Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  Then Hannah was on her knees, asking what was wrong, touching the baby’s forehead, checking her diaper, examining the safety pins. The thin cry turned into a wail, so Hannah scooped her up, blanket and all, and took her to the low, armless rocker where she rocked steadily, her head bent over the child, talking to her in a low voice. As the cries quieted, Jerry asked if perhaps she was used to having a bottle of milk at night.

  The rocking stopped. “You know, she just might be. And I bet you anything there’s still one of Eli’s bottles … Oh no, our house burned down. I forgot. We don’t have a baby bottle of any kind.”

  “Could we feed her more porridge?” Jerry asked.

  “She’s sleeping again. She might wake up repeatedly, with all she’s been through.”

  And that was how they spent that first night with the child. Almost every hour, she awoke, crying out, cold and frightened. Hannah was always there for her, so Jerry went back to sleep, knowing she would tend to the little girl’s needs.

  He awoke with a start, the sound of clattering from the kitchen yanking him out of a deep sleep. Thinking he’d overslept, he pulled his trousers on, buttoned his shirt sleepily, and wobbled bleary-eyed out to the kitchen.

  “Sorry, Hannah. I overslept. I’ll get the fire.”

  She stood poking at a piece of firewood that didn’t want to settle between the grates, her black hair in a long braid down her back, a white flannel nightgown that was about three sizes too big trailing on the floor.

  She thrust a forefinger toward the clock. Jerry saw the time, 3:15 a.m. “Oh, sorry,” he said. “I’ll go back to bed.”

  “No, you won’t. The little one is hungry, the house is cold, and I need you to fix this fire so I can heat some water for her oatmeal. I haven’t slept more than an hour at the most.”

  So, once again Jerry obeyed and felt so much like a good husband that he whistled low, his breath coming in happy little waves of song.

  Who could have predicted this? Life was, indeed, the strangest thing. Lifted from the pit of gloom and helplessness to this newly restored, softer Hannah, was a blessing far beyond anything he deserved.

  He whistled as he got the fire stirred up and going, put the kettle on, and took the canister of rolled oats from the pantry. Hannah brought the child to the table. The soft light of the kerosene lamp surrounded them, the kettle hummed, and the fire crackled as the wind moaned in the eaves.

  Jerry watched as Hannah spooned the oatmeal into the child’s mouth. She ate and ate, opening her little mouth to receive another spoonful, and another, on and on, until they both laughed, unsure if they should be feeding her so much. But they found out that hunger was her main problem, and after she ate a large portion, they tucked her in and dragged themselves wearily back to their own beds and feel into deep sleep until the morning light awakened both of them.

  Jerry rode off the following morning, alerted the Jenkinses, and made the necessary telephone calls. He accompanied the sheriff to the scene of the fire, then returned on horseback with Hod and the boys, just before dark. Hannah had begun to worry.

  They came stamping up on the porch, all big wet boots, heavy coats, and caps pulled low over their ears, ruddy faces sporting uneven stubble like corn fodder, their beards unkempt where they hadn’t bothered to shave.

  Hannah scolded and said Abigail would be having a fit. They laughed and teased Hannah good-naturedly, said she was a sight for sore eyes. Ken and Hank both accepted coffee, their faces chapped and red from the cold, teeth stained brown from the plug of tobacco that very seldom left the side of their mouths.

  They gawked at the little girl, shook their heads, their eyes wide as Jerry gave his account of the day he’d ridden over to use the neighbors’ telephone. Hod pursed his lips and squinted at the fading light in the west window.

  “If the cars were gone, it would make more sense. But there’s no explanation for findin’ the kid in the barn. Where are her parents? Did they do it? You jest can’t wrap yore head around it, seems like.”

  Hank said the sheriff and the fire company would figure it out. “That still don’t say we’ll find a home for the kid,” Hod argued.

  Hannah held her tightly, her arms wrapped around her possessively, her eyes dark with the challenge already forming in her mind. Let them try to come take her away. Jerry had found her. She’d have died if he hadn’t. She’s mine.

  “Best not get too attached,” Hod said, watching Hannah.

  “I already have,” Hannah answered.

  Hod shook his head. “I’se afraid o’ that. My Abby never got over the loss of her baby girl. Not right. She mourned that child to her last breath.”

  “How long does it usually take to find the next of kin?” Jerry asked.

  “Depends. They’ll make phone calls. Write letters. Iffn’ they got a decent address that is. Where’d you say them folks was fron?”

  “They said they were from Texas.”

  “Not if they was Mormon they wasn’t. They’s a whole cluster of ‘em in an’ around Salt Lake City. No, I don’t reckon they was Mormon. Somepin’ ain’t right.”

  Hank said them horses looked like they come from the circus. Never saw such clodhoppers in his life. What would a horse like that be? May as well turn ‘em loose.

  Jerry laughed, his teeth white in his tanned face. Hannah noticed and thought of mint toothpaste and baking soda and cleanliness and the times he’d kissed her. She compared his clean teeth to the Jenkins boys, and remembered Clay. Almost, she had loved him.

  She vaguely listened to the men, but was thinking of a name for her child. No child should be without a name. Sarah? Anna? Rachel? All fine old Amish names from the Bible. But this was her child, and she was a special one, found in a cold barn. Fate, or God, probably mostly God, had directed Jerry to that barn.

  She would call her Jane. Jane. To match Jerry, both starting with a J. Jane Riehl. Now there was a nice name. Not too fancy, not too pretentious. Hannah held her close and planted a soft kiss on the curly brown hair, then laid her cheek against the spot she had kissed.

  CHAPTER 10

  THE LAST OF THE SNOW FELL FROM THE ROOF IN MUTED THUDS against the ground. A warm wind melted the icicles that hung from the porch roof like jagged teeth. The drifts of snow became smaller, lost their pure bluish-white shine, took on a dusty yellow and gray appearance as they melted into the wet, cold soil, mingling with the limp, brown grass.

  Geese honked overhead, flying in perfect V formations, their calls plaintive, beckoning, the call of changing seasons, on their way to the shores of the big lakes to the north. Whistling swans flew higher, their high, piercing cries shattering the early morning stillness.

  Hannah stopped on the porch step, laundry basket balanced on her hip, pausing to listen to the cries of the swans. She lifted her face to the beauty of their faraway, white forms, their outstretched necks propelled by the magnificent power of their huge, muscular wings.

  She couldn’t stand there too long. Janie would be waking soon. Since she had come into their house, life revolved around her. The washing was done while she slept. Floor scrubbing was hopeless with little feet dashing across the freshly scrubbed linoleum. Hannah would leave her pail and rag to crawl after her, catching her in a corner of the kitchen and showering her with kisses.

  And now winter was sliding into spring, bringing warm weather. Hannah would be able to take Janie outdoors and allow her to run and absorb the sun’s rays as she grew strong and healthy and happy.

  The only dark cloud was the inevitability of the child’s relatives coming to claim her. Every day Hannah told herself she would have to give up, to accept the appearance of a grandparent, an aunt, someone who would travel to North Dakota for the horses, and Jane.

  The Jenkinses had taken the horses home. They kept them in a makeshift enclosure in their rusted sprawling shed. Hank threatened to turn them loose every day, but Hod exercised his common sense, saying what if the owners did return? Then what?

  Hannah taug
ht herself to sew small dresses, thick diapers, little undergarments, hunkered over the treadle sewing machine with knitted brows, her back aching with tension. She was determined to learn.

  Letters from her mother began to arrive with regularity now that spring was on its way, informing her about life back on the Stoltzfuses’ homestead. Hannah wished she wouldn’t call the farm a homestead. This was their homestead. Her doubts about whether they belonged on the prairie had melted away with the snowdrifts.

  The longhorns had come through the winter unscathed, only thinner and uglier than ever, dropping calves with the same unhurried belligerence that they did everything else, swinging their massive horns at anyone or anything that came close.

  Nip and Tuck loved to antagonize the mothers with calves, bounding and yipping just out of reach of those menacing horns, till Jerry put a stop to it. He made them stay in their pen where they cried and begged until they learned their lesson, before they were hooked by an extraordinarily agile cow.

  There was never an extra minute in the day for Hannah. She threw open windows, washed walls and furniture and bedding. She tore the beds apart and washed the frames, the rails, and the wooden slats that supported the mattresses. She polished mirrors, emptied drawers and wiped them with strong-scented pine soap that had been left behind from Rocher’s hardware where she used to work.

  She could never use the soap without thinking of the unhappy couple and their merchandise in a store that was called a hardware store, but had almost anything you could ever need. And now, they had moved back East to Baltimore, Maryland.

  She wondered vaguely whether poor Harry was surviving the city. He had not wanted to return, but with a wife as miserably unhappy as Doris had been, he didn’t have much choice. He did the right thing, giving his life for his wife, giving up what he loved most and taking her home where he knew she would be happy. Hannah hoped he was blessed every day. He was a good man and Lord knows, there weren’t many of them.

  Janie sat beside a drawer, pulling out handkerchiefs, scarves, anything colorful, putting them carefully on a pile and patting them with her soft little hands, saying, “Now, now.”

  She spoke quite a few words, so Hannah guessed she might be nearing 18 months old. Older than a year, but less than two.

  Hannah was on the porch emptying a bucket of water when she spied the dark vehicle plowing through the mud, water, and slush, veering sharply in the back as the driver struggled to keep the car on the road, such as it was in spring.

  Her heart beat once, flopped over, then rushed on. Blood pounded in her ears. They had come. Her first instinct was to run inside and grab Janie, hide her, tell a lie. She couldn’t do this. Nausea rose, a hot bile in her throat, as the color drained from her face. Her mouth went dry and her nostrils dilated as her heart thumped.

  She struggled for control, to regain a sense of composure. Janie was still playing happily in the bedroom. She checked her appearance, plucked a few stray hairs, adjusted the navy blue dichly on her head, then watched as the car slid to a stop in front of the house.

  She drew in a long, steadying breath as the passenger door opened, and a white-haired lady dressed in a fashionable coat and hat stepped gracefully from the car. The driver emerged at the same time, a tall, older gentleman dressed in brown tweed, a hat on his head.

  It had to be them. The grandparents.

  She hoped Jerry was in the barn. She badly needed him to greet them. There were no other passengers in the car, which was shocking. These two aging people had come all this way on these back roads, driving a car that required skill on roads that were barely passable in some places.

  They stood, looking uncertainly at the house. Hannah forced herself to go to the door, open it, and call out a greeting. Immediately, the couple’s gazes relaxed, a smile appeared on the woman’s face, and they made their way up the muddy path to the door.

  Where was Jerry? Well, nothing to do but face this thing head on. She had known it was coming. She stood by the door, waiting until they were both on the porch, and then extended her hand. “How do you do?”

  “We are both well, thank you.” They shook Hannah’s hand, the gentleman’s grip firm, his blue eyes inquisitive but kind. His wife had a soft handshake, her round face showing no emotion, only a calm curiosity from colorless eyes behind a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles, as round as her face.

  “You must be Hannah Riehl.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  Visibly relieved, the gentleman sighed, shook his head, and gave a small laugh. Before he could say more, Hannah stepped aside and ushered them in, closing the door behind them. The prairie wind still had a bite to it, as Hod would say.

  “Please, sit down. Make yourselves comfortable.”

  They sat side by side, stiffly, their feet tucked in beneath them, their gloved hands in their laps. Tension hummed between them.

  “We are Thomas and Evelyn Richards. We have journeyed here from Utah. Have you heard of Salt Lake City?”

  Hannah’s heart dropped as if it was falling into her stomach. The room spun as she struggled to breathe normally. She licked her dry lips and answered, “Yes.”

  Soft footsteps came down the hallway as Janie made a shy appearance, her thumb thrust securely in her mouth, her eyes large with fright.

  Hannah leaned down and extended her hands. “Come.”

  The couple watched Janie intensely. “We are Lila’s parents.”

  “I see.”

  “And this is …?”

  Hannah was clinging to Janie, holding her too tightly. She wriggled, wanting down, but Hannah only pulled her closer. “We call her Janie. Do you know the story?”

  Mr. Richards nodded. “Some of it. I don’t know if we’ll ever be able to sort out the truth from the lies.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “Lila ran off with Timothy Weber when she was fourteen years old. They disappeared one night, and we heard nothing for close to six months. By then they were in Texas.” He stopped, struggling to control his emotions.

  His wife continued for him. “They were taken in by a wealthy rancher by the name of Caldwell. I have no idea why or how they ended up here in this …” She spread her hands.

  Hannah smiled. “Most people find the prairie unattractive,” she commented.

  “I don’t mean to say that, but it is isolated. We knew they had had a child and that they lived in North Dakota. And then, we were notified about the fire, the child, and their presumed deaths.”

  Mr. Richards took over. “They are believed to have perished in the fire. The chief of the fire company said there was a gold wedding band in the ashes. A ring. Why only one, was my question. Later, they found the other one.

  “So, I suppose, no matter how hard we try and tell ourselves they could still be alive, we know they are not. Why the child was in the barn is a searing question to which we may never know the answer. We may have to live with this for the rest of our lives.”

  “She is our granddaughter,” Evelyn Richards said softly.

  “She doesn’t look like Lila, does she?” Thomas whispered.

  Hannah replied matter-of-factly, “We actually only met them once and had a nice visit. Lila had gone to lay down for a nap, so we only talked with her briefly. She was so young.”

  “Yes. Sixteen. So you see, we’re heartbroken. Grief is a terrible thing. Especially in circumstances that are beyond our understanding. The whole thing is a mystery, a nightmare we have to live with. If only we could wake up and it would all be a bad dream.” Thomas Richards would carry the mark of this tragedy to his death. Hannah bit her lip and pushed back the sympathy that welled up.

  “Lila was disobedient. Madly in love with the much older Timothy Weber. We hope she had time to repent. She was always such a sweet, loving daughter, never caused us a moment’s trouble, until she met Timothy.”

  Thomas Richards’s piercing gaze fastened on Hannah. “You say you met them once. You were in their house? You sat and had a nice visit? Nothing stran
ge?”

  Hannah thought back to the day of the storm. She shook her head. “He seemed a bit arrogant, maybe. Over optimistic. We saw no child and he said his wife was napping, so perhaps she was putting the child to sleep.”

  “Why would he not have mentioned the child?”

  “I have no idea.”

  Evelyn Richards began to weep, delicately bringing a lace handkerchief to her face. “Lila may have suffered at the hands of this man.”

  Thomas patted his wife to console her, his face gray with pain. “We have the child, dear,” he said. Evelyn nodded.

  So, it was final then. Hannah felt as if there was a stone in her chest instead of a beating heart. She told herself to have courage, to be strong enough not to break down visibly.

  “So you do realize, Mrs. Riehl, that we are her legal guardians.”

  “Yes.” Hannah’s voice was a whisper.

  “Your husband? Is he about?”

  Hannah sat up to look out the window. “He was here earlier but I believe he rode out to check on the cows. It’s calving season.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?”

  “No. No. We have a long drive ahead of us. We may as well not linger here.”

  Hannah sighed. She looked into Janie’s face, clasping her shoulders, and saw the question in her eyes. “Do you want to go to your grandmother, Janie?” A sob in her voice. Quickly, she swallowed.

  As long as Hannah lived, she would remember the look of absolute trust in Janie’s round eyes before she slid off her lap and walked to her grandmother. She stood at her grandmother’s knee like a little princess. So much grace, so much trust, Hannah thought.

  Evelyn reached for her, and Janie went into her arms willingly. The lady’s tears flowed, but a smile appeared through them like sunshine breaking through on a rainy day. She touched Janie’s hair, her nose, her pert mouth. She murmured and stroked as Janie sat staring at her intently. Thomas reached over to touch the brown curls, tears in his own eyes.

  How strange, Hannah thought, that Janie accepts them both immediately. Perhaps God was in all of it, and, in her mother’s words, it was simply “meant to be.”