Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  Roasts of beef that had simmered in the eisa kessle, the iron kettle, were taken up on wooden cutting boards and sliced. In a corner of the kitchen, workers rubbed quartered heads of cabbage across graters to create immense bowls of pepper slaw. Fresh sliced bread and apple butter was ready to be distributed across the tables.

  A respectful, quiet hum of conversation rose and fell. The women who seasoned the grated cabbage rolled their eyes in the general direction of workers, then bowed their heads and shielded their lips with the protection of a palm held sideways.

  “They say no one has seen her cry yet,” Esther Zook hissed.

  “Who?”

  “Oh, that Hannah. You know.”

  “Oh, you mean his wife. Oh, I know. She’s so cold. They say she didn’t love him. Not right.”

  A forkful of pepper slaw was shoved under the speaker’s nose. “Here. Taste this. What do you think? Vinegar? Sugar?”

  Mary Miller made an awful face, puckering her mouth like the drawstring on a cloth purse. “No more vinegar. There’s enough vinegar in there to pickle a pig!”

  “Nah, Mary. Don’t be so odd.”

  “Here, Suvilla. You taste it.” Suvilla took a hearty chomp, waving a hand across her mouth as tears rose to the surface. “Too much vinegar! Who put it in?”

  “More cabbage. The only thing to do.”

  “Hurry up. You’d think they’d be back from the begräbniss by now.”

  “Not if Eph Lapp has it.”

  “Ach, ya. He’s so long-winded. They say Henner King’s wedding, you know, he married Eva, didn’t leave out till almost one o’clock.”

  A very heavy woman sailed over. “Shh! Quiet. They’re back. Use a little respect now. Hush!” Noses wrinkled in the disappearing woman’s wake, but there was a general air of respectful silence.

  Hannah forced herself to eat a small amount of mashed potatoes and gravy, but all she could think of was how much Jerry would have enjoyed them. He’d often made them himself when she’d refused to do it.

  A deep sense of shame turned her mouthful of creamy mashed potatoes to rancid slop. She laid down her fork and took out her handkerchief to wipe her mouth. A perfectly ironed square of white linen. Never used once, all day. A sense of accomplishment made her feel better.

  She received kind words and handshakes stoically, nodding, murmuring “denke,” over and over without shedding tears, devoid of outward feeling.

  She was achingly weary. Her knees buckled, her shoulders drooped. She watched the men and women clearing off the tables and carrying out the benches. She noticed the giant man, Dave King, carry benches like they were toothpicks. He grew a beard, which meant he was married. A young woman touched his arm. He bent his head to listen, then nodded. He disappeared. That must be his wife.

  Later, when she thought she would collapse on a heap like melted butter, she saw him carry a chair over the row of remaining benches. When he reached her side, he placed the chair on the floor and left without saying anything. Gratefully, she slid onto the chair and sat with her hands folded in her lap.

  Strange, the way that simple act of kindness immediately brought stinging tears to her eyes.

  Hannah did not sleep at all that night. Over and over, scenes that brought a sickening remorse flashed before her eyes. Jerry had not kissed her good-night. He would have, but he knew she wasn’t happy. How gladly would she milk cows with him now.

  Her night was raw with regret, bitter with unshed tears. The loss of the homestead, all she had ever known all those years, blurred with the loss of Janie and the palomino, King, and now, Jerry, her husband of a little over a year.

  Was that really all the time they’d had together? If she looked back, her sadness was like a jumble of impenetrable rocks, sharp and dangerous, useless to try to navigate. Boulders of mistakes and anger, bitterness and pride. A harsh landscape without mercy.

  God did not have mercy on her. He showed her no love.

  An empty calendar without numbers. A blank future that likely held nothing at all. An existence where she breathed, ate, slept, and tried to avoid questions and invitations from rude, nosy people she didn’t like.

  Wasn’t there a verse somewhere in the Bible about wings of an eagle and waiting? Okay, Lord, I’m sorry. I was not a nice person. If You’ll forgive me, I’ll do better. I need Your mercy. Badly.

  With that short and startling prayer, Hannah got out of bed, dressed, went down to the kitchen, and made three soft-boiled eggs and two pieces of toast with butter. She ate every mouthful. Then she got down the box of cornflakes, poured some in a bowl, and sugared them liberally, dumping milk over them. She ate every last bit. She felt fortified, courageous, and ready to face the future now that she knew God had forgiven her.

  She coughed, blew her nose, adjusted her apron, filled a bucket with water, and proceeded to wash the living room floor on her hands and knees. That was where her mother found her at 6:00 a.m., her usual time to appear in her kitchen to prepare breakfast.

  “Hannah?” A surprised question.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” Hannah said over her shoulder, her right arm with the scrub cloth making rhythmic motions, great arcs of scrubbing across an already clean floor.

  Sarah sank down onto a chair. “Ach, I was afraid of it. I heard you turning. But I must admit, I fell asleep in spite of your suffering. I was so exhausted.”

  “It’s all right.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes. It is.”

  Sarah considered trying again to draw Hannah out of her shell of suffering, but thought better of it. She’d talk when she was ready, and not a moment before.

  The stodgy lawyer with the vest stretched across his stomach like the skin of a sausage harrumphed and twirled his moustache with the tips of his fat fingers (which also looked like sausages).

  “What we have here is a fine example of forward thinking. Mr. Jeremiah Riehl has bequeathed all his possessions and worldly goods to his dear and beloved wife, Hannah Riehl. Which had all been sold at auction, is that correct?” More hacking and throat clearing.

  “Yes,” Hannah said levelly, swallowing and wondering what the poor man’s breakfast had been to create all that phlegm.

  He pinched the tip of his moustache and twirled, rolling the coarse gray hair into a twist, then releasing it, whereupon it quickly twirled back to its former waxen spiral. “So, we have an amount of ten thousand, nine hundred and eighty-four dollars to be bequeathed to Hannah Riehl on the date of, let me see …” More moustache twirling and attempted phlegm removal.

  “Pardon me, ma’am. Pardon me. It’s the bacon. Bacon at … well, you don’t normally make a habit of dining at the eating establishments in the city. You plain folk live frugal lives. I respect that. Deeply admire that.” Hannah nodded and willed him to bring this endless meeting to a close.

  On the streets of Lancaster, she walked slowly beneath flourishing maple trees and read copper plaques. “Smith, Rembrandt and Heron.” Another read “Dougherty” and still another, “Leek and Leek.” All lawyers in this part of town. Brick sidewalks and ornate buildings with deep, wide windows.

  Hannah was fascinated as she strolled along, drinking in the sights. She was awed at what men could accomplish with wood, brick, stone, and mortar. There were heaps of sooty slush, snow the color of chimney smoke, automobiles in gleaming shades of red, blue, or silver navigating the streets like beautiful bridesmaids sailing down an aisle in all their finery.

  There were mud-splattered trucks, horse-drawn delivery carriages with names of businesses embossed in gold calligraphy on their sides. There was milk delivery and freshly baked bread from Emmaus Bakers.

  She came to a swinging sign suspended from a horizontal pole fastened to the top of a window frame. ZIMMERMAN’S she read. Just that. Zimmerman’s. She knew many Mennonites named Zimmerman. Then she spied the words, FINE DINING.

  Now, what if she went inside and paid to have a full-course meal brought to her table? Would that be so awful? She sh
ook her head. Jerry had been buried less than eight weeks, spring was on its way, and there was work to be done. So why should she loiter here, spending her money on unnecessary luxuries? She walked on, but not without a mounting sense of loss.

  Hannah walked behind the drugstore to the hitching post where Manny waited in the carriage. She smiled to herself to find him draped across the seat, his straw hat over his face to shield his eyes, sound asleep. The horse looked as if he’d been taking a good snooze as well, standing on three legs with his nose almost touching the ground.

  Hannah reached the buggy and shook it with all her strength. Manny’s head wobbled on his shoulders, his straw hat sliding off his face. His eyes popped open, clouded with sleep and confusion, before he caught sight of her. “Hannah! Stop it!” he yelled in a hoarse voice, his throat constricted with sleep.

  “Lazy, Manny. That’s what you are!”

  “It took you an awfully long time.”

  “Lawyers.” Hannah untied old Dobs, got in the buggy, pulled steadily on the reins to back up, then turned right and began their trip out of the city to return home.

  “I got my money. Or rather, our money. Mine and Jerry’s,” she said. Manny gave her a sharp look.

  “What do you mean, Jerry’s?”

  “A part of me will always belong to the memory of our time together.”

  Manny nodded, understanding.

  “How is it going with Marybelle?”

  “I asked her to marry me on Sunday evening.”

  Hannah turned to look at him, sharply. “She agreed? She said yes?”

  “Of course. We love each other very much.”

  Hannah bit her lip. She had been married but she could not fully comprehend the meaning of his words. What was love? How exactly did you know when you loved someone? And how did you measure love? Who knew the moment they changed from liking someone to loving them enough to want to marry them? It was Hannah’s shameful secret. Could she ever ask her brother? She desperately wanted to ask him but a deep sense of embarrassment kept her from it. All she said was, “I’m happy for you, Manny.”

  “I’m sorry to tell you, after all you’ve been through.”

  “No, no. It’s all right. You deserve to be happy, Manny. You do.”

  “Thanks.”

  There was nothing more to say, Hannah thought. Not now. Perhaps someday I can ask someone the questions that tag along behind me like unwanted baggage. Someday. Though what did it matter now? She had had her chance at marriage and love and now that part of her life was over. Besides, she had loved Jerry, she really had. Even if it didn’t look or feel like the way other people experienced love.

  “What will you do with your money?” Manny asked, slapping his grandfather’s horse lightly with the reins he had taken over from Hannah. The only sign old Dobs had felt the slap of the leather reins was a flicking of his large ears, a few quickened steps, before returning to his usual plodding.

  “I don’t know yet. I don’t want to stay at Doddy’s.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  But she did know. Their last night together ending in an argument, Jerry’s searching good-night that met with her frigid silence. She hated the blue guest room, could barely tolerate sleeping there, in spite of falling into bed exhausted after a day of washing, ironing, housecleaning, and baking bread.

  “You could clean houses for English ladies.”

  “Uh-uh. No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because.”

  Manny shrugged his shoulders, knowing that was the only reason he’d ever receive. So, he turned his head to the right, whistled softly, switched to humming, and back again.

  Suddenly, Hannah asked if he liked it here in Lancaster County, her words without kindness. There was an accusatory note in her voice.

  Instantly on the defensive, Manny said, “Sometimes.”

  “Why do you live here then?”

  “Well, it’s the sensible thing to do. I loved the West, like you, but it’s a tough way to raise a family. The hardships …” His voice drifted off.

  “Yes, but that hardship kept life interesting. Here, we sit in the middle of all this verdant growth, the tropical jungle of vegetation and lots of people, where it always rains when it should and everyone leads normal, secure, measured, ordinary lives, making money and having kids like rabbits. You do and say what is expected of you. You’re put in a slot, like a cow in her stanchion. There are never any surprises or anything to appease your sense of adventure.”

  “Jerry’s accident was a surprise … and a shock, Hannah.”

  “Well, that, yes.” Ashamed, Hannah fell silent.

  Manny did this to her. Always had. He made her feel humble and childish when he spoke the truth.

  She watched the countryside, the white farmhouses and white barns, the green already appearing in low places, the pussy willows shooting green growth.

  A promising spring, another season to plant, another summer to hoe and harrow, pull weeds and nurture with compost and manure. Another fall to harvest and another winter to start the process all over again.

  She wouldn’t do it. She would not conform to everyone’s expectations. A fierce rebellion welled up within her, like a wild, growing algae in a clear pond, destroying common sense as it grew.

  She’d return. Ask Hank to allow her to continue. He’d let her. She ached for the prairie in spring. The colors of the purple and lavender columbine. The patches of white daisies with hidden nests of prairie hen eggs. The crested wheat grass like swaying hula dancers from her geography book. She yearned to hear the myriad songs of the little brown dickeybirds, a flock of them like a spray of buckshot exploding across the waving grass.

  She could smell the wet undergrowth, that sharp, pungent odor of moist soil decaying old growth, and bursts of brilliant new shoots appearing like magic.

  How could she ever live without it? How could she manage life in Lancaster County without Jerry to keep her there?

  At the supper table Hannah was pale and subdued. She pushed a chicken leg around on her plate, nibbled the canned corn on her spoon, took too many agitated sips of water from her tumbler, repeatedly clearing her throat. Her grandfather watched her closely, his kind eyes welling with moisture. He saw Sarah casting bewildered glances in Hannah’s direction.

  “Hannah, how did things go today?” Doddy asked.

  She nodded too soon and too fast. “Gute.”

  “So, your money is deposited in the First National Bank?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s good, Hannah. I trust you will pray about God’s will for your future, now that you have entered widowhood. What is the common saying? ‘Take a year. Don’t do anything rash. Take your time to see what unfolds.’ When a person is grieving, they don’t always make the best decisions.”

  Her face like a ceramic bowl, smooth, with no expression, Hannah looked at her grandfather. He recoiled inwardly. Her eyes were cold and hard.

  “Do you have any plans made?” he asked.

  “I want to go back!”

  Sarah gasped audibly, speaking out of turn, completely unnerved as Hannah’s words settled around the table. “But, Hannah, you can’t!” her mother gasped.

  The grandfather raised a hand, palm outward, to bring calm and quiet. The clock on the kitchen wall behind the table kept up its fierce ticking until it reached six o’clock, adding to the elevated tension that had wound its way into the room. Sarah’s face registered wide-eyed panic. Manny’s mouth hung open in unabashed disbelief. Mary leveled a look of disgust at Hannah, as only young girls can. Eli went on humming, chasing noodles around his dinner plate with the tip of his fork, thinking of the salamanders that lived in the stone spring house down by the creek.

  Doddy Stoltzfus weighed each word before he spoke. When he finally aired his response, there was a bewildered hope in Hannah’s eyes. “Hannah, you say you want to go back. I presume you are referring to returning to North Dakota. What
makes you want to return?”

  “The prairie in spring. The freedom of wide open spaces. Away from …” Hannah spread her hands, waving them in arcs in the air. “This. This claustrophobic county crawling with people.”

  To Hannah’s great surprise, a smile spread across her grandfather’s face, followed by a wide grin, then a loud guffaw of mirth. Sarah slanted an annoyed look at her aging father. For the first time in her life she thought he was becoming senile, unfit to hand out advice to her wayward daughter.

  “Well, then, I imagine if you can’t live in a county crawling with people, as you put it, we’ll have to let you go. If this is what you truly want, then we’ll put you back on the train with our blessing. Herr saya.”

  Incredulous, Sarah sputtered words of rebuke. “Dat, doo kannsht net. You can’t. We can’t, any of us, go through this horrid ordeal one more time.” A hard edge of hysteria crept into her voice. “Hannah, the prairie in springtime is a mirage. You know reality follows. Drought, fire, shriveled garden produce, the endless insanity-inducing winds.” Sarah’s eyes were wide with remembered agonies. She clutched one arm with the fingers of her opposite hand. She visibly trembled.

  Hannah lifted her chin. “I love those winds.”

  Sarah rose halfway from her chair. She pointed a shaking finger in Hannah’s direction. “If you go back out to North Dakota, you will do so completely against my will. I say, ‘No,’ and I mean no!”

  Manny nodded in agreement with his mother. He placed a hand on Hannah’s arm. “You are grieving, Hannah. You are missing Jerry more each day. That’s what you’re trying to escape. Your sorrow.”

  Hannah’s eyes blazed with a black rebellion. She got up from her chair in one swift movement, the chair toppling over and hitting the floor with a crash. “Don’t tell me what I can do and what I can’t! None of you have the slightest idea what’s wrong with me!”

  She hurled her harsh words of accusation, her face crumpling like a child’s, as grating sobs rose in her throat. Her eyes squeezed shut as the deep spring of her grief opened, the cache of denial she had allowed to fester and grow.