Go Away Home

by Carol Bodensteiner

  “Do you remember the time G. W. came half out of the saddle during that race at the county fair?” asked one of the men. He helped himself to a sandwich. The dining room table was filled with food brought by neighbors to the funeral reception.

  “He clung to that horse like a tick!” the other replied. “And still won! That man could ride.”

  “One of the best horsemen ever. I’ll never forget that!” The two laughed.

  Liddie could not imagine how they could laugh, how they could act as though they had not just buried her father. She drew her arms tighter around her waist. Everything felt out of control. If she didn’t hold on, she feared she’d shatter like the vase.

  “How are you doing?” Kate touched the back of Liddie’s hand.

  “They act like this is a party.”

  “They remember G. W. in happier times. That’s what everyone wants at a funeral. To remember the happy times.”

  Liddie swallowed hard as tears trickled down her cheeks.

  Kate handed her a fresh hankie. “Crying has its place, too.” She comforted Liddie with a one-armed hug before moving off to talk to another neighbor.

  Liddie closed her eyes and rested her head against the wall.

  “I’m so sorry about your father, Liddie.”

  It took great energy, but Liddie opened her eyes. The woman in front of her attended church with her mother.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Gaffy.”

  “G. W. was such a fine man. Taken in the prime of his life. God must have wanted him very badly.” Mrs. Gaffy clucked in a way that made Liddie think of the red hen. “Your mother is lucky to have you children with her.”

  “Yes.”

  “How unfortunate that Amelia is away at this time. I had thought she might cut her travels short.” Mrs. Gaffy fell silent, gazing at Liddie with an expression that invited sharing. When Liddie didn’t respond, she probed. “What have you heard from your sister?”

  Liddie licked her lips. Her mouth felt like cotton. They had received one letter from Amelia. The day after her father died.

  She and Kate had watched Margretta’s hands shake as she opened the envelope and unfolded a single piece of lined paper.

  “What does it say?” Liddie urged.

  A frown creased Margretta’s forehead as she scanned the letter.

  “Mama?”

  Margretta looked at Kate and then back at the letter. “She says, ‘I’m sorry. Do not worry. We are well. This is the best way.’” Her voice trailed off.

  “What else?” Liddie prompted.

  “She signed her name.”

  Kate took the envelope. “The postmark is Lincoln, Nebraska.”

  “How . . . ?” Margretta looked at her sister pleadingly.

  “We know she’s all right. She wouldn’t have written otherwise,” Kate reassured Margretta. “I’ll make a call.”

  With a discreetly placed call to her colleague in Dubuque, Kate learned that Amelia had been at the home until a week ago. Then one day she didn’t return from a walk. The matron at the home learned Amelia had bought a train ticket for Cheyenne, Wyoming. A letter was on its way.

  But Mrs. Gaffy did not need to know any of this.

  “It is all so sad.” Mrs. Gaffy patted Liddie’s hand. “Well, at least your mother has one daughter at home. She will need you more than ever now.”

  Liddie stared at Mrs. Gaffy. What she said was true. Her mother would need her at home. For now. Forever. She saw another neighbor approaching, and she knew she had to get out. She had to get away.

  “Liddie, I’m so—” the neighbor began.

  “I’m sorry,” Liddie muttered. “I have to go.” She pushed past the woman and ran. Out of the parlor. Past mourners crowding the entryway. Out to the grove of cottonwood trees a hundred yards northwest of the house. As she ran, a wrenching sense of pain filled her chest. She had lost her sister. Then her father. And now her future. She abandoned hope of holding it all together any longer. She simply ran.

  In the shelter of the trees, Liddie leaned against a massive trunk, gasping for breath. As she watched the cottonwood leaves ruffle in the breeze and the sunlight flicker as if reflected off a polished brass pan, she felt her heart slow.

  Pushing away from the tree, Liddie ducked into the lean-to that had been her childhood playhouse. There she sat on the grass, her back against a wall, catching both the warmth of the sun and the cooling breeze.

  A dozen years ago, when she’d first discovered the lean-to hidden amongst the trees that served as a windbreak for the house, it had been falling down, close to disappearing into the underbrush of the grove. After she convinced her father to rebuild it and replace the tattered roof of branches and bark strips, the lean-to became her retreat. She’d used it as a place to act out fairy tales, escape Vern’s teasing, and play house. Sometimes, she’d even sleep there. She imagined no one knew where she was. As she grew older, the grove became a refuge where she could read or sew or exist with her own thoughts.

  Within the circle of trees that had brought her so many hours of pleasure, Liddie realized with a painful jolt that everything she knew about the woods, the fields, the weather, she had learned from Papa. And now he was gone. She drew her knees up to her chest, buried her head in her arms, and wept.

  “Are you all right?”

  Startled, Liddie looked up to see Joe standing at the edge of the clearing. She lifted an arm to shield her eyes and dried her tears with her hankie. “You scared me.”

  “I saw you run out of the yard. I wanted to be sure you were okay.” He looked around. “Mind if I join you?”

  She shrugged. Realizing she must look a mess, she brought her knees down, curled her legs under her, and smoothed her skirt.

  “This is a nice place,” he said, taking in the clearing and then widening his gaze to include the surrounding countryside. “It’s hidden, but you can still see a long ways.” He stood as he often did, hands in his back pockets, elbows angled out. “Nearly to the property line.”

  “Papa said hunters chose this spot because of that.” Talking with Joe about her father made her feel better.

  She studied his silhouette against the sun. Wearing his suit from the funeral, Joe looked older. The stance no longer seemed defiant, as it had the first time she saw him thrust his hands in his pockets like that, the day he returned after running away. Now it was just him. The easy way he held his space. When he turned toward her, she looked away.

  He crouched down on his heels outside the lean-to, picked up a leaf, and rolled the stem between his fingers. After a moment, he said, “I’m sorry about your pa, Liddie.”

  “I know.” She stared at her hands. “I don’t know how I’ll get along without Papa.”

  “My ma died when I was ten, and I felt that way about her, too. I missed her every day, and it hurt. Then one day I realized I hurt less, and I thought of her most when I came upon things she liked. Like roses. She liked to see the wild roses outside her kitchen window.”

  Liddie wondered if Joe’s mother had eyes like his, warm and full of sympathy. “She sounds nice.”

  “Ja. I could talk to her about anything.”

  “Like I could Papa.”

  Joe twirled the stem between his fingers. “Er war ein guter Mann.” He stopped twisting the leaf and translated for her. “Your pa was a good man.”

  “I understood,” Liddie said. At least half the children in her school spoke German, and she’d heard it enough to pick up words and phrases. This was the first time it occurred to her how seldom Joe spoke German. “Your parents spoke German, didn’t they?”

  “To each other. Pa said I was born here, so I should only speak English.” He stripped the leaf from the stem. “Ma said we should remember where we came from.”

  Joe fell silent, then he stood and walked back to the edge of the clearing. In the quiet
, Liddie’s mind returned to her father. Already she missed his voice. That morning, she’d been certain she heard him talking with her mother. Without thinking, she’d run into the kitchen only to find the voice she’d heard was Vern’s. Loneliness washed over her. “I can’t imagine not having either of my parents to talk with.”

  “I know. I wish Ma could have met Catherine. I always thought I’d have family at my wedding.”

  “Your wedding?” Liddie couldn’t contain her surprise. “Joe, are you getting married?”

  “That slipped out. I didn’t mean to say anything. Especially now.” He rubbed a hand across his face, but was unsuccessful at stopping a grin.

  “That’s good news. I’m glad you told me.” She smiled her first real smile that week. “Who else knows?”

  “I told your pa. I wanted his opinion before I asked her.”

  “What did he say?”

  “He said if I liked her that was good enough for him.”

  “So when is the wedding?”

  He bent over and picked up a twig that he immediately tossed into the brush. “I meant to ask her this week. Then G. W. died, and it didn’t seem right.”

  “I’m sure she’ll say yes.”

  “I’m counting on it.” He looked around. “I better get back to the house.” Before leaving, he reached into his pocket. “I have something you might want.” He pulled out a small arrowhead and handed it to her. “Your pa found this one day when we were plowing. He spent most of that day telling us Indian stories. He knew more about most things than ten men.”

  Liddie cradled the arrowhead in her palm. Not much more than an inch long, chiseled out of chert, the arrowhead was perfect. The nearly black stone felt warm, and she could imagine her father telling his stories. “But it’s yours.” She lifted her hand to give it back.

  “Now it’s yours. From the land to your pa to me to you.” He started to walk away, then looked back. “I’d as soon you didn’t say anything about Catherine to anyone.”

  “You have my word.” Liddie drew a cross on her chest and touched her finger to her lips. A double promise.

  “You going to stay here?”

  “Awhile longer.”

  Joe’s smile lingered in her mind as she turned the little arrowhead over and over, tracing the sharp edges with her fingertips. She pressed the arrowhead against her cheek. The sadness she’d felt these last few days had lifted while they talked. With Joe gone, the heavy feeling returned. Papa. And Amelia. Joe and Catherine. So sad, and so happy. Was life always so?

  Chapter 6

  The letter from the unwed mothers’ home arrived a week after the funeral. The supervisor had finally gotten a roommate to confess that Amelia left with a man named Fred. They were headed west, but the girl didn’t know where.

  “What was she thinking?” Margretta asked. “She knew how G. W. felt about him.”

  “She’s twenty-two. Old enough to decide,” Kate said.

  “But where are they going? Are they married? What about the baby?”

  They had so many questions and no answers.

  Liddie’s mind flashed to the man she’d seen sit down by Amelia on the train. Had that been Fred? She thought about telling her mother, but what difference did it make now?

  There was nothing any of them could do but wait. With no address, they could only hope for her to write again.

  Margretta’s gout flared up as bad as it had ever been. Unable to walk or stand comfortably, she spent hours sitting in G. W.’s chair, writing letters she often didn’t finish, holding needlework but making few stitches.

  Without fanfare, Vern took over the farm. He and Joe worked through the days, showed up at the house for meals, dropped into bed at night exhausted, only to rise and do it again the next day. Liddie supposed Vern missed Papa, though the two of them never spoke of it.

  Cooking, laundry, and the garden fell to Liddie, with help from Kate, who decided to stay at the farm for a time—news Liddie greeted with relief and gratitude.

  “What about your job?” she asked, trying to be brave in the face of a bushel basket of tomatoes and a never-ending harvest of beans, beets, and cucumbers.

  “We’ll figure it out. At least I don’t have classroom responsibilities,” Kate said as she tied on an apron. “I can do most of what needs doing right here.”

  In the evenings, after everyone else went to bed, Liddie often sat sewing, as she used to while her father read to her from the paper. From time to time, she’d look up, and for a brief second, believe she saw him sitting there, tapping out his pipe. Like always.

  But then that image always gave way to one of him crumpling to the floor, his face frozen, Mama’s name on his lips. When the memories threatened to suffocate, she would drop what she was doing and go outside. There, she would stand on the porch, gazing out at the hills, where the pattern of fields and fences reminded her of a nine-patch quilt and surrounded her with a quilt’s warm comfort.

  Weeks passed, Margretta’s gout receded, and the family settled into a new rhythm. They still stumbled on moments of sadness, but not so often, and when they did, it did not take as long to get up.

  Only once did Liddie bring up the apprenticeship to Aunt Kate. Now is not the time, her aunt had said. Liddie swallowed a rock of disappointment.

  Liddie woke confused. She knew it was late at night. Shadows on her bedroom wall indicated the full moon was near to setting. Yet she heard voices drift through her open window. One loud and strident, the other low and even. She threw back the covers and went to the window.

  “She just met him, for God’s sake. A man she just met.” Joe repeated the words as if trying to make sense of them. “Hell, she doesn’t know anything about him, and she’s going to California with him.”

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” Vern replied quietly.

  Joe’s voice faded in and out. Liddie saw he was pacing; his white shirt reflected the light of the moon. Disbelief thickened into anger in his voice. “I shouldn’t have waited. I should have asked her weeks ago.”

  Liddie sucked in her breath. Catherine. Catherine was going away with someone else.

  “I loved her.” The words came out strangled, raw. “I would have always loved her.”

  Liddie sank down on the edge of her bed, the sound of Joe’s pain pulsing in her chest.

  The next day, Joe was not at breakfast. Vern told them of Joe’s rejection.

  “Where is he?” Liddie asked.

  “Leave him be,” Vern warned.

  “I’m not going to bother him. But where is he?”

  “Liddie, don’t push it. He don’t want to see anyone.”

  “All right. All right.” She nodded, her words in conflict with her heart.

  After the breakfast dishes were cleared, Liddie went outside. She sat on the porch rocker and breathed in morning air redolent with the smell of new-cut hay. She could not imagine what Joe must be feeling, but she needed to be there for him, as he’d been there for her when her father died. She left the porch and walked the farmstead. She had almost given up searching when she thought to look in the cottonwood grove. She found him sitting on a log, his head in his hands, dejection in the curve of his back.

  She spoke from the edge of the clearing. “I’m so sorry, Joe.”

  “Go away, Liddie.” He didn’t look at her.

  She stayed.

  When he raised his head, the grief etched on his face took her breath away. “I loved her.”

  “I know.” She sat at the end of the log.

  “I thought she felt the same about me. Ich war ein Dummkopf.” His voice was filled with hurt and something like self-loathing.

  “Not a fool, Joe. We all thought you two would be together.”

  “I don’t know how I can forget her.”

  “I doubt you ever will.”

  Joe groaned. “T
hat is a wretched thought.”

  “No, it isn’t. I never forget Papa, even though I thought I would die when he did.” Liddie shook her head. “Look. I know it’s not the same thing. But you had good times with her. I think we’re supposed to remember the people we’ve loved.”

  “Every thought I had of my future included Catherine. Where’s my future now?”

  “You told me when Papa died it wouldn’t hurt so much after a time. I suppose losing Catherine will be the same.”

  Liddie looked up at the sunlight glinting off the glossy cottonwood leaves. Being in the grove brought her such peace. She hoped it would for Joe, too. She stood to leave, then impulsively she knelt, putting her hands on his. “We all care for you. We all hurt for you.” She leaned in and kissed him on the cheek.

  As she walked back to the house, she wondered at that boldness.

  Chapter 7

  Liddie fished another lamp chimney out of the dishpan. While some women let their chimneys get coated with soot, her mother considered it a sign of a poor housekeeper if lamp chimneys were not well and regularly cleaned. So Liddie washed their chimneys weekly. No one, she mused, could criticize her mother on the housecleaning front.

  Margretta poked her head in the kitchen door. “When you’re finished, come sit with us for a moment. Kate and I want to talk with you.”

  “I’ll be right there, Mama.” Curious, she dried her hands at once and joined her mother in the living room. The chimneys could wait.

  Margretta sat in G. W.’s chair. Kate claimed a comfortable corner of the settee. “Sit down, dear,” her mother said.

  Something about the way the women looked at each other caused Liddie to perch nervously on the edge of the chair, her back straight, her feet crossed at the ankles, her hands folded in her lap. “Yes?”

  “We’ve been talking. When your father died . . .” Margretta’s eyes filled with tears. She shook her head and gestured to Kate.

  Kate leaned over to squeeze her sister’s hand, then took up the thread. “When your father died, it changed a lot of things. Among them, the plans for you to go to Maquoketa. That was unfortunate but unavoidable.”