Waiting for Summer's Return Read online

  With a sagging spirit, she put her bed in order and blew out the lamp, sealing herself in a mournful, murky gray. She slipped between the covers and pulled the rough blanket clear to her chin. After a few moments, her eyes adjusted to the dismal gloom, and she stared at the rough beams overhead, her mind picturing the flower-sprigged paper that covered the ceiling of her bedroom in Boston.

  Boston … If only she hadn’t found that newspaper article. If only she hadn’t shown it to Rodney. Rarely had she gotten her way with Rodney, but this time she had been persuasive.

  “Think of it, Rodney—working side-by-side under the sun, building our house and plowing our fields, depending on no one but each other. How adventurous it would be! Can you not imagine it?”

  Her words came back to haunt her, bringing with them another fierce stab of pain. Why couldn’t she have been satisfied to remain in Boston? Why couldn’t she have simply tolerated the distant affection offered by her husband? Why had she thought she needed more of his time and attention?

  When her parents died, her brother had taken her in with reluctance. His wife had said boarding school would be beneficial, and off she was sent. When she reached a marriageable age, her brother and his wife had introduced Rodney to her and indicated it would be in her best interests to become his wife. Rodney had chosen their neighborhood, their home, and most of their furnishings—things befitting the son of bank owner Horace Steadman. Rodney had said they would start their family immediately, and they had, bringing into the world four wonderful children in the space of eight years.

  Summer resented that so many decisions had been made for her. Never had her life been her own. Not until she found the article and convinced Rodney to go along with her scheme of beginning life anew in the lands of Oklahoma. She remembered the joy of moving through their spacious home, selecting which items they should sell and which they should take to pack into the wagon they would purchase in Missouri. Rodney often scowled, but he allowed her to have her way for the first time in their marriage.

  They had argued fiercely over the box of books. Books are heavy, Rodney had insisted; books are necessary, she had countered. She had been told the frontier lacked reading material, and she would not allow her children to grow up uneducated. Finally Vincent’s pleas convinced Rodney to allow the crate. How her heart had leaped with satisfaction as the train to Missouri had pulled out of Boston. A new life of her own choosing!

  The bitter taste of regret was like bile on her tongue. Look what her choices had brought her—no husband, no children, no belongings, no home. Her eyes flitted around the room, another of her choices. A windowless hovel with a dirt floor and a bed made of cut saplings, rope, and straw.

  Should she break her agreement with Mr. Ollenburger and return to the hotel, then arrange to take a train to Boston? The answer came immediately: no.

  Her children’s graves required tending, and so did Thomas. He wasn’t her boy, and she had no desire to make him her boy, yet he was a child on whom she could bestow affection and care. Her heart needed someone to care for.

  Summer frowned, remembering the constant watchful gaze of the old grandmother today. As Mr. Ollenburger had indicated, the woman had not spoken to her at all throughout the afternoon. She had only watched Summer with an expression of worry in her faded wrinkled eyes. Summer had no idea what worry the woman held, but she hoped it would be set aside. It was unnerving to always be watched.

  Her eyelids drooped, sleepiness taking hold. Although the shariah carried a perpetually musty odor, the fresh smell of straw beneath her head pleased her nostrils. She rolled to her side to bring her nose closer to the source of the smell, closed her eyes, and drifted off to sleep.

  Thomas formed the letters to spell the word beast. Summer felt the grandmother’s eyes on her from the rocking chair in the corner, but Summer kept her focus on the boy. He held the slate toward her, his eyebrows raised in query. She nodded, and he swept away the word with a rag and took up his slate pencil, ready for the next word.

  “Instinctive.” She watched the boy’s brow furrow in concentration as he bent once more over the slate.

  It had surprised Summer to discover the variety of books the Ollenburgers owned. After the breakfast dishes were cleared away, Thomas had proudly shown her his shelf containing reading and spelling primers, the most recent volume of Barnes’s United States History, Reed and Kellogg’s Higher Grammar, and Robinson’s Practical Arithmetic. In addition to the instructional books, he had several volumes of Twain’s work and Uncle Tom’s Cabin by Harriet Beecher Stowe. When Summer had voiced her astonishment at the Stowe book, the boy confided that he didn’t like it much.

  “Not because it isn’t good. It is a good story. But it makes me sad.” He shrugged. “I’d rather laugh when I read than cry. Sometimes Twain makes me cry, too.”

  Thomas was so different from Vincent, although both boys enjoyed reading. Vincent would choose the saddest story, then read it aloud with great drama, bringing his audience to tears. Summer pushed aside thoughts of Vincent to ask, “Where did you get so many books?”

  The boy answered in a matter-of-fact tone. “Pa buys them for my birthdays and Christmas.”

  Summer would never have guessed the man would choose reading material as gifts for his son. Tools, yes. Perhaps even a rifle. But books? Summer asked, “Does your father read to you, then?”

  Thomas frowned. “I read to Pa.”

  Summer turned the spelling primer to the page Thomas had indicated and began reviewing. But his statement repeated itself in her head: “I read to Pa.” Although Thomas hadn’t said it directly, Summer surmised Mr. Ollenburger couldn’t read.

  “Did I get it right?” Thomas held up the slate, bringing her back to the present.

  Summer pointed. “All but one letter. Instinctive needs an e at the end.”

  The boy made a face. “You can’t hear it. Why does it have to be there?”

  “Well …” She blinked. “I don’t know. But the word requires it, so put it on and then write it correctly five times. That way you’ll remember it.”

  Thomas’s scowl deepened, and she wondered if he would argue. Then, with a sigh, he followed her direction. She stifled her own sigh of relief at his acquiescence. She didn’t care to grow stern with him while the grandmother observed her every move.

  She rose and poured another cup of coffee while she waited for him to finish. Through the window, she observed Mr. Ollenburger at the chopping block, where he was turning logs into kindling. The thud of his ax had sounded for nearly an hour now. He had rolled up the sleeves of his plaid flannel shirt, and even from this distance, she could see the bulge of his muscles as he raised the tool over his head.

  With a mighty thrust of the ax he split a sizable length of log into two halves, then thunk! thunk!—the halves became quarters. He lifted all four pieces and carried them to the woodpile, where they were added to a neat stack. He repeated the process with another log. Did the man never tire?

  Every task Mr. Ollenburger performed was done with precision. His woodpile was as straight as a row of soldiers marching in parade. The grounds of his property were neatly kept. The house, though far from fancy, had a tidy appearance. She knew it could use an additional sweeping and dusting—those were things a woman would notice more than a man—but it was obvious the man took pride in everything he did. He also took pride in his son. The stack of books, purchased by an illiterate miller, were proof of that.

  Turning from the window, she noticed the grandmother’s expression had changed from worry to something else. Her thick brows hung so low her eyes were mere slits, and her jaw was firmly clamped. Her gnarled hands wrapped around the arms of the rocker, her posture stiff. Was she all right? Just as Summer prepared to ask, the old woman seemed to relax, easing back into the chair and putting her hands in her lap. Although her focus never wavered from Summer’s face, the tense look disappeared. Puzzled, yet afraid to address the woman, Summer turned her attention back to the boy.<
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  Thomas put down the pencil and held up the slate. She crossed to the table and examined the writing. “Well done. That’s the last word on your list. Shall we move on to arithmetic?”

  He wrinkled his nose. “Can’t I take a break?”

  She allowed her expression to answer. Although he blew out a breath of aggravation, he reached for his arithmetic book. They spent an hour on long division. Thomas’s quick mind absorbed with ease the concept of remainders, and Summer discovered she didn’t need to teach him but merely direct him.

  When Mr. Ollenburger came in for lunch, she told him, “You were right. Thomas is a very bright boy. He’ll be caught up with the studies he missed and perhaps even ahead of his classmates by the time he returns to school.”

  The man’s eyes shone. “Oh, that boy takes after his mother, for sure. A very smart woman she was.” He tapped his temple. Turning to the old woman, who had remained in her chair all morning, he said something in German. A wary smile flitted across her face. He turned back to Summer. “I tell her what you say about the boy.”

  He shrugged his massive shoulders. “It is a good thing two parents a boy has. From me he gets his big size and from his mother he gets his good head. Together he becomes a boy strong in body and mind. A good mix, for sure.”

  Summer sensed an undertone in his statement. Definitely she saw that he was proud of his son, but there was something else. A sense of inferiority, perhaps. Being illiterate must be difficult. How did he run a business if he hadn’t the ability to read? A fleeting idea crossed her mind—should she offer to teach him? While Thomas undoubtedly read things for his father now, what would the man do if Thomas chose to leave Gaeddert when he came of age?

  “Mr. Ollenburger, would you like to sit in on Thomas’s reading lessons? I could teach you at the same time.”

  The man’s face flooded with color and he reared back, his jaw clamped. He spun away from her, presenting his rigid profile. “The boy needs your teaching. I do not.” All warmth was gone from his voice.

  Guilt washed over Summer for creating his discomfort. “Very well. That-that’s fine.” She gathered up the papers and books strewn across the table. “I made sandwiches for lunch. You must be hungry.”

  He turned back, seeming to deliberately relax his stiff shoulders. “Ja, I am hungry. I will not wait to be asked twice.”

  While Peter sat at the table and consumed a pile of roast pork sandwiches, he observed the interactions between his son and Frau Steadman. Never did the woman smile, but she looked at the boy with attentiveness when he spoke, and the boy hung on her every response.

  Grossmutter watched them, too. Occasionally she sent a look in his direction, and her brows would rise, as if communicating, See what is happening here? He sensed her disapproval. He wished he had visited with her before bringing Frau Steadman to the house. Tonight he would take her aside and explain why he had chosen to invite the woman to their home. Grossmutter’s love for Thomas went deep. He knew she would accept the woman’s presence once she understood how much good the teaching would do their boy.

  Thomas and the woman discussed a book called Ivanhoe. The only hoe with which Peter was familiar was the one he used to eliminate weeds in his vegetable garden, but Thomas seemed to know of what the woman spoke. The boy contributed his thoughts, speaking of medieval castles and murderous maraudings and Robin Hood.

  Medieval? Marauding? Peter’s chest tightened with pride and anguish—pride in his son, anguish at his own inability to join in the conversation. When would his foolish head absorb all these words and meanings? Murder he knew, from the Good Book. But so many other ideas were beyond his limited vocabulary.

  And the woman knew it. When she had offered to teach him, all shreds of pride had flown out the window. How horrible to be a grown man yet unable to grasp the meanings of words that came easily to others.

  “I am finished. Please excuse me.” Peter’s voice boomed louder than he intended. When the woman startled and looked at him, he felt heat building in his neck. He cleared his throat and forced a softer tone. “I will spend most of the afternoon at the mill, readying it for winter. If you need me, ring the bell, Thomas.”

  “Sure, Pa.”

  Peter carried his plate to the sink as the two began discussing Sir Walter Scott. Peter’s heels dragged as he headed toward the mill, his heart heavy. Peter’s lack of education didn’t matter to the boy now—Thomas was young and still saw his pa as all-knowing. But how might that change in another year or two? The boy’s knowledge daily grew by leaps and bounds, while Peter probably would never know more than he did now.

  He kicked at a dried tuft of grass. “I will not hold him back,” he vowed aloud. “The boy will have all the education he wants. He will be more than me, for sure.” Reaching the mill, he stood for a moment, his gaze following the path of the stilled paddles that caught the wind and turned the gears that powered the grinder. A simple concept, yet so necessary for the people of this area. The mill provided well for his family. All the farmers came to him at harvest time. With only one grinder, it took time to turn their wheat into flour, but the wind-powered mill had not disappointed anyone.

  Peter boosted himself onto the platform and entered the mill. The area inside was snug, with just enough room for him to move around and see to operations. It was a one-man mill. Thomas wanted to one day be a miller, too. When that day came, they must either build another windmill or make a bigger mill and power it with something besides wind or water. Maybe they would use one of those steam engines that chugged locomotives across the land and pushed boats upstream.

  From its spot in the corner, Peter retrieved a half-filled can of sheep tallow and a brush made of strips of cloth tied to a sturdy stick. He dipped the brush in the tallow and painstakingly coated each gear as his thoughts continued.

  If Thomas gets an education, then he will know about such things as steam engines. What a team we will be, the boy and me. Peter knew allowing Thomas to become educated would be considered radical by many in town. Education beyond elementary school was not encouraged. The Mennonites stayed together, planted their fields, purchased their goods from one another, and tried to live in peaceful harmony. If their children were sent away for education, they might encounter evil influences or be coaxed into a different type of life.

  Peter wondered about these threats as he pasted gears with tallow. The Bible said to train up a child in the way he should go and when he is old he will not depart from it. He and Grossmutter were training Thomas right. Should he worry about what the boy might encounter outside of Gaeddert? But no, this is America, not Germany or Russia. No one will force him to join military. We have freedoms here, including freedom to learn more and more.

  But then his hands stilled, his brow furrowing with worry. If the boy got an education, would he still want to follow in his father’s footsteps and become a miller? Peter’s father and grandfather had been millers—three generations of Ollenburger millers in three different countries. Grossvater in Germany, Vater in Russia, and now Peter in America. Nothing else had Peter ever known. But the boy … In this land of many opportunities, what might await Thomas?

  Peter put aside the can and brush and covered the can with a piece of oilcloth. Then he wrapped burlap sacks around the gears, his heart heavy. Giving his boy the education he deserved might lead him away from Kansas and this mill. Even so, though, Peter would not hold Thomas back.

  He should ask the woman about institutions of learning. A learned woman such as herself would know which places were best. She would also know what kind of cost would be involved. The boy was already nearly ten years old. If, as Frau Steadman said, he would be ahead of his classmates, he might be ready for this higher education earlier than most. Peter must be prepared.

  Whatever was best for Thomas would be done. Elsa would approve, and Peter would have it no other way.

  7

  WHEN PETER RETURNED to the house in late afternoon, Grossmutter’s bedroom door was close
d. Perhaps she was taking her afternoon nap. Thomas and Frau Steadman sat at the table, each with tablet paper in front of them. Thomas held a pencil, while Frau Steadman had a pen and inkpot.

  He closed the door with a soft click. The woman glanced up, her gaze meeting his for only a moment before returning to her task. Her hand looked slender and graceful as it dipped the nib into the ink, then guided the pen across the surface of the paper. He shifted his attention to Thomas, who rose from the table and crossed the floor to press himself beneath his father’s arm for a hug.

  Peter savored the hug, holding the boy longer than usual, his hand cupping the back of his son’s head. It saddened him to think of the day the boy would be too old to greet his papa with a hug at the end of a day.

  “Mrs. Steadman is writing a letter. I gave her some of my tablet and your pen.” The boy’s eyes seemed to question whether he had done the right thing.

  The woman paused for a moment, her back stiff.

  “That is fine, son. You know welcome Frau Steadman is to use anything she needs while she helps you.” To his gratification, her shoulders relaxed and her hand began to move again.

  Thomas raised up on tiptoe, quirking a finger for his father to lean down. “Her husband’s parents don’t know her children are gone, Pa. She didn’t have a way to let them know after her wagon was burned. Can you mail her letter for her?”

  Peter straightened with a jerk. Why did he not think of such things? He needed to learn the important questions to ask. He gave Thomas a nod before crossing to the table, his hat in his hands, to stand beside the woman.

  “Frau Steadman, a good host I have not been to you.”

  Her head came up, her dark eyes settling on him with an expression of puzzlement.