Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  “I’ll get her things,” Hannah said quietly.

  She cried while she packed the flannel diapers, the homemade dresses, and the little stockings. She had no shoes. Her coat was a stitched-together, made-over affair from one of Hannah’s own, made without a pattern. She felt ashamed, then, of Janie’s meager belongings, and her own inability to sew.

  She heard the door open and close, voices. Jerry had come in. Viciously, she swiped at her tears, set her mouth in a determined line. She would not allow him to see how devastating this was. She had her pride to uphold. He’d seen her down too many times already.

  She brought the cardboard box out of her bedroom, her face expressionless. Jerry was deep in conversation with the Richardses, so she set the box on the table beside the rocking chair and stood politely, her face a mask of self-control.

  Jerry could supply no more information than Hannah had been able to, but Janie’s grandparents were more than satisfied to be able to claim the child, a consolation they would have as they lived out their days.

  They would find the birth certificate and call her by her given name. Janie would live in a Christian family with a group of caring adults around her and therefore, would never know of the tragedy in her past. Jerry and Hannah would never be known by her, never remembered, never longed for. Mercifully, she was too young to know.

  And then, Hannah desperately wanted this to be over. She wanted them gone, with Janie, so she could begin to live her days without her and to see if she would be able to survive.

  She handed Janie’s coat to Evelyn, who began to insert the little hands into the sleeves. That was when she reached for Hannah, a puzzled expression giving way to howls of protest.

  Quickly Jerry picked her up, finished putting on her coat and scarf while Thomas and Evelyn stood there.

  “Just go,” Hannah said, tightly.

  Her last memory of Janie was seeing her over Jerry’s shoulder, both arms outstretched to Hannah, crying, “Mama. Mama!” until Hannah closed the door with more force than was absolutely necessary. She ran into her bedroom and threw herself on her bed, the pain eventually melting into heaving sobs and rivers of tears that soaked the quilt.

  She heard Jerry return. Her bedroom door was firmly closed so he’d leave her alone. She listened for the sound of the car engine and thought there was always a chance they’d changed their minds, take pity on her and on Janie.

  She knew they’d be good to Janie, knew she’d have a nice life. Knew too that this had all been inevitable, but all that was of small comfort.

  Hannah had never realized the joy of caring for a child. She had not known she would ever feel this way. She had loved her siblings, but not the way she had loved Janie. It was all a mystery, this bond between a mother and her child.

  She thought of children of her own and knew she wanted them now. It was a settling of her mind, the sure knowledge of motherhood. Well, one day at a time.

  Spring was coming, so she’d stay busy. She’d bury herself in work, ride with Jerry when he rode out to deal with the longhorns, and eventually, time would heal, as it always does.

  But first, she’d have to learn to control her emotions.

  Supper that evening was a strained affair. Jerry tried to talk about Janie and her grandparents, but Hannah cut him off with a harsh word of rebuke.

  And yet, he saw and understood Hannah’s anger. She had never been angrier and more ill-mannered than she was now, living in the quiet house, a bleak space surrounded by four walls, devoid of Janie’s happy chatter, the little feet that were like a musical cadence.

  Where most women would have cried and spoken of their loss, allowing their husband’s comforting arms to surround them, Hannah built a complex, efficient wall by the force of her own belligerence.

  Nothing suited her. She made fun of the winter-toughened cows, despised the mules, said the wheat looked sparse, yelled at him for walking into the house with mud on his boots.

  And never once did she mention Janie, the tragedy at the Webers’, nothing. The final straw came a few weeks later when she blamed Jerry for the palomino’s loss, saying it wouldn’t have happened if he’d known anything about how the weather works on the prairie.

  He listened to her senseless tirade, his back turned and his shoulders squared as he held very still. When he turned, Hannah recognized the fact that she had pushed him too far.

  He stalked to her on swift, furious feet, grasped her shoulders with claw-like fingers, and shoved his face close to hers, so close she could see the small red veins that stood out on his nose.

  “Stop it, Hannah! There is absolutely no truth in what you’re saying. You were the one who wanted to go. That, Hannah, is your whole problem. Whatever happens in your life is always someone else’s fault. Your father, your mother, and now me. It’s time you grow up and take responsibility. If things continue like this, I’m going back to Lancaster County. I’m serious.” He released her roughly enough that she had to take two steps back to keep her balance.

  Her mouth opened in disbelief as she watched him yank open the door with much more force than was necessary, and disappear. It pleased her to know he wasn’t quite a saint. He was a normal man, but at the same time she felt the most uncomfortable sensation she’d ever experienced. A deep sense of shame stung her cheeks. He may as well have slapped her.

  What if what he said was true? That part about going back to Lancaster. So he did want to go back. Return to his homeland like the rest of them. Like whipped puppies. Well, she had news for him. He’d have to go alone.

  She thought of Harry Rocher going back East to Baltimore, Maryland, a stifling seaport that teemed with people, heat, and humidity. Would he find peace and happiness there? She pictured him standing on the dock, watching the barges, feeding seagulls, returning to a home with a happy wife, visiting relatives.

  Harry had done the right thing. Hannah knew his personal struggle and how difficult it had been for him to lay down his life for his wife, to love her the way Christ loved the church.

  Her own father, pious and self-righteous, secure in his plain Amish way of life, could not do what Harry had done, and he a man of the world. There was the sticker. Being Amish was all right and good, a fact she could appreciate the longer she lived with Jerry. But you had to be careful. To take the title of being Amish as a passport to righteousness was a falsehood. “By their works ye shall know them.”

  But then, her mother had submitted, truly submitted in the way the Bible taught married women to do. No one would ever know the cost of her submission. But that had been right as well.

  Jerry didn’t know everything. He had no idea what her father had done. Her anger was her father’s fault. How could she ever say that it wasn’t? He had done wrong, not her. This thought, that had played over and over throughout her life, firmly embedded in the groove of her mind, spurred her into action. She lifted dishes and slammed them into the sink, breaking the handle off a cup, running water so hot she burned her fingers, adding far too much soap as she mumbled justifications to herself.

  Jerry did not apologize. He merely went on his way, plowed the garden, spoke of the weather, the calves, the need for rain, as if that incident had never occurred. But it had! For Hannah, Jerry’s temper and his threat stayed in her consciousness like a prickly burr, uncomfortable and sometimes making her miserable. It caused her to lower her eyes, unable to meet the forgiveness in his, as she clung to her sense of having been wronged.

  The wheat grew, the roots absorbing the moisture the snows of winter had put into the prairie soil. The grass grew strong. The warm winds blew like a hushed promise of hope for the homesteaders that dotted the vast land, these clutches of buildings that housed the hardy souls of the Western prairie.

  A month passed, then two. Every day the sun rose, a fiery orange ball of heat that promised a day exactly like the previous one. Heated winds blew, a drying, hope-sucking swoop from the west. There was an orange cast to the land, a yellow fog in the atmosphere, t
hat wore down Hannah’s resolve, working away at her determination like sandpaper on a rough piece of wood.

  Surely not again. A drought this year would mean failure. An incomplete wheat crop, thin, bawling cattle, calves who trotted after their mothers as they roamed in larger and larger circles, tearing at the withered grass that gave way to a brittle lack of moisture.

  The great metal fins on the windmill whirred and creaked, the bolts straining against the indestructible frame, the pump working feverishly to draw water from the stream far below the surface.

  The moaning, hot wind clattered against the eaves, tore at the tin roof and the wooden siding, sent porch chairs skittering across the floor, dumping them off into the dust of the yard. Open windows afforded comfort, the air moving through the stifling house but carrying a fine silt of gray dust that lay over everything.

  Dishes in cupboards had to be wiped clean with the corner of Hannah’s apron, a swift dab for every tumbler or cup before it could be set on the table. Even then, they had to be placed upside down before they sat down to a meal.

  They never spoke of the weather. There was nothing to say as long as Hannah clung tenaciously to her hope of rain.

  All the washing Hannah hung on the line dried within the hour. She had to wrestle it all in as soon as possible or it would be torn from the clothes pins and hurled away by the wind.

  Jerry and Hannah rode into the town of Pine for supplies, windblown and sunburned, King and the unruly quarter horse hitched to the spring wagon. Entering the town, Hannah asked Jerry to tie the horses. She was ashamed to drive down the main street with the exhausted team covered in white foam from the chafing harness on their wet bodies.

  Rocher’s Hardware had been bought by a man named Amos Henry, a hardworking man from Illinois. Rumors floated around the countryside. Supposedly, his wife had left with a cattle dealer and lived in luxury in California, leaving all the children behind with Amos. There were ten of them, all blond-haired and blue-eyed, devoted to their father and the success of the store.

  Hod Jenkins said the man was a wonder. Never complained, never spoke of his wife. You could see his devotion to them kids, in Hod’s words.

  He’d added a room, filled it with tools and plowshares, harnesses and saddles, tractor parts, nails, screws, lariats, halters, everything a rancher might need.

  The dry goods were all stacked neatly, bolts of cloth upright, sorted by color, the plaids and patterned fabric separate. Spools of thread, packets of needles, scissors and elastic, buttons and snaps, all of it was sorted in convenient bins within easy reach.

  Hannah walked among the many items she would have liked to purchase, but she had no idea whether Jerry could afford them. The shining teakettle, the new soup ladle. She held both of them, rubbed her palms over each item and wondered at the shine. Like a mirror. She became aware of a presence at her elbow.

  “Pretty, isn’t it?”

  Hannah turned and found a girl, shorter than she, with beautiful eyes like cornflowers, hair like new straw.

  “It’s called stainless steel,” she informed Hannah.

  CHAPTER 11

  HER NAME WAS MARGARET HENRY, AND HANNAH LEARNED SHE WAS the oldest daughter. She was a mother to her nine siblings, a sweet-natured girl of eighteen, eager to help Hannah with anything she might need.

  “Call me Margie; everyone else does,” she said, smiling happily, her eyes alight with curiosity and interest.

  Hannah was aloof at first, which was her nature. She did not need friends, certainly not strangers, and she wished Margaret would go away and leave her alone. She answered Margaret’s inquires with short nods or clipped words, which did nothing to deter the young woman’s friendliness.

  Hannah chose a packet of needles and a few black buttons to repair some articles of clothing. Then she ran a hand down the blue fabric that resembled the sky. She’d never buy it. She couldn’t ask Jerry for money, and she certainly didn’t have any of her own.

  Margaret reached up to touch her white organdy covering. “That’s nice,” she said. Then, “Why do you wear it?”

  Hannah desperately wanted her to leave, had no inclination to explain the Bible verse the Amish adopted to explain the reason for a woman’s head being covered. “I don’t know,” she mumbled, her face flaming as she turned away to examine a packet of steel hairpins.

  Margaret laughed, a high, sweet sound of delight. “You don’t have to tell me,” she said agreeably.

  Hannah didn’t reply, so Margaret offered nothing more, simply turned and left, leaving Hannah to herself, thankful for this moment without her presence.

  Hannah knew she wasn’t friend material. Girls and their blathering, their senseless tittering, stupid secrets, and howls of accompanying laughter, weren’t anything she wanted or needed.

  Jerry walked over to find her. “Get what you needed?” he asked. She nodded and they walked to the grocery section, where she purchased cornmeal, rolled oats, tea, coffee, brown sugar, salt, flour, baking soda, baking powder, and then asked Jerry if he wanted anything else.

  He picked up a package of chocolate and some tin cans of fruit for making pies. “I’m hungry for chocolate cake,” he said. Hannah avoided his eyes, nodding curtly.

  Margaret watched and thought he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. Putting up a hand to adjust her blond waves, she ran a hand over her hips to smooth the pleats in her skirt. His wife was a piece of lemon, now wasn’t she?

  When all of their purchases were grouped by the register, she began her curious interrogations again, a high pink color in her cheeks, those cornflower eyes darting repeatedly to Jerry’s face while he kept up a lively banter with her. Well, let him, Hannah thought sourly. She was married to him.

  “Yeah, Ma left,” she was saying. “No heartache for us kids. She hated the West. Hated the town, all of it. Life was no fun with her around. To live with an unhappy person corrodes your own spirit. Like rust. Don’t miss her at all. I did all the work anyhow, so I did. Now, is there anything else I can get you?”

  She was looking straight at Jerry, her eyes bright with interest, her white teeth flashing in her face. He answered with a too-wide grin of his own, enjoying this exchange immensely.

  A shot of unaccustomed jealousy liquidated quickly into ill manners. Hannah’s eyes shot daggers of deep brown fury in Jerry’s direction. “If you can tear yourself away, it’s time to load up these groceries.” Her words held all the warmth of an icicle during a blizzard.

  Flustered, Jerry scrambled to retrieve the brown paper bags, picking one up too quickly. He broke his hold as a large piece of bag tore off.

  “Oh. Here, I’ll get you another one,” Margaret said breathlessly. “It happens all the time.”

  Hannah’s dark eyes bored into Margaret’s blue eyes. “I’ll bet,” she said, followed by a derogatory snort.

  But at the feed mill, she sat spellbound, her hands folded loosely in her lap, held captive by the men’s talk. Lounging against the high wooden counter, one leg crossed over the other, their old Stetsons stained with perspiration, tall, short, round in the stomach, or stick thin, these men were all cut from the same cloth, their parents and grandparents staying on their homesteads, eking out the meager existence they seemed to love.

  Nothing dampened these grizzled men’s spirits. They thrived on difficulty. Monetary success was a concept they didn’t understand. They measured with a different yard stick than the rest of the world. The prairie was their life. “Got into Grandpap’s blood, and his pap before him. Ain’t no other place to live, far’s I’m concerned.”

  Hannah felt a deep respect and awe for these battered Stetsons. Their sunburned faces were like prunes, deep lines and crevices etched from brow to chin, a map of their lives. They lived on the land, gleaned from it what they could, raised a few scrawny longhorns. Success was an evening spent on the porch, a barn cat rubbing along the creaking hickory rocker, a dog at their feet, and the spectacular sunset their entertainment.

&nbs
p; “If the wife became unhappy, wal, then, she’d have to go back East cause they shore weren’t gonna leave the prairie nohow.”

  Today, the subject was the drought. Wasn’t it always?

  “Ain’t rainin’ this summer.” Stated bluntly, with absolute conviction.

  “Who said?”

  “Aw, come on. We’ll have us a few good soakin’ thunderstorms. What’re you talkin’ about?”

  Wads of tobacco shifted, streams of dark brown juice were aimed expertly at the copper spittoon in the corner. By the looks of the dried dribbles on the outside, plenty of misses had taken place.

  Hannah swallowed.

  “Nope.” The first speaker leaned forward, removed his elbows from the high counter, uncrossed his legs, and went to thump a feed sack of grain to form a perch for himself. “No sir, I’m tellin’ you. We had that yaller look about us, come spring. You get that, it’s gonna be dry as Abraham’s desert.”

  Jerry stood off to the side, taking in every word, but seldom speaking himself, listening to learn the knowledge of the plains.

  “Any o’ you ever hear more about that house fire out there where them Germans usta live?”

  Most faces turned to Jerry. He nodded. “The grandparents of the young wife came to collect the little girl. They’re from Utah, where Timothy Weber said he was from, so we know that part is true, but not much else.”

  “Them young people died though, for sure? In thet there fire?”

  Jerry shrugged. “They think so. Found their wedding rings.”

  “They shoulda found more’n that. No body turns completely to ashes when they burn.” Heads nodded in agreement.

  “I still think there’s somethin’ afoot.”

  Bill Hawkins, an old bachelor that ran the biggest herd of longhorns, cleared his throat, spit a long stream of molasses-colored liquid from his mouth, wiping his mouth on the cuff of his sleeve before commencing with his point of view.