by Pamela Morsi
Teddy heard his father's sigh of relief as the older man slung a loving arm around his shoulder.
"Then there is time." He patted his son on the back affectionately. "You had me frightened there for a moment."
"I didn't mean to scare you," Teddy said.
Mikolai shook his head. "No, don't apologize. I should thank you. I haven't felt my heart pumping so frantically in a good long time."
Teddy sighed with relief. His father's anger had completely dissipated. It was over. He began to relax at his father's side.
"So you think to marry the Barkley girl," Mikolai said.
Immediately Teddy's stomach tightened once more.
"Ah . . . well, yes, I think so."
"I like her," Mikolai said. "I've always liked her. She's a smart girl."
"Yeah, yeah, she is," Teddy agreed.
"She reminds me of her Aunt Gertrude."
Teddy eyed his father a little more shrewdly. "Yes, well, everyone says that she's like Miss Gertrude. More like Miss Gertrude than either her mother or father."
Mikolai nodded. "That's good. But marriage, Teddy"—his father made a small sound of disapproval—"marriage is a thing that will need to be handled properly."
"You don't think I should marry her?" Teddy asked.
"I think you should do what you think best, but a man doesn't just announce his intention to wed."
"No, I guess not," he admitted.
"You must speak with George Barkley, of course. It shows a great lack of respect, I think, not to."
"I have to speak with Mr. Barkley?" Teddy was daunted at the prospect. He hated the lie that he was perpetrating. He certainly didn't want to draw anyone else in on it.
"Or I can speak on your behalf, of course," Mikolai assured him. "That's how we did it in Poland."
"You let someone else speak for you?"
"Yes." His father was thoughtful for a long moment as the memories assailed him. "I'll be your swat."
"My swat?"
"The negotiator for your wedding," his father explained.
"I need a negotiator?"
"Perhaps not here, but in Poland, yes, always," Mikolai told him.
"Why?" Teddy looked at his father curiously. "Seems like it would look better if a fellow just spoke up for himself."
"In Poland the groom never speaks to the bride's family," he said. "Never. Not until all the details are settled."
"Why not?"
"It's the tradition," Mikolai answered. "And to protect his reputation, I suppose."
Teddy's expression was curious. "Why would a man need to protect his reputation?"
"Well, if a suitor were to be rejected by a woman or her family, it would just be very embarrassing for everyone."
"Yes, I guess so."
"So he never talks to them directly," Mikolai explained. "That way if the match doesn't work out, everyone can simply pretend that he was never even interested in her."
Teddy shook his head in wonder. "Still, it does seem strange that a man wouldn't even do his own proposing for a bride."
"It is not the Polish way. In fact, talking about the wedding at all is considered bad luck for the marriage," he said. "So even the swat never mentions it."
They had returned to the Packard, but Teddy made no move to join the ladies inside. He was intrigued with these stories of Poland that he had never heard.
"How do they propose if they never talk about it?"
"Well," Mikolai said, propping his foot up on the front tire and leaning forward to rest his hand on his chin. "When I went to ask for your mother, my Uncle Leos went with me. He said to your grandfather, 'I hear that you have a fine goose to sell and we were hoping that we could get you to part with it.'"
Teddy laughed out loud. "You pretended you were buying a goose."
"No, not really," Mikolai assured him. "It was just a way of speaking. It was the way that things were done. The old man knew what we wanted and why we were there."
"So what did he say, ‘Yes, you can buy my goose'?"
Mikolai shook his head. "No, not that. It is never that easy. I presented the old man with a bottle of vodka. That was how he answered me."
"Oh?"
"If he had just said thank you and taken it, it would have meant that he didn't favor me for a son-in-law. That would have been the end of it. I would have gone away and nothing would have ever been said about it again."
"But he didn't just thank you and take it?" Teddy said.
"No, he opened the vodka and poured some for himself and for the swat," Mikolai answered. "That meant that he was agreeable to the match."
"And then that was all there was to it?" Teddy asked.
"No, of course not. Even in Poland the bride gets to have her say."
"So what did my mother do? Offer to be a goose?"
Mikolai shook his head. "The old man called for her to bring me a glass for the vodka. If your mother had left the room or asked someone else to fetch it, it would have meant that she didn't want to marry me."
"But she did."
"Yes, she did," Mikolai said. "She brought me the glass and poured the vodka. Then she tasted it before she handed it to me. That way we all knew that she was as eager for the match as I."
Teddy shook his head in disbelief. "It's a strange way to ask a girl to marry you."
"Yes, it is strange," Mikolai admitted. He was quiet, thoughtful for a moment. "I like America better. You just ask Claire and she says yes and we talk to her father."
Teddy glanced hopefully inside the car. He had explained himself to his father, but he hadn't made any progress on getting him to talk about Miss Gertrude. He hoped futilely that Claire was having more luck getting the truth.
"Ah, yeah," he said vaguely. "I just have to ask her and talk to her father. But I don't think that there is any hurry. I don't want to talk to her father yet."
"No," Mikolai agreed. "There is no hurry. Unless you are worried that some other fellow may come and steal her away."
"Some other fellow?" Teddy was incredulous. "Oh, she wouldn't marry anyone else," he assured his father hurriedly. "I ... I mean we are not going to get married until after college, so there is no need to rush into anything."
Mikolai nodded agreement and then added in a low, even tone that was deceptively mild. "No need to rush into anything, especially not into the darkness of Monument Park."
Chapter Twenty-Two
THE MORNING AIR was crisp and cold. Perfect, Mikolai thought, for September. He had two kilns firing and three more on the cool. The brick business was going very well. The brick business was his life and his livelihood. Which in no way explained why he had left his foreman in charge and was headed home early in the middle of the day.
"I'm going home early today, Toppett," he said. "I'm sure you can handle everything here."
"Yessir," the foreman answered, looking momentarily surprised. Although the boss frequently ran errands, he rarely left work before the other men. "All we're a-needin' is to see that railcar loaded."
Stefanski nodded crisply. "Once we free up some space in the drying shed, put all the off-bearers to work getting the yard bricks inside. The weather may change on us any day and I don't want that stock damaged."
Toppett murmured agreement. "The boys can have that done by tomorrow for certain, Mr. Stefanski."
Mikolai nodded with approval.
"Number four is blue-smokin'," the foreman commented.
Mikolai glanced once more in the direction of the huge beehive kilns, like big brick igloos at the far side of the yard. He watched the bluish-colored steam from the oxidation phase of the firing process rising out of the last kiln in the line.
"Raise the temperature to vitrification overnight and we will seal it in the morning," he said.
"I'll be stoking that fire, Mr. Stefanski," Toppett promised.
Toppett continued to regard his employer curiously, but Mikolai made no further comment. He had no reason to explain himself. He was simply anxious
to return home. As owner of the Stefanski Brickyards, he didn't need to say why.
Of course he knew why. He also understood the reason that he had been unable to concentrate on the paperwork he'd left waiting upon his desk, the reason he'd been able to think of virtually nothing else but the events that occurred at the victory dance.
He wanted to see Gertrude Barkley. He wanted to stand close to her again. He wanted to look down into her so-familiar face. He wanted to talk to her about her life.
Despite the surprising finale of the evening, his son declaring his intentions for Claire Barkley, Mikolai had not been quite able to block out the memory of holding Miss Gertrude in his arms and hearing her tears of distress.
"I am just an aging spinster who has suddenly discovered that she is disappointed," she had said to him.
His own reaction was also troublesome. Gertrude Barkley was a friend, a good friend, and such an exceptional woman. Seeing her shed tears of regret was unbearable. The memory of it had been haunting him for the last several days. So much so that this morning he had decided to speak with her. And when Mikolai Stefanski decided to do something, he rarely allowed anything to get in his way.
He left the running of his brickyards in the competent hands of his foreman and in the middle of a workday afternoon took the Interurban up the full length of Main Street.
She was not hard to locate. She was, where Mikolai often saw her, at the hazel tree that marked the border of their property. Dressed in a simple plaid work dress that was covered by a bleached muslin pinafore trimmed along the ruffles with green rickrack, she might have been any of the hardworking housewives of Venice, Missouri. But appearances, as always, were deceiving.
He didn't exactly sneak up on her. But he was there, watching her for several minutes before she knew of his presence. She spoiled and coddled the shaded roots of the hazel tree, trying to make it give fruit. He didn't think that it ever would, but he admired her so much for not giving up on it.
"Good afternoon. Miss Gertrude," he called out.
She turned to him, clearly surprised at his unexpected presence. "Oh, Mr. Stefanski. I was just thinking of you," she said. Then, as if realizing the connotation of her words, she blushed rather prettily.
Mikolai nodded. He had been thinking of her almost ceaselessly and somehow he was grateful that he was not the only one still affected by the encounter at the dance.
"What are you doing?" he asked as he slipped off his silk-trimmed fedora deferentially.
"Just putting down an ash ring," she said, indicating the gray powdery contents of her bucket. "A circle of ashes around the base will keep the bugs off."
He nodded thoughtfully. "Better put down in spring than fall," he suggested.
Gertrude nodded, pleased at his rudimentary knowledge of gardening. "I had the ashes today," she admitted, laughing.
Mikolai laughed, too, lightly. It was not something that he did often. And it seemed Miss Gertrude was most often the catalyst for its occurrence.
He came forward and ran his hand assessingly along the rough bark of the tree; he smoothed the downy underside of the sharp-toothed leaves with his fingers. He shook his head.
"This tree seemed so sturdy and strong, but I don't believe anymore that it will ever bear us hazelnuts, Miss Gertrude."
"I haven't given up," she said. "If I continue to take care of it, surely it will reward me eventually."
Mikolai didn't look hopeful. "You have spoiled it, I think. This tree is too lazy to do anything useful."
She laughed. 'Trees don't get lazy. At least, I don't think that they do. How would we ever know? You would have me ignore it in the hope that it will learn to take care of itself."
"It seems like a reasonable course of action," he said.
Gertrude eyed him assessingly. "Is that what you are doing with the young people? Just hoping that they will learn to take care of themselves."
"Ah . . ." he said. “Teodor and Claire. What do you mean?"
"I haven't heard any opposition from you for their marriage," she said.
He shrugged. "I have no opposition. I am surprised, but I think Claire to be a wonderful girl. Someday she will make a loving wife and partner."
Gertrude's mouth thinned to a narrow line and she shook her head. "Someday perhaps, but not now. Her whole life is ahead of her. I don't want her to marry too soon and miss her chance at growing up."
Mikolai looked down at her. She was so stern, so sure. His expression was sober but warm. "Claire will get her chance to grow up, though it may not be exactly as we had hoped it would be. She will find her own way. She is a lot like you."
Gertrude nodded and then feigned humor. "That's exactly what I am afraid of."
She set down the empty ash bucket and dusted the residue from her hands. "How do you do it, Mr. Stefanski?" she asked.
"Do what?"
"Just sit back and be so calm. I know that you were upset the other night, but now you seem undaunted by this unexpected wedding talk."
He shook his head. "I'm not unconcerned," he said evenly. "I was angry when I thought Teodor to be so foolish as to get caught stealing into the darkness with a young woman. I was stunned when he mentioned marriage, grateful when he said that it would not be soon, and wise enough not to try to get in the way of it."
"Still, how can you just accept it?" she asked.
Mikolai shrugged. "I trust my son," he said. "That helps. And I know that to keep a thing, you must sometimes give it away."
Gertrude looked skeptical. "Is that an old Polish proverb?" she asked.
"Not a proverb exactly," he said. "But it does go back a long way."
She eyed him questioningly.
"When the first king of Poland converted to Christianity he gave his country to the Holy See."
"He gave his country away?" Gertrude asked, incredulous.
"Yes," Mikolai answered. "He gave it away."
"But that is terrible."
"Perhaps it was not," he said. "Through all the years of invaders and conquerors, inept rulers and unjust occupiers, we have remained always Poland."
Gertrude nodded slowly, thoughtfully.
"Even now," Mikolai continued, "with the land divided between Prussia, Russia, and Austria, Poland remains an entity, intact. And why is that?"
"Because the first king gave it away," she said.
Mikolai nodded. "The Vatican has an interest in it. By giving Poland to the Holy See, the king was able to guarantee its existence for all time, forever."
"And that's what you are doing with your son."
The gleam in Mikolai's eyes could only be interpreted as humor. "Well, I'm not giving him to the church," he said.
He let his teasing words sink into her thoughts until she smiled.
"But I do believe that allowing him to be his own man, to let him go his own way, makes it easier for him to stay close to me.
Gertrude nodded thoughtfully.
'Teodor is a good and dutiful son," Mikolai said. "And if I would ask him to stay here in Venice and go into the business with me, I know that he would. But then I would lose his heart, I think. And that is more valuable to me than his hands."
"Maybe that was Papa's trouble with George," Gertrude said. "He wouldn't set him free, never allowed him to be himself. So one day he just broke loose."
Mikolai didn't comment. He was content for the moment just to gaze at the bright, flashing eyes of the woman beside him and to marvel, not for the first time, at her intelligence and thoughtfulness.
"Of course, Papa wasn't completely wrong," she continued. "People can make some very foolish decisions when they are young."
He nodded. "And that's what you think that these two have done?" he asked. "They have been foolish in throwing away their youth as you think you have been."
"Oh dear," Gertrude said somewhat nervously. "We are to that, are we?"
With a casual grace that was unexpected for such a big man, he sat down on the grass, leaning his back again
st the trunk of the stubbornly unproductive tree. "Young people often make choices that later in life they come to regret. Isn't that what you were speaking of the other evening?"
Gertrude's face glowed with shame, but she smiled brightly as if to make light of the circumstances. "I was hoping you would be gentleman enough to forget my behavior the other evening."
He raised a bushy eyebrow. "I suppose I could do that if you truly wish it," he answered. "But perhaps I am a better friend than I am a gentleman. As a friend I might be able to dissuade you from such foolish thinking."
He lifted his hand to her, offering a place in the shady grass beside him. She did sit down, but kept an extravagantly prim distance.
"I certainly need not tell you how greatly I admire you," he said.
Gertrude's chin popped up in surprise. "Me?"
"Why, of course," he said. "Undoubtedly you have been aware of the high regard in which you are held by myself and many people in the community for your talent and your spirit."
She laughed humorlessly. "I'm not sure my talent and spirit are much more than tolerated by the city of Venice, Missouri."
He nodded. "You have your detractors," he admitted. "But all those who strive, in big ways or small, are held up to ridicule by those who never had the courage to try," he said. "You have had that courage, and what is more, you have succeeded. I find it very strange that you would have cause to regret your choices."
"You are right, of course, Mr. Stefanski. It would be silly for me to even look back," she admitted with forced gaiety.
"But you do look back," he said.
Her silence was the answer.
He sighed heavily. "In all truth, Miss Gertrude," he said. "I have spent a good deal of my time lately looking back myself. I have regrets also."
"You?" Gertrude's expression was mystified. "What on earth could you have to regret?"
"The same things as you, I would suppose," he answered.
"Now that is foolish," she said. "Your life has been so important, so worthwhile, I can't imagine what you might have to look back on."
"Important? What of great importance do you see in my life?" he asked.