Where the Heart Leads

by Kim Vogel Sawyer

  A long silence followed, during which Belinda wondered if Malinda had drifted back to sleep. Finally a brusque reply came.

  “Fine. Au’dee.”

  “Good-bye,” Belinda offered in return, then headed down the narrow hallway and out the front door to walk to work. When she reached the road, she heard a sound that immediately brought a smile to her lips—laughter. Loud. Boisterous. Full of joy.

  Like a magnet, the sound pulled her, leading her between two houses, across the alley, and alongside the house rented by the Ollenburgers. When she reached the corner of the house, she stopped, suddenly unwilling to intrude into the merriment. But another burst of laughter urged her forward a few inches, just enough to peek around the edge of the house.

  The scene that greeted her made her feet itch to rush around the corner and join the fun. Peter Ollenburger and all three of his little girls frolicked on the dew-kissed grass. Belinda clamped her hand over her mouth to hold back her own laughter. Their shadows, stretched long by the morning sun, wove in and out as the children dashed back and forth in a dance of uninhibited glee.

  The girls’ high-pitched giggles carried over Herr Ollenburger’s deep belly laugh. He tickled and teased, his fingers poking ribs and tugging curls, while the girls darted away and then back again, their bright faces begging him without words. But Belinda heard the words in her imagination: Me, Papa! Now me!

  Had she ever played this way with her own father? No, of course not. Papa had been too stern, too formal to allow himself to play. Not even in the house, with no watching eyes, would he have behaved in anything less than a dignified manner. And look what they had lost out on because of it. What wonderful memories the Ollenburger girls were building. Belinda wished she had similar memories on which to reflect now that her father was gone.

  Instead, she remembered Papa’s coldness, Mama’s criticism, Malinda’s constant ups and downs. Their lives reflected an inward misery that had matched her own until the day three years ago when she had asked Jesus into her heart. Why hadn’t her parents, who claimed to love God, shown evidence of the joy of the Lord rather than being trapped in the dictates of do’s and do not’s? With a sigh, she opened her eyes for one last glimpse at the Ollenburgers’ fun.

  Herr Ollenburger dropped on his back in the grass, his arms straight out from his sides. All three girls dove on top of him, the littlest one burying her hands in his beard. His arms wrapped around the squealing group, and he rocked back and forth, his deep chuckle rumbling.

  Belinda, with tears stinging her eyes, crept away. While she performed her duties at the mercantile, she replayed images from the morning scene. Why did the playful romp have such a hold on her? A longing rose up and held with a pressure in her chest that became a physical ache. She wanted what the Ollenburgers had.

  Love. Laughter. Fun.

  At noon, she hurried to the end of Main Street, her heart pattering with hope that her path would cross that of Herr Ollen-burger and Thomas when they met for lunch. To her delight, she reached her backyard just as Thomas climbed down from the roof to join his father. She lifted her skirts slightly and ran to them.

  “Hello!” She sounded breathless, but she knew it wasn’t because of the brief run. Suddenly she questioned the wisdom of speaking with Herr Ollenburger and Thomas. Now that she stood side by side with the men, her evening crying bout—and Thomas’s kindness—came back to haunt her. Would he feel uncomfortable around her?

  Herr Ollenburger waved in greeting. “Hello, Belinda. I must thank you for the goot gift of jam you give to my wife.” He patted his belly, chuckling. “It was dääj goot on Summer’s fresh-baked bread.”

  His compliment sent a shaft of warmth through her middle. “I’m so glad you enjoyed it.”

  Thomas said, “How are you today?”

  She read the meaning behind the simple question. Had she recovered from her sadness? Although nothing in her family had changed, she’d been allowed a glimpse of happy times. Watching it wasn’t the same as living it, but it was better than not knowing happiness existed at all.

  She offered a trembling smile and slight nod. “I am fine, dank. And you?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Ja, fine, and Thomas is nearly finished with your roof, Belinda,” Herr Ollenburger said with pride in his voice. “Just the tarring of cracks, and a rainproof roof you will have.”

  Thomas’s head jerked toward his father, his jaw dropping slightly in an expression of confusion. “Tar?”

  Herr Ollenburger delivered a light slap to Thomas’s shoulder. “Why, of course, tar. How else do you seal all the little places where water can leak through?”

  “Oh.” Thomas looked at the roof and heaved a sigh. “Of course.”

  Eager to see his smile return, Belinda said, “Thank you, Thomas, for your hard work.” He merely nodded in response, his eyes troubled.

  Herr Ollenburger added in a jovial tone, “And I thank you, Belinda, for the newspaper your family shares with us. One of last week’s papers has an article about Plymouth Rock chickens which I find very intra’ssaunt.”

  Apparently he had found the article interesting enough to memorize nearly all of it, and the man’s lively retelling of the merits of the new breed of chickens brought a smile to Thomas’s face, which Belinda mirrored, her heart trembling at the change in his countenance.

  When Herr Ollenburger said, “And now we must go to lunch,” she experienced a sense of loss for two reasons—she didn’t want to go into her somber house after the light-hearted conversation, and she didn’t want to leave the Ollenburgers.

  This time, it wasn’t just Thomas who held her captive. She wanted time with Herr Ollenburger. She saw in the big, burly man the kind of father she wished she’d known as a child. One who would play and laugh and simply spend time with his children. Although Belinda had loved her father, she’d never really known him. The thought left her feeling sad and empty inside.

  “Belinda!” Herr Ollenburger’s booming voice carried a cheerful note as he put his arm around his son’s shoulders and turned toward his own house. “Have a goot day!”

  She nodded and scurried to her back door. To her surprise, Malinda shuffled past her into the yard, carrying a basket. Without a word, her sister crossed to the sagging line that extended from the corner of the house to the little shed on the corner of the neighbor’s property. Snatching out a handful of tea towels from the basket, she began flinging them one by one over the line.

  A smile grew on Belinda’s face at the sight of her sister under the noonday sun. Malinda hadn’t ventured outside the house for weeks. Surely this was a good sign.

  “Malinda!”

  Malinda peeked between two towels. “What?”

  The harsh tone chased the smile from Belinda’s face. “It . . . it’s good to see you outside.”

  Malinda thrust aside the wet items with a swipe of her wrist and leaned forward, panting with the small exertion, to scowl at Belinda. “With you gone all the time, laundry isn’t getting done. I had to do it.”

  Stung, Belinda considered reminding her sister they wouldn’t have money coming in if she didn’t go to work every day. Once more she wondered what had happened to the money Papa earned over the years. Mama insisted they were destitute and worried constantly about being sent to the home for orphaned or penniless people outside of Hillsboro.

  Instead of saying something that would start an argument, Belinda stepped forward and touched her sister’s arm. “Thank you for doing the laundry, Malinda.”

  “I haven’t started lunch. You put the skillet on the shelf instead of leaving it on the stove.” Malinda barked the words then swung her arm, plucking a shirt from the basket. The grunt of effort it took to throw the wet article of clothing substantiated Malinda’s lack of strength.

  Guilt sat heavily in Belinda’s chest. She tried so hard to accommodate her sister, yet more often than not she failed. She backed up two steps, waving her hand toward the house. “I’ll get lunch started. It
will only take a few minutes.”

  In the kitchen, her hands busy cutting up potatoes and onions to fry with links of sausage, Belinda looked across the alley to the Ollenburgers’ kitchen window. When their family sat down to sup together, did they discuss the day? Express appreciation for the contributions each made to the household? Enjoy a pleasant time of fellowship? Somehow, based on her observation of Herr Ollenburger with his little girls, she doubted a meal at their table mimicked one in her family’s dining room.

  Even though Mama hardly ate a bite, Belinda still set the table the way her mother always preferred—with their finest dishes arranged just so on a linen cloth of creamy white spread across the table. They never ate in the kitchen, even though the room had adequate space for a small table; instead, they always used the dining room between the parlor and kitchen. She knew many families only used their dining rooms when guests came for a meal, but Mama had always insisted on formality.

  But then Belinda remembered that Summer, Herr Ollenburger’s second wife, had been raised in the city of Boston. So maybe the Ollenburgers sat down to a formal setting, too. Maybe she, Malinda, and Mama weren’t the only ones who ate without speaking and carefully blotted their mouths between bites.

  For some reason, Belinda needed to know. Somehow, if the Ollenburgers did something just like her own family, then she could bear it. Maybe she was building the Ollenburgers up in her head too much and, in so doing, putting her own family down. But for what reason could she barge in on her neighbors in the middle of a meal?

  Mama plodded into the kitchen, her hair uncombed, wearing Papa’s old bathrobe over her nightclothes. She looked into the skillet and released a sigh. “Potatoes. Can we have tomatoes instead? Stewed tomatoes would taste so good.”

  Shocked, Belinda dropped the knife into the tin basin and spun, taking hold of her mother’s shoulders. “If I find you stewed tomatoes, Mama, you will eat?”

  Her mother shrugged. Belinda interpreted the response as a yes.

  Surely, Summer Ollenburger had canned tomatoes stored in her pantry. And the woman would cheerfully share a jar if Belinda told her Mama wanted to eat. Giving her mother’s shoulders a quick squeeze, she said, “Stay here, Mama. I’ll be right back.” Then she dashed out the back door and across the yards to the Ollenburgers’ house.

  8

  THOMAS CLOSED HIS SISTERS’ STORYBOOK. Pa usually read them a bedtime story and listened to their prayers, but he’d left the house right after dinner and still hadn’t returned. So the girls had begged Thomas to read to them instead. Lena fell asleep midway through the story about a cat who brought gifts to the king’s castle to win favors for his master, but both Abby and Gussie remained alert to the end.

  He placed the storybook back on its shelf while they slipped to their knees beside the bed and recited a list of God-blesses. Then, the prayers done, they bounced onto the mattress and pulled up the covers. Thomas leaned forward and gave them each a kiss on the top of the head. “Good night,” he said, straightening. “Schlop die gesunt.”

  Abby’s eyes grew round in her pixie face. “You said Papa’s words.”

  Gussie’s forehead scrunched in confusion. “How come you know schlop die gesunt?”

  Thomas grinned. “Well, your papa is my papa, too, you know. When I was your age, he said schlop die gesunt to me.”

  Abby nodded, her expression serious. “And Papa says we’ll say it to our children someday.”

  With a giggle, Gussie added, “You’ll be a papa, Thomas, but we’ll be mamas.”

  Thomas tucked the covers up to his sisters’ chins, his heart pounding in his chest at the thought of tucking his own children into bed someday. The task done, he extinguished the lamp and crept from the room.

  In the hallway, he paused and leaned against the wall. He tried to imagine his own children. Bright-eyed and golden-haired like Abby and Gussie, or dark-haired and dimpled like Little Lena? Odd how golden-haired children made him think of Belinda and dark-haired ones led his thoughts to Daphne.

  He pinched his brow when he remembered Belinda knocking so timidly on the door at noon today to request a jar of Summer’s tomatoes. She had such a strange look in her eyes as she stood in the doorway, examining his family at the kitchen table. When she’d left, she’d looked disappointed, but he couldn’t imagine why. She’d gotten what she’d come for.

  With a shake of his head, he removed the thoughts of Belinda and focused once more on the future, on becoming a father. The idea of being a papa appealed to him, especially teaching a child about the Bible and growing things and nature, the way Pa had taught him. But where would he raise his children—in a city like Boston, or a small community like Gaeddert? So much depended on— “Thomas?” Pa’s voice, carrying from downstairs, kept him from completing the thought.

  Forced to set aside his musings, he hurried down the enclosed staircase to the parlor where his father waited. “Yes, Pa?”

  Pa’s face beamed, his beard bristling with the stretch of his grin. “I have gift for you.” He brought his hand from behind his back and thrust a square package wrapped in brown paper at Thomas.

  Thomas took the package, and he knew instantly what the paper contained. “You finished the frame.”

  Pa nodded. Summer stepped beside him and looped her hand through his elbow. Pa patted her hand, still looking at Thomas. “Ja, I finished. A fine frame it is—oak stained the color of an acorn’s hull. There is even glass to protect your diploma from dust.”

  Thomas peeled back the paper and admired Pa’s handiwork. The frame’s corners fit perfectly, the wood sanded smooth. “Whose woodshop did you use?”

  Pa raised one shoulder in a shrug. “The lumberyard let me use their machines and tools.”

  Thomas imagined his father, alone in the lumberyard, working to complete a gift for his son. He swallowed. “It’s perfect, Pa. Thank you.”

  “Come. Let us put the diploma in the frame and see how it looks.”

  Thomas allowed his father the privilege of putting the hand-lettered sheepskin in the frame. When the back was secured, Pa held the framed certificate at arm’s length and admired it. Thomas’s tongue itched with the desire to tell Pa about the job opportunity in Boston, but not wanting to disrupt his father’s pleasure in this moment, he remained silent.

  Pa sighed and handed the frame back to Thomas. “Ach, son, how nice it is to see your name on that certificate. All the years apart, when so muchly we missed you, I would think of the day when you would be a graduate of higher learning. It kept the deep ache away and made the separation bearable.” He clamped his big hand over Thomas’s shoulder, tears winking in his lined eyes. “And now you are graduated, and you are home, and you will have your own business.”

  Before Thomas could reply, Pa clapped his hands together and said, “So where do you want to hang it? On this wall, or over here, where people standing outside the door will see it?”

  Thomas considered saying, “I’ll hang it in my apartment in Boston,” but he couldn’t. Not when his father looked like a little boy on Christmas morning. He pointed. “How about here?”

  Pa nodded. “I will fetch hammer and tack.”

  But Summer stopped him. “Banging will wake the girls, Peter. Let’s wait until morning.”

  Pa heaved a sigh of defeat, but he said, “As always, my wife is the sensible one. We wait until morning.” With his arm around Summer’s waist, he guided her from the room.

  Thomas watched his parents move to the stove, where Summer poured a cup of coffee and offered it to Pa. They stayed there, quietly sipping and talking together, but Pa’s last comment echoed through Thomas’s mind. “As always, my wife is the sensible one.” Of course! Thomas should talk to Summer about his plans. Summer could make Pa understand why Thomas needed to return to Boston. Why hadn’t he thought of this sooner?

  9

  THE MISERABLE JOB of tarring took nearly three weeks, waylaid by two summer showers and three days of winds so gusty only a fool would v
enture onto a roof. But at the end of the first day of July, Thomas’s boss handed him his pay and made a sad face. “Thomas, you have been a good worker, but I am afraid I have some bad news.”

  Thomas slipped the pay envelope into his pocket and waited.

  Herr Barkman crossed his arms and rocked on the worn heels of his boots. His head low, he said, “I have no more jobs waiting for completion since the Harms boys decided to do their own repairs. This means . . .”

  He didn’t need to finish. Thomas understood. “It’s all right, Herr Barkman. As Pa told you when I took the job at the Schmidts’ place, I wasn’t seeking a permanent job. So don’t feel badly about letting me go.” He hoped his tone reflected the proper amount of respect and regret, but underneath he felt like celebrating. He hadn’t found a moment alone with Summer to present the idea of his returning to Boston. But now he could just talk to Pa—Pa wouldn’t expect him to remain in Hillsboro if he didn’t have a job.

  The boss gave Thomas’s hand a firm shake. “As I said, Thomas, you are a good worker. You find another place needing workers, I will make a recommendation for you.”

  “Thank you.” Thomas left Barkman’s house and walked to the mill to meet his father, eager to head home so they could discuss Thomas’s return to Boston. But when he saw his father’s concerned face after telling him his job had ended, Thomas didn’t have the heart to bring up the idea of leaving. Instead, they walked in silence to the house, Pa’s occasional heavy sigh and sidelong glances communicating his desire to make things better for his son.

  When they reached the yard, Pa stopped Thomas with a hand on his arm. “Son, sorry I am about the job. But do not be disheartened. Another job we will find for you. You will get the money to start your business.”

  Thomas took a deep breath. “Pa, about another job—” “So sorry I am for not being able to keep my mill.” Tears glistened briefly in the corners of Pa’s eyes. “Then at least we would have something to keep you going.”