by Linda Byler
After the trucks had been loaded and most items hauled away, Hod Jenkins came to stand with Hannah. Hank and Ken sidled up soon after, their eyes alight with a new interest.
“So, this is it then?”
Jerry nodded. “This is it.”
“Must be hard for you, Hannah.”
Hannah lowered her eyes, the toe of her shoe scuffing the dust at her feet. “It is.”
“I imagine so.”
“Hank here was wonderin’, since you can’t sell the homestead, we’ll jest go to the courthouse or wherever, whatever it takes to take on the land and the buildings. He’ll likely have to put in another ten years, but he’s good with that. Right, Hank?”
Hank turned his head and directed a jet of dark brown tobacco juice into the dust with a wet smack. Hannah swallowed the nausea that welled up in her throat. “Yeah,” he said, shifting the wad of soaked tobacco.
“Reckon he’ll find hisself a woman, ifn’ he ain’t already done that, and this here ranch is better’n ours. He’ll be well off afore he even starts.”
“Yeah,” Hank agreed. “Hannah got married to this guy, so I gotta start all over.” He jerked a thumb in Jerry’s direction, his wide grin revealing a row of yellow, tobacco-stained teeth like rotten corn. Hannah thought the mule’s mouth looked better, even when it brayed! Hay was cleaner than that disgusting wad of tobacco.
Hod laughed. “You coulda had all my boys, Hannah. Every one of ‘em was so sweet on you they thought up every reason they could fer ridin’ over here. Like bees to honey, they was.”
Hannah smiled, but didn’t blush. She’d always known. And might have gone ahead and married Clay if it hadn’t been for her mother. Hod prodded her with his elbow. “Yer not sayin’ nothin.”
Hannah smiled. Yes, she might have married Clay but she couldn’t think of the disaster that would have amounted to. Young, headstrong, unable to put up with the “aw shucks” of the Jenkinses. They lived out their days with an ambling easiness, nothing riling them too much. If the roof leaked, there was always a bucket to catch the drips. If the fence was broken, it stayed that way. Mud, dust, manure. It was all tracked into the house. Weeds and tin cans and pecking chickens, mangy dogs and skulking cats … that was just their way of life.
The divide between the two cultures would have proved her undoing. Would she have been able to love anyone, back then? All the raw misfortune that had presented itself, over and over, had shaped her into who she was today.
Jerry liked to remind her that God puts us through the fire so all our impurities are melted away. We become a golden, shining vessel for His use. Well, she had plenty of dross left over but she guessed it must be true, if you looked at it the way Jerry did.
Hod looked at her. “Now that remark put ya to thinkin.”
Hannah nodded, but had no words, no smart retort.
“Ah, likely jest as good this way. Clay an’ Jen’s happy. They couldn’t be here today. Went to visit Jen’s gramma over’n Montana somewheres.”
“I was wondering where they were,” Hannah remarked.
Hod smiled at her. “Wal, I’ll tell ya right now. I’ve been pleased to have you folks fer neighbors all these years. Too bad about yer pa, Hannah. He was a good man, just a mite determined to do things his way. Out here in God’s country, ya gotta listen to the old timers. They know what they’s talkin’ about. Seems as if yer pa had his own ideas, doin’ things the way he did back East. But, like I said, he was a good man. Now yer ma, there’s the salt o’ the earth. Never knew a better woman. I’d a asked her to marry me, but I ain’t near good enough. Besides, there’s that religion thing. Don’t hold with all them rules.
“But jest want to let you know, it’s been a pleasure knowin’ you folks. Hopefully, we’ll do their place proud. Ya’ll kin come back ‘n visit, and likely Hank ‘n his wife’ll be livin’ in the house, runnin’ livestock of their own.”
“It seems right that one of you will be living here,” Hannah said. “I’m so glad the house won’t be setting empty.”
And she meant it.
After everyone had gone, the auctioneer went over the results of his day’s work and Jerry paid him, along with a too-generous tip, in Hannah’s opinion.
Hannah wouldn’t talk to him for some time, simply sweeping the house in angry jerks, slamming things around until Jerry got the message that he’d done something wrong.
“All right, what is it? What did I do?” he asked, blocking her way to the near-empty pantry.
She wouldn’t answer him then, but later she decided to clear the air and tell him about the auctioneer. She concluded her rant with a firm, “He didn’t need a tip!”
“I disagree,” Jerry said. “You can’t look in someone’s face and decide then and there that you don’t like them. He’s one of the best auctioneers I’ve ever seen. We were paid well for all our possessions. We have enough for a down payment on a small house when we return to Lancaster County.”
Hannah was effectively silenced.
For one last time, she walked across the prairie, felt the absence of Nip and Tuck acutely. How many times had she thrown a stick and watched them rocket after it, dropping it at her feet, eyes shooting sparks, mouths wide, panting? Over and over. Hank and Ken had taken them home. She refused to even say goodbye. It was easier that way.
Her scarf was tied snugly beneath her chin, so she loosened it, held it by a corner, and swung her arms wide, feeling the rush of pure wind in her ears, the headscarf billowing out like the sail on a boat. She twirled on one foot, turning to all four directions, tried to inscribe on her heart the isolation, the wonder of being alone in this vast land. She wanted to capture the wind and the scent of the soil, remember the sight and sound of the undulating sea of grass, forever.
And then she was crying, sobbing with abandon, until her eyes felt swollen and her cheeks chafed with the cold and the runnels of tears. She knew her face was purple, discolored, ugly, but nothing mattered. She was who she was, and nothing would change that.
She whispered her goodbye, and her thanks to this great land that had, indeed, clasped her heart and held it with its awesome, indescribable power.
CHAPTER 14
CLUTCHING THEIR SATCHELS, SUITCASES AT THEIR FEET, JERRY AND Hannah stood by the old railroad station, the cold wind biting their faces with the first icy blast of winter’s arrival. Many times in recent days Hannah had nearly changed her mind, nearly begged Jerry to return to the homestead. But that wind reminded her of all the reasons they were leaving and gave her the courage to face the unknown ahead of her.
Displaced, unanchored, a wanderer. Hannah acutely understood the true meaning of losing a home, of striking out in uncertainty, in spite of the fact that she was returning to her roots.
They heard the train, saw the billowing black smoke, long before it rattled and hissed into the station in a cloud of steam and charcoal-gray smoke.
A few bedraggled passengers stepped down. Men wheeled clattering carts of boxes, burlap bags, trunks, luggage of every description. They shouted directions to one another, lifted heavy containers on capable backs, and disappeared into the rail cars. They reappeared, issuing more commands.
Not much different from an anthill, Hannah thought sourly. And then, the conductor appeared on the lower step of the passenger car to their right. Jerry stooped to pick up the largest of their suitcases, nudged Hannah, and said softly, “Here we go.”
She followed him, feeling utterly empty. Is this all it would be, then? Board this monstrous thing that smelled of coal gas and tar and rained sparks like the biblical brimstone, then sit in a miserable seat and gaze out a soot-streaked window, all the while crying inside until your heart felt as if it was melting away into nothing?
She arranged her face into a cold mask of indifference, sat as close to the window and as far away from him as possible, piercing the window glass with her hard, polished eyes that held back the torrent of regret, the sadness that rolled over her in waves of pain.
She had known leaving would not be easy. But she was ill-prepared for the onslaught of varied emotions that built up in her throat until she was unable to breathe properly.
Jerry knew to leave her alone. The joy of returning beat strongly in his chest. He knew no regrets. He had made the promise to stay, and would have done it, had Hannah not chosen otherwise.
The whistle sounded, that earsplitting scream Jerry loved. He leaned forward, past Hannah, watched the prairie begin to move, sliding away as the train picked up speed. His eyes shone with the challenge of returning, looking for a home, a small farm. They would find a place that was at a healthy distance from neighbors, away from prying eyes. He looked forward to this new chapter in his life with Hannah.
For miles, Hannah feigned sleep, sagged into a corner, and pouted like a disobedient schoolgirl. Jerry watched the landscape rolling past, and reached under the seat for the packet of cold meat sandwiches Hannah had prepared that morning.
She had refused to make breakfast, saying the cook stove was gone, so how could she? Bread and butter would have been fine, but he drank the last of the milk, wiped his mouth, and said nothing.
He knew the leaving would be hard, but this? Oh well, he was sure it wouldn’t be the last time he’d have to face her stone-cold eyes and the disapproval of all he said and did. Especially the things he did. Her unhappiness was like two strong arms she used to pull him in, trying to drag him down with her. He had recognized this early on, so he knew the best way to handle it was to cheerfully ignore her until she got past the dark cloud hanging over her head.
Now, the sight of the sandwiches being unwrapped irked her. “It’s not lunchtime,” she hissed, her eyes sliding past him to the travelers in the seat beside her who were eyeing Jerry curiously.
“I’m hungry, so I’m going to eat.”
She was hungry, too, but swallowed the saliva that rose in her mouth at the sight and smell of food.
“Want some?” He offered half of his sandwich to her, but she shrugged away from him. Hours later she still refused to eat, simply sagging in the corner of her seat and gazing out the window with dull eyes.
They were observed curiously by the passengers across the aisle, but Jerry had his back turned much of the time, his eyes barely leaving the window as he took in every sight, drinking in the scenery in spite of its sameness.
The train stopped at so many stations that Hannah lost track. People gathered belongings, spoke urgently, then hustled off the train, shoving children and crying babies ahead of them, begging pardon for the disruption.
Hannah glared at all of them, fat mothers that smelled like sour milk and howling red-faced babies, sticky-faced children that needed a good wash and a firm reprimand. When an overly friendly farmer leaned in to ask their destination, Jerry opened his mouth to answer but Hannah spoke quickly, telling him it was none of his business and he had food in his moustache.
He walked on but turned to look at her with a baleful, whipped puppy expression before he exited the car. Hannah held his stare with her cold eyes until he disappeared.
She told Jerry they could have brought Nip and Tuck. Other folks brought animals. Why couldn’t they? Jerry explained, patient as always. The journey was only part of it. They had no home yet and to expect her grandfather to take them in along with two rowdy dogs was too much.
Hannah harrumphed plenty about that. Who did he care about after all? Her or her grandfather? Finally, Jerry spoke firmly and told her she was being impossible. He knew this was not easy for her, and he felt her pain. But, come on!
If she was ashamed after that, she gave no indication. Jerry knew that giving up was an ordeal, a genuine misery for her. Most times he found it humorous, or at worst, tolerable. But even he had his limits.
They slept fitfully, cramped in uncomfortable positions, a cold draft seeping through the windows and sending shivers down their spines. Hannah’s mood steadily worsened, until Jerry decided it was best just to ignore her completely.
Then trees appeared on the horizon. Vast forests of dark pine and bare-branched trees, miles and miles of them. Hannah reflected on all the firewood, the dwindling cottonwoods in the creek bottom. What would they have done when the last of them were chopped up and burned in the cook stove?
When the first mountain appeared in Northern Pennsylvania, a steep, gray, cold-looking monument covered with trees, rocks, shrubs, and brambles, Hannah sat up and turned to watch as the hills slid by, her eyes now open wide and alight with interest.
Suddenly, she said sharply, “We could live in the mountains.” Jerry said nothing, knowing full well there were no mountains like this in Lancaster County. Hannah couldn’t explain the overwhelming plenty of trees. On and on, everywhere, there were trees. Firewood to burn. Lumber for houses and barns and chicken sheds. Those trees represented warmth and shelter and safety. Her mind whirred.
So, why couldn’t they buy acres and acres of this mountain land and set up a sawmill? They could sell lumber for anything anyone would need. They should have kept the mules. Nip and Tuck would have loved these mountains.
The train wound its way between the mountain ledges and along a cold, gray river flowing to who knew where. If mules were too light, they could always buy Belgians. Those heavy workhorses were what loggers used to drag out the wealth of these forests.
Her mind churned, making plans.
Their arrival at the Lancaster train station was like all other stops, without fanfare, the train gliding smoothly into the station. The city outside the window was a frozen, gray landscape of towers and bulky buildings set beside each other, brick and stone, concrete and painted lumber with windows like spying eyes. The air was gray, heavy with smoke and steam, gritty with soot.
When Hannah stepped off the train, there was an absence of oxygen, a suffocating stillness containing malice and suspicion. Her eyes searched the crowd of people herded together like cattle, but found no one she recognized.
Jerry prodded her elbow with his hand. “Keep moving, Hannah. There are other folks who want off the train.” She jerked her arm away from his touch and glared at the conductor who ushered them into the milling crowd.
Her feet were swollen, stuffed into her old, stiff leather shoes. Her face felt greasy and filthy. Her shoulders ached with the weight of her satchels. She wished for wings—huge, flapping, capable bird wings—to lift her above the sordid gray roiling mess of humans, across the mountains, across rivers and plains, depositing her straight back to the lonesomeness of the homestead.
What had they done? What had possessed her to tell Jerry she couldn’t survive another winter? She couldn’t survive this, either.
They moved along with the crowd, propelled into the high-ceilinged, monstrous railroad station, alive with voices, calls, people shoving, never stopping their constant chatter. Her chest tightened, her breath came in short, heavy puffs.
Then she heard her name. Quickly, she turned her head to find her brother Manny wading through the sea of jostling, straining people. When he reached her, his dark eyes shone into hers. He clasped her extended hand with a teeth-jarring grip and said, “Hannah!”
He wrung Jerry’s hand as warmly, saying his name as well. Then he surveyed them both, said marriage suited them, and grabbed a suitcase, pointing to the north entrance. “We’ll talk later,” he mouthed.
Hannah’s mood lightened as she followed the black, broad-brimmed hat and wide shoulders of her brother’s black coat. When they emerged from the station, there were still more than enough pedestrians, cars moving, and trucks blatting their horns at incompetent drivers squeezing their vehicles past them.
“Where’s Mam?” The question had hovered on Hannah’s lips the moment she spied Manny. He laughed. “Oh, you know our mother. She won’t step into an automobile unless it’s absolutely necessary. I think the train ride to return home aged her ten years. She just doesn’t like speed.”
“So, she’s at home?”
“Yes. With enough food prep
ared to feed twenty people!”
Hannah laughed, that short, raucous burst of sound, then turned to smile at Jerry, who returned her smile wholeheartedly. So, there was joy in Hannah’s return.
The drive from Lancaster was too long for Hannah. She felt herself pushing her feet against the back of the front seat, willing the driver to drive faster.
The fields and woods were brown, or a drab, olive green. Corn fodder lay like colorless paper, yellowed and torn. Holsteins, sheep, goats, mules, horses of every description roamed pastures, pulled carriages, or plodded in standing fields of brown corn, drawing wooden wagons with rattling sides. Black-coated, straw-hatted men and scarved women were ripping off the dangling ears of corn with a swift movement of their wrists, before hurling the ears on the wagon.
Hannah watched, kept watching, turning sideways in her seat to keep an eye on people husking corn, an expression in her dark eyes that Jerry couldn’t begin to decipher.
“Remember?” he asked, gently. She nodded.
In truth, she could feel the cold, the biting, wet air that stung her cheeks and tingled her nose. The satisfying whump of an ear of corn hitting the wagon bed and rattling off into the corner. The gentle Belgians standing in the rows, snacking on corn, moving forward obediently, stopping when necessary, the smell of harness leather, the dusty, drying fields, the exhilaration of being outside in the fields with someone you loved. Her father. In memory, that’s who she was with. And he’d sing. He sang German songs on the slow veiss (tune) from the Ausbund, the hymnbook they used in church. He practiced over and over, then led singing in services the following Sunday. He had a strong voice, a good baritone to lead the congregation.
Hannah blinked and felt an unwanted lump in her throat. Once, her father had been someone. An honest, esteemed member of the Old Order Amish church, working the farm that had been his father’s before him.
The old shame returned, the feeling of inadequacy, of not being enough. Well, she was married now. A woman in her own right. Had taken the name of Riehl. Was no longer a Detweiler.