Home Is Where the Heart Is

by Linda Byler

  Now, she needed to find a supplier of fabric, a wholesale company from which to order the goods she would need. She thought maybe the post office in New Holland might be the best place to begin, but she needed a ride there. She really needed a horse and buggy, but she wasn’t sure she could afford one until the store was up and running.

  Dave came to the back door. “I forgot to bring my water jug along. Mind if I get a drink?” he asked.

  “Help yourself.”

  He drank like a camel and said he’d be back for more if it was all right with her. She nodded, then quickly blurted out her predicament. He listened, fastening his eyes on her face. “If you wait until Saturday morning, I’ll come by and give you a lift.”

  She made the mistake of meeting his eyes, becoming consumed by the warm, golden light beneath the brim of his old, darkened straw hat with rawhide string tied around the crown.

  The kitchen disappeared. She felt unanchored, thrust into a world without gravity, unsure of anything she had ever been or what she would ever be. Her self-assurance, the reliance on her armor of anger and irritation was dissolving like sugar in boiling water, leaving her stumbling for a foothold, grasping for something, anything to hold onto.

  His voice broke the spell. “If you have nothing else planned.”

  “Planned? Planned?” She couldn’t imagine what he meant.

  “I’ll take you to the post office. Didn’t you need an address or a telephone number?”

  “Oh, that. Yes. Yes, I do.” She felt like a child caught stealing candy. Her face flamed with an unimaginable embarrassment like she had never felt before. Then, there was nothing else to do but save herself from feeling smaller and smaller, that hated inward cringing, the self-loathing that was like an uncomfortable burr in a woolen sock. She glared at his brown work shoes and told him gruffly that he had mud on his shoes. Couldn’t he respect a woman’s floor?

  He let himself out but not without seeing her discomfort, a cynical smile playing around his mouth.

  When the door closed behind him, she locked it. Then she sat on the brown davenport feeling so miserable she wanted to die. Not really die, but at least fall into a faint so she’d be temporarily free from these churning insecurities. He made her feel like a bumbling teenager, and when he left, she wanted him to come back immediately!

  She was frightened by her lack of understanding. It couldn’t be what folks described as falling in love. Or could it? She did not love Dave King. Didn’t even like him. She had never been in love and had no plans to be.

  Like a moth trapped in a spider web, she beat against the confines of her self-inflected prison, hurting herself in the process. Where to turn? Who to ask? Her mother? No, she couldn’t ask her mother. She was, or had been, a married woman. How could she ever approach her own mother with such an unusual question?

  She had, quite simply, no idea where to turn. Hannah had never had the kinds of friends who spoke of liking boys and how it felt to be in love. This could not be love. It was misery!

  How would she ever be able to sit beside him in a buggy? Buggies were so narrow. You could barely keep six inches away from the person sitting beside you.

  Hannah took a deep breath to steady herself. She tiptoed to the window to peer out, checking to see if he had gone back to work.

  He wasn’t there. Now where had he gone? How could he have disappeared so fast?

  For the rest of the week, she considered calling a driver, walking all the way to the Jones residence to use their telephone to let him know she would not need to go to the post office.

  She thought of hiding in a closet or in the basement so he’d think she wasn’t at home. Or, she could always lock the door and crawl under her bed. He’d drive in, knock, and eventually leave again.

  No, she was turning into a sniveling, wet dishrag, a person with no backbone. She’d just march right out to his buggy and ask him to leave. She had no need of his assistance.

  She thumbed through the six dresses she owned. Red? Too showy. Purple? Oh, she couldn’t wear either one. She was a widow, so if she was going to be seen in public, it had to be black. She was in mourning for the traditional year, the time allotted by the Amish ordnung to dress in black.

  She washed and ironed her black dress, cape, and apron, then fell into an awful despair of indecision. Should she wear a cape, or not? He might think her too fancy if she went without it. If she wore one, she’d look as though she was dressed for church.

  She washed and starched her best white covering, ironing it with utmost care, using a paring knife to pleat the gathers properly.

  Picking lima beans was out of the question. All week, there was no sign of Dave King’s carpenter crew, which drove Hannah to distraction until she remembered that he was building a dairy barn over close to Leola at the same time he had worked her addition into his schedule.

  By Friday evening, she sat herself down calmly, hands folded in her lap, working on her resolve to remain aloof and in full control of all her senses. She’d speak primly like the sorrowful widow she was.

  He would surely respect her. She would keep her eyes averted demurely, accepting his kindness for what it was, an offer to get her to the post office. After that was decided, the realization hit her like a sledgehammer. He had absolutely no interest in her. If he had any romantic inclinations he’d never be seen with her on the streets of New Holland.

  Never. It would be breaking all the rules of tradition, of respect. Well.

  Well, that was interesting. All this craziness of washing and ironing and starching and pleating for nothing.

  A thin drizzle was falling Saturday morning, a mist with the sky a dome of milky gray. No trace of the sun. The air was humid, tainted with the smell of summer’s end, aging beanstalks and wet, crumpled weeds hanging like scraggly fur by the roadside.

  Hannah threw on an old navy blue dress, pinned her everyday apron around her waist without bothering to see if it was straight or if her leblein—the fold of cloth sewn on the waistline—was in the center. She didn’t wash her hair and left the clean covering in the drawer for church. Instead, she wore the slightly yellowed one she wore most days. Now that she realized he had no romantic interest in her, she felt much freer. She’d get over her own nonsense soon enough. It was probably just exhaustion from grieving and all the excitement from buying the house and starting her business.

  Untroubled, at ease, she met him at the stoop, smiled, and said she’d get her purse. Then she climbed into the buggy and sat with her hands in her lap.

  “Ready?” He looked at her. In the dreary light of the rainy day with the humidity like a tropical rain forest, her skin glowed luminous, an olive hue to her tanned face. Her eyes were large and dark, her lips parted softly.

  There was no avoiding touching him—his large frame took up most of the seat, leaving no gap between them. Her shoulder rested comfortably against his. Her leg touched the coarse texture of his denim trousers, but that was all right. No different than being seated beside Manny or Elam. Like a brother.

  But he kept looking at her, even after they had pulled out on the road, the horse traveling at a fast clip through the gloom. Rain misted the horse’s back like a glistening dew.

  “Did your husband ever tell you that you are beautiful?” he asked suddenly, his voice low and gravelly, as if he had a sore throat.

  Shocked, Hannah stared straight ahead, blinking rapidly. “Yes, he did. I think.”

  “You think? You don’t know?”

  “Yes, he did.”

  “You are beautiful.”

  She said nothing. Her mind had gone blank, as if an invisible eraser had wiped away any ability to speak or think. Now, how was she supposed to handle a situation like this?

  “You’ve never had children?”

  Stiffly, she told him they hadn’t been married very long.

  “Tell me about the West.”

  “It would take a long time to tell you about my life in North Dakota.”

 
“Good. Then I’ll come over this evening and we can talk about it.”

  “That wouldn’t be proper.”

  “Why not?”

  “Why would you? You have no interest in me.”

  “What makes you say that?

  “You are going to New Holland. To town. If you … well, nothing.”

  “What?”

  “Drive your horse. He’s pulling toward the middle.”

  No more conversation was forthcoming. Her lips were sealed, as if padlocked. They drove into the town, tall brick buildings lining both sides of the street, automobiles parked on each side. Teal, blue, red, and silver trucks with metal racks or trucks with no racks at all. One gleaming vehicle contained one passenger wearing a white fedora and smoking a fat cigar, eyes half-closed in his wealthy insolence.

  Hannah thought of the rusted out, dusty trucks of the West, wheezing and gasping, black smoke from overheated oil pans rolling behind them, loose wooden racks flapping like crows.

  It took her a long time at the post office. The post master was a grizzled, stooped, and bent old man, his spectacles sliding down his nose with alarming regularity. His rheumy eyes examined her face as if he doubted her sincerity.

  “Ball-ti-mer?”

  “Yes, Baltimore. In Maryland.”

  He shook his head. “Big city.”

  “I know.”

  Shuffling to a back door, he returned with a dog-eared copy of telephone numbers from various states. Humming to himself, he pushed his glasses back up on his nose with an arthritic index finger.

  Hannah shifted her weight from one foot to the other. She drummed on the countertop with her fingertips. She read every poster on the wall.

  “You said Rocher, right?”

  “Yes. Harold Rocher.”

  The humming resumed.

  “If you’ll let me …” Hannah began.

  “No, no. I’m getting there. Rogers. Richard. Hmmm.” Satisfied, he thumped the cover of the book and said, “Nope. Ain’t no Rocher livin’ in Bal-ti-mer.”

  “May I have a try?”

  The bell above the door tinkled. It was Dave. Hannah looked up. “I’m going down a few blocks to the feed store. I’ll be right back.”

  Hannah nodded.

  “Look, I seriously need to locate this man. If you’ll allow me to try …”

  Reluctantly, the old post master handed over the book. Hannah found the Rocher’s address and telephone number in a few minutes. She asked to use the telephone.

  “Pay phone.”

  “That’s all right. I need to contact this man.”

  Hannah dialed zero, spoke to an operator, and dropped the required amount of coins in the slot, waiting breathlessly until the third ring. She felt an unexpected rush of emotion when she heard Harry Rocher’s compassionate voice. “Hello. Rocher’s.”

  “Hello.” Hannah swallowed, blinked back the moisture that filled her eyes. In a thick voice she said, “This is Hannah. Hannah Detweiler.”

  A pause. Then, “Hannah!” His voice took her back to his general store. Back to the scent of fabric and tools, coils of rope and plowshares and shovels, the dust, the blowing wind, the horse waiting in the shed till day’s end. Then there was the long ride home across the blighted prairie clutching the staples that would keep her family alive, a bag of cornmeal and one of flour.

  She bit her lip, blinked furiously, sniffed, and concentrated on a war bonds poster that said BUY U.S. BONDS.

  “Hannah! Dear girl, how are you?”

  “I’m fine. I’m living back in Lancaster County. I want to start up a dry goods store and I need information on wholesale companies,” she said, her voice thick with unshed tears.

  “You’re back in Lancaster? That must have been hard. I know how much you loved that homestead. How’s your mother?”

  “She’s good. She lives with her father, my grandfather.”

  “You know, we don’t live so awfully far apart. My wife and I would love to come and look you up. Guess what I’m doing? Working in a restaurant as a chef!” His excitement rose above the static on the line. “I love it. Love it. In the evening, I walk down to the harbor, feed the gulls, and watch the water. It grows on you, Hannah. Human beings are resilient. We bounce back. Doris is a different person. Oh, you have no idea. She sings, the radio is always on, she dances and visits her parents every day. You know they’re old. You know what I cook? Fish, scallops, shrimp in olive oil and garlic, lobster—all of the food that comes from the sea. I love it. I love it.”

  Hannah could barely get a word in edgewise to remind him about the information she needed.

  “Oh yes, yes, of course. I’ll send it to you. Still have it all. I’ll put it in an envelope, one of those brown ones.” And then he was on to more descriptions of his colorful life.

  When Hannah finally placed the phone receiver back in its cradle, she had used up all of her dimes.

  So, that was Harold Rocher’s reward. He had given in, accepted his wife’s unhappiness, and did something about it, even if it meant a huge sacrifice for him, leaving the place he truly loved.

  She thanked the postmaster, who grunted in her general direction. Hannah thought he was too old to be a postmaster. Weren’t there some kind of rules about that? Old grouch! He needed to go home, make himself a cup of tea, and cover his knees with a blanket.

  She told Dave that the old guy at the post office had to be a hundred years old. He laughed, loosened the neck rope, and backed the carriage up by drawing gently on the reins and pushing against the shafts.

  He asked if she was able to talk to the person she wanted to ask information from. Hannah nodded, watching the horse’s ears.

  He tried again to spark conversation. “The old guy not very efficient, huh?”

  “Hmm-mm.”

  They rode back along Main Street, carefully avoiding parked cars and trucks as big as houses that bore down on them. The towering brick buildings were stacked together like bales of hay, wedged tight. Hannah fought the feeling of being smothered by too-tall buildings, an excess of motor vehicles and pedestrians, everyone moving, their faces expressionless, not making eye contact, as if actually meeting someone they knew would destroy their single-minded goal of keeping to their schedule.

  She breathed deeply when the town slid away and open fields and forests met them in their natural state—green, brown, and a dull yellow.

  Dave looked over at her. “You don’t like the town?” he asked. “I heard you did not want to return to Pennsylvania.”

  A pinched, “You don’t know.”

  He drove on whistling under his breath, watching the scenery to the right, wondering what had produced the bad mood of his passenger. He did want to stay for the evening and hear her story. He wanted to get to know her better, or at least try to understand her. There was no doubt, he was intrigued and captivated by her.

  He did not try to keep a conversation going but merely drove his horse and ignored his glowering companion.

  As they approached her house, she seemed to brighten a bit. She sat up straight as if the black mood had been left in New Holland at the post office. Until they reached the driveway.

  “You can let me off and then leave. No need to turn in the drive.” Her words were brittle and caustic.

  Where Jerry would have agreed and gone on down the road thinking everything was all right and he’d bide his time, Dave put up an argument.

  “You can snap out of it, Hannah. You have a lot of nerve getting all riled up by an old man who was doing the best he knew how. I didn’t cause your bad mood and you’re not taking it out on me.”

  Her mouth dropped open in surprise. She was not used to anyone standing up to her when she was in one of her black moods. She controlled her family with them. And she’d easily handled Jerry with them. When she was out of sorts, he made excuses for her and did anything he could to appease her. Only on a few occasions had he ever stood up to her. And here was this man, someone she barely knew, accusing her of wrongdoi
ng, when it was all his fault.

  His yellow gaze was not golden or warm and certainly did not cause her to go spinning off into a warm and lovely place of confusion. It was like a spark to gasoline. A clear, burning distaste for her behavior flickered from his amber scrutiny. A black blaze began in the depths of her own dark eyes. Without thinking she shot back, “Of course it’s your fault!”

  No one ever spoke to Dave King in that manner. Without giving her the benefit of an answer, he hauled back on the reins, the horse obediently lowering its haunches as it leaned against the britchment and pushed the carriage backward. A loosening of the reins in Dave’s hands, a call to go forward with a hard tug to the left rein, and Hannah was conveyed unceremoniously to the stoop at the side of her house.

  “Get out!”

  Hannah got out. Stumbled out to be exact. She watched helplessly as he drove past her. She wanted to stamp her feet and yell at him to come back here right now because they had things to discuss. But it looked as if that would only make everything worse.

  She didn’t know whether she wanted him to leave or tie his horse. When she saw him climb down and unhitch—unhitch!—she was at a loss. What in the world? He had unhitched his horse, which meant he planned on a lengthy stay and not only an hour or so. In broad daylight! What if someone came?

  Frantic now, she felt her knees weaken. Should she be afraid of this man? Embarrassed to be standing as if she had grown permanent roots down through the gravel, she kept her gaze on her shoe tops.

  “Is your door locked?”

  “No.”

  “Then I’ll let myself in.”

  There was nothing to do but follow him in. He threw his hat on the table (didn’t he know what clothes hooks were for?) and walked into the bathroom. He turned on the spigot and began soaping up, splashing water all the while.

  Hannah did not know what to do. This big galumph marching into her house and using her bathroom as if he owned the place. Well, at least he washed. No one should ever drive a horse without washing their hands afterward.