas stuck the offending hand into his jacket pocket and shrugged. “Can we go get her now and show it to her?”

  Peter shook his head. “I think we wait till tomorrow.” He leaned forward and finished in a whisper. “More fun it will be to let her discover it herself. Let us stay silent, and tomorrow, as we pass by to go to church, she will see it then. Ja?”

  Thomas grinned. “I won’t say anything.”

  Peter and the boy strode to the other men who were loading their tools in the back of Herr Jost’s wagon. They complimented one another on the accomplishment of their tasks and agreed to meet again each afternoon of the next week to finish the roof and put in the windows.

  “Surely the windowpanes are in at Brunk’s General Merchandise by now,” Peter said. “I will go and see before I come here on Monday.”

  “Fine, Peter,” Tobias Kraft agreed. “And with one more week of working, the house will be ready for the woman.” He stroked his chin. “Peter, I wonder if she would accept used furniture?”

  Peter offered a shrug. “I do not see that she would reject used furniture. Why do you ask?”

  “My Katherine is concerned for her. Would it not be good if, when the woman moved in, she had some things in place?” He looked at the other men. “A table we have that is not being used. Maybe a trunk, too. Do you think others in town might offer some household furnishings?”

  Thomas tugged at Peter’s jacket. “Pa, you could give her a housewarming.”

  Herr Kraft slapped Thomas’s shoulder. “That is a fine idea, boy! A housewarming. My Katherine can organize it. Will your wives help?”

  The men all nodded or spoke their agreement. Peter felt his chest tighten. Summer had been truly accepted. How good for her to finally belong. And how good for the town to finally reach out. God had worked a miracle here.

  Everyone went in his separate direction, calling back good-byes and plans for Sunday’s faspa. Peter and Thomas were the last to leave. They stood long moments, admiring their picket fence. The woman would be pleased, for sure. Peter sighed and wrapped an arm around Thomas’s shoulders.

  “Come on, boy. Chores wait at home. Let us fetch your Summer, and then home we go.”

  Thomas scampered to the wagon and climbed aboard. Peter sat beside Thomas and picked up the whip. Then, with a smirk, he put the whip in his son’s hand. “Well, boy, let us see if you are as good a driver as you are a fence builder, ja?”

  “Really, Pa?” Thomas raised the whip.

  Peter put his hand over the boy’s. “Really. But only your calls are needed to direct them.”

  Thomas relaxed his hold.

  “Now, you know how to start them.” Thomas took in a great breath. “Giddap!”

  With a jerk, the oxen moved forward. When they reached the bend in the road, the boy yelped, “Haw! Haw!”

  “Only once, son, or too sharp they will turn,” Peter warned.

  “Okay, Pa.” The boy held his shoulders straight and angled his chin upward, his expression serious.

  Peter hid his smile. “You are doing fine.” The boy seemed to puff with pride. Peter scooted down in the seat and propped his boots on the footboard. “A little nap I think I take. Wake me when to Krafts’ we are.”

  “B-but,” Thomas protested, “how’ll I turn onto their road?”

  “A gentle call to gee, and the oxen will turn. They know what to do.” He gave Thomas a little nudge with his elbow. “Relax and let the beasts do their work.” He pulled his hat over his eyes and leaned back. “Stay on the road, boy.”

  Peter drowsed with the crunch of wagon wheels against dirt and Thomas’s breathing competing for attention in his ears. It seemed little time passed before the boy’s voice quavered, “Gee!” Obediently, the oxen turned into the Krafts’ lane. Peter sat up, rubbing his eyes.

  Thomas beamed at him. “I did it, Pa!”

  “Ja, you did it, boy. A teamster we will make of you yet, for sure.”

  When they reached the yard, the door to the house opened and Summer stepped onto the porch. Thomas called in a deep voice, “Who-o-o-oa.” The oxen drew to a halt. Thomas raised his hand to wave at Summer, but she didn’t wave back. She cradled something in her arms.

  Peter squinted, trying to identify the fuzzy lump. A rug? Or a bundle of rags? Then the lump shifted, one part rising up, with two floppy ears perking on either side of a furry face, and Peter knew what she had.

  Thomas must have recognized it at the same time, because he stiffened on the seat. “S-Summer?” The one-word query came out in a whisper.

  Summer walked to the side of the wagon, her smile on Thomas. “Look here, Thomas.” She held the furry bundle up to him. The puppy hung from her hands, his ears flopping and front paws drooping. “The Krafts’ dog had a litter—eight in all—but this one is the runt, and no one has claimed him. So I decided to give him a home. Do you want to hold him?”

  Thomas drew back, leaning against Peter’s chest. “No, you go ahead.”

  Summer pulled the puppy against her own chest and stroked its head, her eyes down. Peter sensed her disappointment. But when she spoke, he heard no rancor. “Well, he’ll need a name, and I’m afraid I’m not very good at naming things.” She peered up again, her expression hopeful. “Will you help me choose one?”

  Thomas still leaned against his father, examining the pup with narrowed eyes. “He’s got that brown around his eye, kind of like a pirate’s patch, and another brown spot on his side. Maybe you could call him Patches?”

  Summer released a light laugh, causing Peter to smile, too. “Patches.” She spoke the name to the puppy, and the little thing wagged its tail and licked her chin. She laughed again. “Yes, I think he likes it. Patches it is.” She held the pup toward Thomas. “Take him now, so I can climb in.”

  Thomas’s hands shot out, and then the puppy was in his lap. Peter’s admiration for the woman expanded. He understood what she was doing. The town was setting aside its fears. Now it was time for Thomas to do the same. Peter hopped down and trotted around the wagon to help her up. Once she was seated, he sat on the other side of the boy. It was a tight fit three across, but he didn’t mind.

  “Boy, do you want to drive home?” he asked.

  Thomas looked at him, the pup wiggling in his arms. “I’m scared to turn the wagon around.”

  Peter sent Summer a smile over the top of Thomas’s head. “I will drive, then.” Once they were headed straight again, he leaned forward and addressed the woman. “Full of surprises, you are.”

  She gave a graceful shrug. “What is a house without a dog scurrying underfoot? He’ll keep me from becoming too lonely in my fine new house.”

  Peter hid a smile. A fine new house she had, with a white picket fence. He could hardly wait until morning, when she would be the one who was surprised.

  30

  SUMMER’S DELIGHT AT the sight of the picket fence gave Peter his first taste of enjoyment Sunday morning. More followed at the Krafts’ faspa as he listened to his fellow townspeople make plans for the woman’s housewarming the following Saturday. Of course, this planning was all done in German, so she understood none of it. He watched her face, noticing that although she appeared puzzled, no anger or resentment flashed in her e
yes. This pleased him, too. It showed her changed heart. He remembered a time when she would have sparked at conversations that did not make sense to her ears.

  The secret of the housewarming left him feeling smug and warm inside. Picturing her pleasure at the things the town had gathered for her use, knowing how it would tell her of their acceptance, made Peter eager for Saturday to hurry and arrive. Yet the week crept by at its usual pace.

  Wednesday morning Peter hitched the oxen to the wagon while Thomas climbed onto Daisy’s back, and then he followed the boy toward town. When the bend in the road that led to the school appeared, Thomas called out, “Bye, Pa! Have a good day!”

  “Danke, son. You have good day, too.” He whistled the rest of the way into town. As he rolled past the post office, he heard someone call him. He stopped the team and turned to see postman Herr Hiebert on the sidewalk. The man waved an envelope in the air.

  “A letter for that woman whose house is being built has come. It is marked from Boston.”

  “This must be from her husband’s parents.” Peter took the envelope and tucked it into his pocket. “She has hoped to hear from them.”

  “Well, now she has.” Herr Hiebert headed back inside the post office.

  Peter aimed the team toward Brunk’s General Merchandise. The woman’s panes of glass had arrived, and he and Herr Brunk sandwiched them between layers of burlap in the back of the wagon. Herr Brunk latched the gate while commenting, “The frau and I are bringing a bureau to the housewarming. Some silverware and a serving dish, too.”

  Peter gave the man a hearty clap on the shoulder. “This will be appreciated. Thank you.”

  “Welcome you are.” He waved as Peter climbed back onto the wagon. “Now go finish that house so there will be someplace to put the things we have gathered!”

  Peter laughed as he headed out of town. As he rolled past the post office, his laughter faded. While he wanted to go directly to the building site, he knew Summer would want to read the letter from Boston. Although it meant lost working time, he decided to take the letter to Summer first.

  He found her in the kitchen, surrounded by mixing bowls, flour, and eggs. As he had expected, she reached eagerly for the envelope. “It’s from Nadine. I’m so pleased she wrote.” She removed the letter and scanned the text as she continued, “I feared they would ignore my—Oh!” At the gasp, she covered her mouth with one hand and stared up at Peter in horror.

  He took a step toward her. Grossmutter rose up in her chair, her worried eyes on Summer.

  Summer held the letter out to Peter. He looked at it although he could not read the script. “My father-in-law died on Christmas Day,” she said.

  Peter thought back to the Christmas he had shared with Grossmutter, Thomas, and Summer. A happy day, with smiles and joy. This news put a pall over the memories. And how much worse it must be for her, who had known the man. He touched her arm. “Sorry I am that you hear this.” He turned to Grossmutter and translated Summer’s words. The old woman clucked in sympathy.

  Summer gave them a quavering smile of thanks. She slumped into a kitchen chair and finished reading, then tucked the letter into her apron pocket. Rising, she reached for the flour. “Busy hands are good medicine.” She set her jaw.

  “Ja …” Peter backed toward the door. “Well, I go get my hands busy, too.”

  She didn’t even glance up as he left.

  Peter closed the barn door and moved slowly across the dark yard. He scowled as he thought back on the evening. Supper had been a tense time. Summer appeared troubled, which in turn troubled him. Thomas had barely spoken, preferring to sneak to his room when the meal was done, and Grossmutter had followed. He wondered if by now Summer, too, had turned in. Part of him hoped she had—he was not sure what to say to her.

  When he opened the door and found Summer sitting at the table, his heart leaped into his throat. How at home she seemed in her work apron, a cup of steaming coffee held beneath her chin. The wispy strands of hair tucked behind her ears gave her a girlish appearance, but the worried expression in her dark eyes made Peter think of a much older woman.

  At the click of the door closing, she looked up. “Peter. I was waiting for you.”

  The welcoming words warmed him more than the heat from the stove. He shrugged out of his coat and hung it up while she rose and poured him a cup of coffee.

  “It’s about the letter.”

  He sat, holding the cup of coffee between his palms without drinking. “Ja. I know you are troubled.”

  “My mother-in-law—she’s asked me to return to Boston.” She blinked rapidly, her expression strained. “She wishes for me to live with her.”

  Peter leaned back, his thoughts racing but his mouth silent. He considered saying, “But we have built you a house.” Or, “The town is making you a housewarming.” Or, “This will be very hard on Thomas.” But he said nothing, only sat, staring at the part in her dark hair as she looked at the coffee cup on the table.

  Finally she lifted her chin again, and he saw tears glittering in the corners of her velvet eyes. “I’ve prayed all afternoon about the right thing to do. And I believe … I have to go, Peter. I’m all she has now.”

  He pulled his brows into a stern frown. “Are you doing this because you feel guilty?”

  She pursed her lips for a moment as if carefully choosing her words. When she spoke, her voice was quiet, wistful, yet full of confidence. “At first, yes—I did feel guilt. If we had remained in Boston, perhaps Horace wouldn’t have worked so hard. If we had remained in Boston, even if Horace had died, Nadine would still have her son and grandchildren. But we didn’t.” A breathy sigh underscored the final words, but she continued in a strong voice. “I can’t look back. I have to think about now. You said the Holy Spirit would prompt me, and He has. The sermon from last week keeps playing in my mind. The biblical example of Naomi and Ruth—‘Whither thou goest, I will go.’ Remember? She needs me, Peter. I must go.”

  A lump formed in his throat. He pushed his voice past it. “Ja, you must go, for sure.”

  Her face crumpled. “Oh, Peter. It will be so hard … to go.”

  He reached out and took her hand. It lay limply against his rough palm, small and warm and moist. He gave it a gentle squeeze. “You must not worry about the graves. I will care for them. They will not fall into poor condition.”

  “Thank you, Peter.” Gratitude shone in her eyes.

  Other things would need to be discussed, but now was not the time. Now was the time to mourn. So, silently, with Summer’s hand in his, Peter mourned.

  On Saturday—the day when the townspeople had planned to give Summer a housewarming—she stood on the familiar stoop with Peter and Lena and said good-bye. The old woman’s eyes were moist, and Summer thought her heart might break at the grandmother’s expression of sorrow.

  “Auf wiedersehen, leibes.” Lena’s voice trembled. She stroked Summer’s cheek with her wrinkled hand.

  Summer closed her eyes for a moment, swallowing. “What did she say besides good-bye?”

  Peter’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down once. “She called you dear one.”

  A strangled sob found its way from Summer’s breast. Dear one … This woman was the dear one. She had allowed Summer into her home and loved her despite long-held apprehension toward non-Mennonites. Summer embraced Lena, kissing the wrinkled cheek now damp with tears.

  Peter helped Summer onto the wagon seat for the last time. In the back of the wagon, Thomas leaned against her plump carpetbag. Patches sat with his front legs draped over Thomas’s knee. She twisted around backward in the seat to give the boy a smile, but he stroked the pup’s head and ignored her. With a heavy heart, Summer turned forward again.

  Peter’s weight on the seat caused the springs to squeak and the seat to shift. She planted her feet against the floor to keep herself from sliding sideways. What a big man he was. A big, gentle, caring man. A lump formed in her throat. She would miss him. Oh, how she would miss him. />
  They didn’t talk as they drove to Hillsboro, where Summer would board the train that would eventually take her to Boston. She and Peter had done their talking last night, discussing everything of importance: the house, the care of the gravesite, and Thomas.

  The finished house would be put on the market and, she hoped, sold to a newcomer to Gaeddert. Summer was grateful she’d had an opportunity to stand on the spindled wraparound porch and watch the sun set behind the silhouette created by the picket fence and sandstone headstones. She was also grateful the townspeople were willing to allow her to sell the house to the next newcomer. Peter had expressed his joy at this indication that non-Mennonites would be welcomed to Gaeddert. Summer’s presence had opened their hearts to trusting.

  Peter had promised to care for the graves, and Summer knew he would do so. He was a man of his word. She sent a sidelong glance at him now, memorizing the full sweep of his beard, the crease between his eyes from squinting into the sun, the thick lashes, the breadth of his hand on the whip, and the tautness of his sleeve against his forearm. A strange constriction grabbed her heart, a desire to cry welling with it.

  She sneaked another look into the back. Thomas cradled Patches, his cheek against the top of the puppy’s head. A smile tugged at her lips at the sight—afraid of dogs? Not anymore.

  She and Peter had discussed Thomas, too. For long hours, late last night, they had discussed Thomas. Peter had lofty dreams for the boy. If Summer was in Boston, she could help see those dreams become reality. That thought gave a small lift to her heart. In another few years, when the boy had finished eighth grade, he would be given the opportunity to come to Boston for high school and possibly college. Summer knew this decision might cause dissension in town, but Peter was determined Thomas have every opportunity this country provided. “He will be educated man, with choices before him,” Peter had said in a solemn tone while his beard quivered. “He will be better man than me.”