The Love Letters

by Beverly Lewis

  Marlena stood in the second-floor doorway and struggled with her memories of sitting on this balcony with her grandfather. What would he think if he could see her now—trying to care for his great-grandbaby and failing so? Would he have words of wisdom? She remembered he’d said it wasn’t the need for more hours in a day that posed a problem for most folk. It was the need for more gratitude. “Thankfulness is the key.”

  He’d say I should be grateful to have Luella’s baby thrust upon me.

  From where Marlena stood, Ellie Bitner came into view across the rented field. Stepping back from the upstairs door, Marlena hurried to look in on Angela Rose once again before dashing downstairs, elated their neighbor was coming to visit. I need all the pointers I can get!

  “Has your cat bagged any birds lately?” Luke Mast asked Small Jay as they rode down the sloping narrow road toward the mill.

  “Sassy eats cat food,” Small Jay reminded him.

  “And what ’bout Shredder, king of naughty barn cats?” Luke glanced at Small Jay, grinning to beat the band. “Has he straightened up yet?”

  “Ach, he’s always in trouble with Mamma.” Small Jay didn’t know if it was all right to say why, but he went ahead anyway. It was always curious to see folk react to how Shredder—their giant black barn cat with white paws—sometimes got into the outhouse and tore up the toilet paper. Nearly once a week it happened. Sometimes more often. However, Small Jay knew he should be careful whom he told this to, because he’d heard of certain cats mysteriously disappearing.

  Luke tapped his wide-brimmed straw hat and laughed. “So that’s how he got his name.”

  Sarah sat quietly, not saying a word, though Small Jay noticed her give Luke a couple of sideways glances. The other girl didn’t seem to pay much attention.

  “Does Shredder have any offspring?” asked Luke.

  “Six more kittens, just last month.” Small Jay paused. Then, thinking maybe Luke wanted a scary-looking black cat of his own, he went ahead. “I’m sure Dat’ll be glad to share ’em.”

  Sarah laughed softly under her breath.

  “Nee, we have enough mouse chasers in our barn,” Luke said, pushing his straw hat down. “But if we ever run out, I know where to come callin’, ain’t?”

  Small Jay nodded. He liked Luke’s way of talking.

  The mill was coming up on the left. “Here’s where I get out,” Small Jay said as he picked up the limp ball of fur from his lap. “Can ya hold Sassy for me?” He lifted her over to Luke.

  “Take your time, now,” Luke said, poking Sarah.

  But Small Jay was no dummy. Luke was prompting his sister to speak to Small Jay, although coming from a preacher’s son, Small Jay guessed it was to be expected. Most folk seemed mighty anxious around him, like they couldn’t wait to get on their way. Not Luke, though. Luke Mast talked with him as easily as he would any other fourteen-year-old boy.

  “Denki.” Small Jay stood beside the buggy while Sassy got handed first to Sarah, then over to him. “Denki,” he said again, not sure what else to say.

  “Be careful walkin’ home, won’t ya?” Sarah offered.

  Sarah’s dainty voice reminded him of Gracie’s. Nodding, he recalled the first time Gracie had ever spoken to him. It had been a couple of years ago, in the wintertime, when there were Jack Frost designs on the schoolhouse windows. As the children were bundling up to go out for recess, she’d said just two words: “Hullo, Jake.” Even now, knowing she’d used his given name, not his nickname, made him secretly smile.

  He waited for Luke’s carriage to move forward, then stooped to snap the leash onto Sassy’s collar. “Come along, nice kitty,” he said, going across to the left side of the road, looking for Allegro.

  But there was no sign of the fluffy collie.

  He sighed and wondered if he’d risked the trip to the mill for nothing. Dat wouldn’t be happy if he knew.

  Why’s my father always mad at me? The thought zinged through his mind. “Will he ever let me work with him?” he muttered aloud, careful not to move his lips very much when he talked to himself. Eight long years of school had taught him that trick. No sense inviting more attention than what came naturally during the course of a day. Things could be hard enough, yet as he moved through the grades, his skin had gotten thicker, or so he liked to think.

  He felt the sun’s warm rays on his shoulders as he wandered toward the bridge. And as he stumbled along, a new idea presented itself—as before, he could toss stones into the water below, but today he would make a wish on each stone. And he knew for certain what one wish would be.

  The tall grasses along the creek bank nearly concealed the many wild ferns. Small Jay had a bird’s-eye view from the bridge, and he peered downward, enthralled by the different hues of greenery. Uncle Jake once said that the reason the Good Lord chose green for the earth was due to its restful nature. Same for the blue of the sky. “Cool colors,” his uncle had said, like an artist. Something Small Jay thought he’d like to be, if he couldn’t be a farmer or a worker.

  He caught a whiff of smoke in the breeze and turned to see Allegro’s owner sitting on a wide tree stump over near the tailrace. “Let’s go an’ have a look-see,” he muttered to Sassy and limped forward.

  He made his way across the grassy patch and called to the man. “Hullo there.” Small Jay stood back a bit to determine if he was welcome or not.

  “My fine young friend!” The man had on the same dark trousers and gray shirt with the black bow tie. The big brown shoulder bag with its belt-like closure was at his side.

  “My cat’s come to visit your dog,” Small Jay said.

  Allegro must have missed Sassy, too, because the collie had already come over to carry out his sniffing routine, same as yesterday.

  Bow-tie man chuckled. “I see what you mean, young man.”

  Sassy purred and rubbed her nose against Allegro’s.

  “They must not know that one of ’em is a dog and the other’s a cat,” Small Jay said, pointing and grinning.

  “Would you care to join me for dinner?” the man asked, clutching his shoulder satchel. “I’m cooking hot dogs.”

  “Supper, ya mean?”

  “Dinner denotes the evening meal where I live.”

  “Where’s that?”

  Just that quick, the light went out of the man’s eyes. “Now that you ask, I’m afraid I can’t tell you. I mean . . . I don’t know.” He muttered something under his breath and shook his head. “I apologize for this lapse of memory—mine comes and goes like the hummingbirds over there.” He motioned toward three large butterfly bushes with profuse blossoms that attracted both bees and hummingbirds.

  “I brought you some cookies. Homemade oatmeal and raisin.”

  The man’s eyes brightened. “Thank you kindly.”

  Is he lost? Small Jay wondered. “Are ya stayin’ in this mill?”

  “I am.”

  “There’s a bed in there?”

  The man shook his head. “I sleep on the floor. It may not seem like much, but I’m thankful to have located this shelter.”

  “But . . . on a hard floor?”

  “Well, I purchased a blanket at the small store up the road, so I fold it to create a pallet of sorts.”

  “From Joe’s store?” Small Jay’s heart sped up at the mention. “Did ya hitchhike there?”

  “Thumbed my way . . . similar to how I arrived at the bus station a few nights ago, I guess it was.”

  “So you’ve been here less than a week.” Small Jay felt mighty proud of himself, figuring this out. But he wouldn’t be boastful—his father often read from the Good Book about the importance of being meek.

  “Say, now, you’re one bright young man. Thank you for jiggling my memory.” The man smiled and opened his shoulder bag, removed a small white notepad and pencil, and jotted something down. “These pages are my memory bank.” He held up the notepad. “There are more notebooks inside.” He bobbed his head toward the mill. “Along with a few other things
. . . including two changes of clothes I had the presence of mind to pack.”

  Small Jay wouldn’t say what he was thinking: This here bow-tie man was a person without a home. He was also someone who had trouble remembering important things, same as the bishop’s elderly brother, who’d supposedly lost his mind . . . or so the People sadly whispered. But that man was Amish and lived with his family, who looked after him. Not so this man, unless he had a handful of folk he was hiding away inside the mill there.

  “I’m Jake Bitner,” he said boldly and offered his small hand to the man whose own hand was surprisingly smooth, like the surface of vanilla pudding. “My kin call me Small Jay, ’cause I won’t grow much taller than what ya see now.” He patted his scrawny chest and noticed a smile creep into the corners of the man’s mouth.

  “A considerably curious name for a person.”

  “My father dislikes it, tellin’ the truth,” he revealed, uncertain why he’d admit such a thing to a stranger.

  Bow-tie man opened his notepad once again and flipped through one page after another, muttering all the while. “Somewhere it’s written here in large letters, so I can see it. Yes,” and in that moment, his face lit up. He drew a breath, then began to read from the page. “My name is Boston, and the sound of beautiful music eases my soul.” He quickly closed the notepad and stretched out his legs. “I write what I can remember here in my paper memory bank, at least on the good days.”

  “Is this one of those days?” Small Jay asked, wishing he could shake his hand again to let the man know he understood. “I’ll have one of those hot dogs now,” he added, not quite sure he’d ever accepted earlier. “I don’t s’pose ya have any catsup or mustard, do ya?”

  Boston must’ve found this funny, because he tilted his round head back and laughed heartily. A slight breeze blew his hair across his forehead, and when the man reached up to push back the strands, he must have forgotten what he’d planned to do, since he brought the other hand up, as well, and started moving both in midair, stirring up the atmosphere. “Do you hear the music?” Boston asked, tilting his face.

  “Alsemol—sometimes.” Small Jay bit his lip. He’d never admitted this to anyone, but there were occasional melodies in his head, mostly church hymns.

  The man named for a city continued to swirl the air, his smooth white hands moving in careful patterns as he hummed something mighty strange and unlike any tune the boy had heard before. “Des grebbt mich,” Small Jay murmured, covering his ears.

  Chapter 7

  Ellie left the house while Dorcas and her younger sisters were putting away leftovers and washing dishes.

  Why was Roman so hard on Small Jay at supper? she wondered, pushing aside her foreboding as she tried to stay focused on her destination—the Martin farmhouse. As her bare feet scraped against a prickly bush, she wished for a path between the two properties. The absence of a footpath revealed what a sorry neighbor she had been to Janice Martin, and she chided herself. But the urgency wasn’t there when Timothy was alive, she thought, excusing herself. Yet she well remembered how often through the years Janice would stop by in her car with warm desserts and other treats. “I’m embarrassed that I haven’t returned the favors,” Ellie whispered. Even so, then as now, Roman wasn’t interested in making friends with their Mennonite neighbors—or anyone outside their more traditional Amish connections. It certainly seemed as if Roman wanted Ellie to be content at home. Stuck, like Small Jay must feel at times.

  Momentarily bolder, she turned back to look over her shoulder at their house below. This was the farm inherited from Roman’s paternal grandfather, a landscape both physical and otherwise. The land hearkened back to Roman’s family’s early years, and while Roman’s father hadn’t been bestowed it, somehow Roman had. It was a splendid place to call home. Even on days I feel nearly suffocated, she thought.

  It was easy to see Roman’s movements from where she stood. He was going back and forth from the stable to the barn and haymow. Raascht dorum wie verrickt—Rushing about like mad—hauling new straw into the stable for fresh bedding before nightfall.

  Ellie rubbed her sore shoulder, inhaling slowly. She felt freer somehow, standing there and peering back at her cloistered life. And she wondered if this was how her married sister Orpha Mast had felt, too, prior to her and her husband’s leaving the Old Order to attend the nearby New Order church. Roman’s cut off our fellowship with them, yet they’re family!

  It was then Ellie noticed several long streamers of toilet paper fluttering in the wind, and white snippets all around the outhouse, used by Roman and the other men during their workday. “That Shredder,” she said, shaking her head. “What’re we gonna do with him?”

  Roman had threatened to take the ornery cat on a long ride some moonless night and drop him off clear out in the country, where there were plenty of field mice to eat. He’ll do it yet, she thought.

  Turning at last, she walked the rest of the way through Janice Martin’s rented hayfield toward the spacious backyard, with its neatly edged grass and flower beds, and Janice’s renowned kitchen gardens—lettuce flourishing, asparagus nearly done, and bean bushes billowing. There was an appealing herb garden, too, as well as the enormous strawberry patch running along the back fence, where a black crow was perched now, warily eyeing Ellie.

  Shuddering at the size of the bird, she quickened her pace. She’d never liked the looks of crows; neither did Small Jay, who as a tot had often trembled visibly at the sight of a flock of them sitting on the English neighbors’ telephone wires.

  “Hullo, Ellie,” Marlena Wenger greeted her from the large porch with an upraised hand. “It’s real gut to see ya!”

  The greeting surprised her. “Wie geht’s, Marlena?”

  “Oh, we’re all right, I guess. Would ya like to sit out here, maybe?” the young woman asked. “Mammi’s indoors resting while the baby sleeps.”

  Glad for a chance to get off her feet, she accepted. It didn’t take more than a few minutes with Marlena to know the girl felt in over her head with the addition of her sister’s little one. “S’posin’ your Grandmammi prob’ly can’t help out much.”

  Marlena shook her head. “Actually, she’s better than I am at getting Angela Rose to take her bottle. Still, I wouldn’t think of addin’ more to her life right now; the baby’s my responsibility. Besides, Mammi’s arthritis has been actin’ up.”

  “Well, if you’re interested, my oldest daughter, Dorcas, would like to help babysit. Maybe you could use a mother’s helper.”

  Marlena smiled and shrugged. “I’m not exactly a mother, but jah . . . that’d be nice.”

  Ellie named off the other children Dorcas had cared for in the last two years, which seemed to bring a relieved expression to Marlena’s face. “Not for pay, mind you.”

  “That’s awful nice. Really ’tis. And I might just take her up on it, too. Perhaps Saturday morning, when Mammi and I go to market.”

  “Should be fine.”

  “Des gut, then. Please tell Dorcas thank you.” Marlena paused and glanced at the sky. “I wonder how long to let Angela Rose sleep,” she said. “Aunt Becky mentioned she slept the whole way here, so that’s two hours already.”

  “Well, most babies that age need two gut naps a day. You’ll know by her cry when it’s time for feeding—usually between four and five hours for bottle-fed babies, at least at her age. She’ll wake before then unless she’s real tuckered out . . . and she just might be that.”

  “I’m sure it’ll all come back quickly,” Marlena said. “I helped Mamma with Rachel Ann quite a lot during those earlier years, though she hardly ever had a bottle.”

  Ellie said she’d assumed as much. Most older daughters helped their mothers with the babies. “But just as important as all the physical care is the loving. Don’t forget,” she added.

  “Well, the odd thing is, this one pulls away.” Marlena was clearly uneasy. “She seems to sense that I’m not her Mamma.”

  Ellie patted Marlena
’s arm. “The wee one’s mother is your sister, ain’t so?”

  Marlena said she was. “Ya know, my grandmother thinks that might be the problem—Angela Rose misses her mother even more when she hears my voice.”

  “Then the two of you must sound very similar.”

  “True.” Marlena looked wistful at that, and Ellie supposed she must be thinking of her sister Luella. It had been years since Ellie had seen the oldest Wenger girl; Luella hadn’t dropped by Ellie’s for visits like her younger siblings.

  “Now . . . what else can I share with you?” Ellie asked.

  “You’ve already helped so much, loaning the crib and all.”

  “I’m thinkin’ a playpen and even a high chair might come in handy, too, ain’t so?”

  Marlena’s eyes brightened with tears, and the dear girl nodded her head silently, unable to articulate her appreciation.

  Ellie knew better than to say that Roman would be over later this evening or tomorrow morning, for that matter. There was no asking him to do more than he already had. After all, her husband was a busy farmer, or so she’d just have to let Marlena think when Ellie herself showed up tomorrow with the needed items. Dorcas and Julia could help her load things in the back of the family carriage. If I have to make two trips, I will.

  On the walk home past the willow grove, Ellie enjoyed the soft wind and the color of the evening sky and reminisced about the day Roman had first asked to court her, when they were Youngie. She’d sensed his surprising timidity right away but found it endearing. Soon, they began to enjoy each other’s company, attending Sunday-night Singings and parent-sponsored activities and extra-long rides in his open black buggy. In only a few months, they were planning their future, yearning to be married.

  Folding her arms, Ellie was careful where she stepped. Ah, those early days of their love—she relished every detail. Why, she even recalled where Roman had stood to ask her to ride with him that first time after the cornhusking in the deacon’s barn. He’d worn some pleasant-smelling cologne, a fragrance he’d worn every one of their nighttime dates, a mere five months.