I won’t deny that I fret over it. I also wonder if I’m the best person to care for Angela Rose, even temporarily. I can’t help but think of her growing up and never knowing the mother who gave birth to her . . . and loved her so. Did you know that her father hasn’t even laid eyes on her yet? I wonder how long it will be before Gordon can come home and meet his little girl. She needs him—she is as fragile as a rose petal.
Luella’s funeral will be held at the Beachy church in Mifflinburg this Monday morning, and my grandmother and I are going to pay our respects, as well as to offer our support to Dat and Mamma, who, as you can imagine, are beside themselves with grief.
Oh, Nat, it’s such a difficult time for our family.
It crossed her mind to ask if he might be going to the funeral, too, perhaps with his family. But she knew better—even so, she wished he would support her in her sorrow, despite his Old Order convictions.
She continued writing, trying to hold back the tears to prevent any stains on her colorful pansy-adorned stationery.
Luella’s in-laws are out of the country traveling and unable to take care of their grandbaby just now. From what Mamma says, I’ll have to tend to Angela Rose at least until a decision is made for her care while her father’s away in Vietnam. No matter what, I will be coming home around Labor Day. I can hardly wait!
Till then, I’ll write you as often as I can.
Your girl,
Marlena Wenger
Later that morning, Marlena helped Mammi label the pint jars of strawberry-rhubarb preserves, pricing them for Saturday market tomorrow. Marlena was glad for the simple task while Angela Rose napped soundly in the playpen. It was hard to focus after a night of quietly weeping in the privacy of her room. Many long hours had passed before she could fall asleep.
Mammi’s eyes were swollen, too—perhaps they should both just crawl back into bed and weep the day away. But there was a baby to care for and work to be done. Dawdi Tim had once told her that when a person grieved, solace sometimes came through keeping one’s hands and mind occupied.
“I can finish up here,” Mammi said, her words sounding flat. “Go ahead an’ pick the fresh crop of berries while the little one’s sleepin’. Ya might want some time alone.”
She knows I’m struggling. We both are.
Marlena agreed and rose quickly. She needed her family, and right now she missed Nat’s kind understanding and love . . . and oh, how she longed for both.
How was she supposed to feel with Luella gone from them forever? Oh, so distraught and hopeless, knowing too well her sister’s reasons for leaving the People behind against the will of their parents. Marlena tried to calm her thoughts, yet she had never experienced such a loss and wished she and her mother might have talked longer. Still, she had been conscious of the effort it must have taken Mamma to make such a call, as well as the cost of long-distance to her father—and surely Mamma’d had other important calls to make. Poor thing, it had fallen to her to tell Gordon’s family, once she located them. And, on top of everything else, Mamma and Dat were the only ones around to plan the funeral for their firstborn.
Help my parents and younger brothers and sisters today, O Lord God heavenly Father, she prayed. They need Thy comfort and wisdom now . . . just as Mammi and I do.
Small Jay gritted his teeth when his mother removed from her apron pocket the note from his friend at the mill.
“What do you know ’bout this, son?” Her face had its usual softness, even an unexplained timidity, like she really didn’t want to ask this but felt compelled. “Who is this doctor?”
He leaned in close to look at the familiar writing. Boston had pledged that the snippets of things he wrote each day were a memory aid . . . nothing more. Why had he given this paper to Small Jay anyway?
“I don’t know.” He shook his head.
She went on to say how and where she’d found it. “You didn’t go to a doctor without tellin’ your father and me, now, did ya?”
“Nee, Mamma.”
Her eyes seemed to look right through him.
“Son . . .”
Small Jay shrugged, wanting to keep his secret to himself. It wouldn’t matter one iota to anyone else that he had a friend who struggled like he did sometimes. He also sensed the older man wouldn’t want to be a bother.
“Your father has warned us not to speak to outsiders,” Mamma reminded him. “Don’t forget he has your best interests at heart.”
Sometimes that’s easy to forget, Small Jay thought forlornly.
“Be more cautious, won’t ya, please?”
Her concern registered with him, but Boston didn’t seem like an outsider to him, just a man in need. And Small Jay had something more pressing on his mind. “Can I take the pony cart over to Joe’s store?” he asked.
“Today?” Mamma looked surprised. Then at his nod, she added, “Say it correctly, son.”
Ach, what does she mean? He puckered his brow and looked toward the ceiling. What did I say wrong?
“It’s important to say May I when you’re askin’ permission. Can I stands for whether or not you are able to do something, son. Can you remember the difference?”
He held her gaze and tried to follow her request. “May I take Razor and the pony cart over to Joe’s?” He purposely emphasized the appropriate word.
“Jah, of course you may.”
Whew. Was he ever glad she’d noticed his bad grammar and forgotten about Boston Calvert’s reminder note, still folded in her hand.
When Small Jay arrived at the mill, he left Sassy in the big pony cart while he tied Razor to a sturdy nearby tree. When he glanced back at his cat, he grinned at the sight of her peeking out of the cart like that. “You silly.”
Small Jay went to the mill’s side door, where he’d first seen the man and his dog enter a few days before. He couldn’t help but wonder if Boston remembered today’s outing. Pausing, he looked up to see the historic marker plate high above, reading to himself: Built by Jacob and Lavina Wolf, A.D. 1856.
He whistled. “That’s gotta be before even Dawdi Bitner was born.” In all truth, he couldn’t begin to calculate how many years ago this old mill had been built. He even had a hard time remembering how old his younger sisters were. Sometimes the numbers that connected to his life got all tangled up in his brain.
He raised his hand to knock on the door and was startled when it flew open. “Ach, you remembered!” Small Jay declared.
“I certainly did—and with some help from this reminder.” Boston pulled a scrunched-up note from his pocket.
Small Jay smiled. “Are ya ready, then?”
“Is there room for my dog?” the man asked, stepping out the door with a glance at the pony cart.
“Might be a tight squeeze.”
“In that case, the captain will stay with the ship.” With that, Boston closed the door soundly behind him, and the border collie began to bark inside.
Small Jay hoped Boston’s pet wouldn’t be too lonely while they were gone. “Do ya need dog food for Allegro?”
“Grand idea,” the man said, not questioning the dog’s name.
“And you’re Boston, jah?” Since things were going so well, Small Jay wanted to clear up the confusion over the name right now.
“Yes, of course. Shall we go?”
Feeling better, Small Jay introduced his black pony to Boston. “Razor likes his sugar cubes.”
“Then I want very much to treat him . . . if the store carries such things.”
“Joe’ll know.” Small Jay went to untie Razor and waited for Boston to get into the cart. He handed Sassy over to him till Small Jay was also seated, then reached for the driving lines, and they were off.
When they made the turn onto the two-lane country road, Small Jay didn’t see the soiled letter he’d stuck back in the bushes. Must’ve blown away.
Up the road, a Yankee farmer was burning a brush pile, the dark plume billowing high and scenting the atmosphere. Further along, they came upon
two little Amish girls riding in a red wagon pulled by an older boy. Small Jay pointed out cattle, hogs, sheep, and hen houses to Boston, who seemed to enjoy the ride, humming a tune and occasionally murmuring to himself. Sunshine sparkled off the big silo just ahead, like the jewels Small Jay had seen in the Sears and Roebuck catalogue at one of the English neighbors’.
At Joe’s General Store, Boston helped him tie up Razor, taking time to stroke the sleek pony’s mane. If he wasn’t mistaken, Boston whispered something about a sugar cube, which made Small Jay smile. He carried Sassy up the store steps, the leash wrapped around one hand to keep her away from the many trinkets and things inside. Small Jay figured Boston would want to take time to explore the place, though he hadn’t an inkling how they were going to pay for much food.
Mamma will wonder what I bought, he thought, remembering that his father liked black licorice. Maybe he’d buy a bagful for Dat . . . if Boston didn’t need the money, that is.
“Willkumm, Small Jay. Haven’t seen ya here lately,” Joe Stoltzfus greeted him, an eye on Boston, who ran a hand over his chin whiskers before waving to Joe.
“Hello again, sir,” Boston said. “Might you have some sugar cubes for the pony out back?”
Small Jay liked the sound of this and was pleased when Joe nodded his head and darted off to look. “What are ya hungry for, Boston?” he asked while they stood at the wooden counter.
“Beef jerky, some cocoa powder mix, Wheaties, and a half-gallon of milk will be fine. Oh, and dog food.”
Surprised at the short list, Small Jay asked if he wanted to buy more hot dogs. “Or maybe some ground beef to make hamburgers?”
“I can easily cool the milk in the creek, but fresh meat won’t keep longer than one can snap a finger,” Boston replied, explaining that Allegro, or other animals, might be tempted to snatch it right up. “Don’t you agree?”
Small Jay didn’t think there were any coyotes or foxes over near the mill, but he could be wrong. “By the way, I brought some coins from my—”
“Young man, I have plenty to cover what is needed, sugar cubes included.” Boston opened his wallet and flipped through a wad of bills—more than Small Jay could begin to count.
“I might be able to get the pony cart again,” he said quietly, “but ya still might want to stock up. It takes a long time to walk over here.”
Boston nodded absently, his eyes on the row of shelves behind the counter.
“Some sticky buns would taste gut with chocolate milk,” Small Jay suggested.
“All buns are sticky when you spread jam on them, wouldn’t you say?”
Small Jay flashed him a grin. Boston had him there, for sure.
Pretty soon, Joe returned with the sugar cubes. Boston counted out the amount, thumbing through his dollar bills, and Small Jay couldn’t understand how this man had so much money, yet no place to call home. No place to wash up properly, either.
Boston also needed a shave, unless he was deliberately growing a beard, which Small Jay doubted. At least the man didn’t stink like some of his father’s hardworking men after a long, hot day in the hayfield. No, for now, Boston was getting along just fine, washing up in the creek. Small Jay certainly wouldn’t be allowed to go without washing at least every other day during the summertime. Mamma sees to that, he thought, wondering suddenly how long it might be before someone from the community might just burst into the store and see him with Boston.
Once he’d made his purchase of black licorice, Small Jay reached to open the door and smiled at the familiar jingle. Then, forgetting himself, he opened the door a second time . . . then a third.
“You sure like that bell, don’t ya, Jake?” asked Joe, his expression pleasant. Pleasant with a stiff sort of pucker around his lips, that is—which made Small Jay wonder if he was only pretending to be pleasant.
“Sounds mighty nice.”
Again, Boston opened his wallet. “Do you happen to sell such bells here?”
“Ain’t any ’cept that one, I’m afraid.” Joe was looking hard at Boston, scrutinizing him like the bishop did a wayward church member.
It made Small Jay nervous. “That’s all right. We’ll be on our way.”
Boston stuffed his purchases into his shoulder bag, which he must have emptied out before they left the mill.
“You two travelin’ together?” Joe was really frowning now, one hand rubbing his light brown beard.
“I gave him a lift here, is all.” Small Jay felt he’d better speak up, or the grapevine might grab hold of his secret and spoil everything.
“I see.” Joe suddenly seemed his old agreeable self again. “Have a wunnerbaar-gut day, then. Both of yous.”
“Same to you,” Small Jay said, eager to open the door right quick. This time not to hear the bell ring but to escape.
Chapter 11
On the ride back to the mill, Small Jay felt like talking, but Boston didn’t reprimand him for talking a blue streak, like Dat sometimes did. “Razor sure likes getting out and trotting fast,” he said, gripping the reins.
Boston nibbled on his beef jerky, his hand trembling, but he seemed to enjoy the ride. “I might have gone hungry today, had it not been for you.”
Small Jay sat up straighter. Besides his Mamma, few people ever said such nice things to him. His former neighbor, Timothy Martin, had been one. And more than once, he recalled. The older man had been the kindest person ever.
The pony was really going to town now, and Boston held on to his side of the cart, his hair blowing back over his ears. “I do so wish to remember this day . . . this amazing ride!” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.
Small Jay was as pleased as pudding. “We can ride again, if ya want,” he told his friend.
“Thank you kindly. I believe I’ll take you up on that.” Boston was grinning.
Small Jay had always liked the tickle of the wind on his face, and he was glad he’d thought to push his straw hat down under his knees. It was the best way to cool off on such a warm day.
“If you have the time, I’ll show you around my place,” Boston said as they pulled into the driveway later.
“Your place?”
“My waterfront property. A mansion, young man!”
“I see.” Small Jay smiled, reminding himself of Dat just then. “Jah, I’d like to see where you and Allegro stay.”
The man’s eyes widened. “I beg your pardon?”
“Your dog—Allegro.”
Sassy had crept into Boston’s lap during the ride and was still sitting there, looking content. Boston had to hand her over to Small Jay so he could get himself out of the cart. He carefully heaved his heavy shoulder bag, making no further comment about the dog’s name.
Before they went in, Small Jay tied the pony to a tree, and Boston pulled out a sugar cube and gave it to Razor, holding his hand out flat for the pony.
“’Tis the best way, jah,” Small Jay said, observing.
“I rode a horse once or twice long ago, but don’t ask me where that was, or why.”
Small Jay listened, not questioning his friend. He found it interesting that the man who always wore a bow tie was so comfortable around Razor. “I sat on my pony’s back once without a saddle,” he said. “Hung on to the mane for dear life.”
As they entered the interior of the large mill, it felt cool and dark inside and surprisingly comfortable. Someone had turned the place into a house with wood flooring and high walls, dividing things up right pretty. There was not a speck of furniture, though.
Over in the corner, near a window, Allegro awaited his master. He whined when he saw them, and Small Jay offered to fill his dish with creek water.
Later, when the dog had eaten his fill of the new chow, Boston suggested they go outside again and sit near the millrace. “I have a confession to make,” he said quietly. “I fear my eyes are weakening . . . perhaps even failing. Can you read to me, young man?”
“I learned in school.”
Boston studie
d him. “How old a student are you, son?”
“I finished up eighth grade last month. I’m fourteen.”
Boston didn’t say it, but his frown indicated that he, like most people, didn’t believe Small Jay was that old. He turned and walked to the nearby windowsill, where letters were stacked high, and removed one of them. Holding it against his chest, he patted it like the letter was a treasure. “Do you mind reading this to me?” he asked as he motioned toward the door.
“I’ll do my best. That’s what my teacher always said to do.” Small Jay wondered why the man didn’t wear glasses like some older men, including his Dawdi on his mother’s side. But, remembering it was important to be polite, he didn’t ask.
“Before you begin, I must say that I don’t know the letter’s origin, nor that of the others.” Boston sighed deeply. “But they must be significant, because they’re always in my satchel, including for my . . . shall we say, adventure here?” He stopped and turned to stare at the creek. “Or did I dream that?” he muttered. “Maybe I’m mistaken, thinking I’ve been carrying them everywhere on all my many trips.”
Small Jay’s ears perked up. It sounded like Boston didn’t know why he’d brought the letters along, or even how they’d gotten here. Yet he had been carrying the bag around since the first day Small Jay had met him. Truly the man was befuddled.
And what trips does he mean?
They sat together near the tailrace, and Boston handed the letter to him. Immediately, Small Jay recognized the handwriting as the same as that on the grimy letter he’d found near the bridge. Had Boston discovered that one and returned it to the rest?
“Go ahead, young man.”
“I’m Small Jay,” he prompted.
“Yes, of course. Like the bird,” Boston murmured, a bright smile on his face.
Small Jay glanced at his newfound friend, more honest than most folk, then looked again at the letter and began to read.
My dearest darling,
It has been a long and rather dreary day here, chilly and raining for hours. Perhaps it is because I miss you so that the weather seems bleak. There are days when it seems this time apart will quickly end and you will return soon. Other days, alas, it seems as though you have been gone for nearly a lifetime.
The Love Letters Page 8