Waiting for Summer's Return Page 7

  “Too long it has been only the boy, Grossmutter, and me. I forget what things are needed by others. Sorry I am that I did not ask you what things you could use.” He rubbed his dry lips together as she continued to gaze at him silently. “You-you have paper and pen there. You make list of the things you need, and I will see they are gathered.”

  The woman finally nodded, the puzzlement fading. “Thank you. I have considered some things that would be helpful. I’ll make a list.” She raised her small chin in a defiant manner. “I don’t expect you to purchase the items, however.” She paused for a moment, her rebellion faltering. “But-but it will require your wagon for me to get into town.”

  The opportunity to visit with the woman about Thomas’s education suddenly presented itself. Peter nodded, sweeping his hair with his hand. “Ja, a ride into town. I will take you. When will your list be done?”

  Her narrow shoulders lifted and fell in a silent gesture of uncertainty. “Tomorrow morning, I suppose.”

  Peter nodded again, hoping he did not appear too eager. “Tomorrow will be fine. First thing after breakfast, we will go.” He turned to hang up his hat and coat and paused when another idea struck. “Frau Steadman, would you like to stop at the graves? To put down some flowers for your family?”

  Tears flooded the woman’s eyes. The fervent gratitude shining there made Peter determined to take her to visit her family’s headstones as often as she needed until her heart healed.

  Thomas returned to the table. “There’s still a whole passel of strawflowers growing behind the outhouse. I can pick some.”

  Peter sucked in his breath. Would the woman find offense in being offered flowers that grew in such a location? But warmth appeared in her eyes.

  “Thank you, Thomas. Perhaps your father will find a jar for water. We’ll put them in the jar so they’ll still be fresh tomorrow.”

  Thomas peered up at his father. “May I go now, Pa? Supper’s not fixed yet.”

  “Go, boy. But walk.”

  Thomas shot his father an impish grin, then walked toward the door as if slogging through cold molasses.

  “Sie sind ein schelmischer junge!”

  Thomas laughed, his arm protecting his ribs, and headed out the door.

  Peter turned to find the woman staring at him in confusion.

  “What did you say?”

  Sympathy he felt for her then. How often he was confused when unfamiliar English words were spoken. He would not leave the woman wondering. “I tell the boy he has too much energy, and then I call him—” He scratched his head, searching for a word to convey his meaning. “What say you when someone is too playful for good sense?”

  The woman’s face puckered in thought. “Ornery? Or mischievous?”

  “Ach, another m word.” Peter shook his head. “Why are so many hard words starting with m?”

  A muscle in Frau Steadman’s cheek twitched, and Peter wondered if she was holding back a grin. “Hard words start with m?”

  “Ja. You said one yesterday—manipulated. Today at lunch there were more.” He frowned, trying to remember the correct pronunciations. “Medieval and marauding. I do not know these. Now mismismusvis.” He struggled to make his tongue form the tricky word.

  “Mischievous.” Her expression and tone were kind.

  “Mis-chie-vous,” he repeated. “This means to be …?”

  “Ornery or silly. Playful.”

  Peter considered this. “Playful. Ja, that suits my Thomas.” He pulled out a chair and sat down. The woman moved her tablet to give him room on the table. Half of the paper was covered with lines of ink, but he couldn’t read any of it. Leaning his forearms on the table, he focused on the subject of Thomas. “My boy—he has not been … mischievous while with you, has he? I want him to not be silly when he works on studies.”

  “Oh no, he’s very diligent.” She must have read the confusion in his eyes, because she added, “He is serious about his studies. He doesn’t play.”

  Peter breathed a sigh of relief. “This is good. Ja, this is good.”

  “He is particularly talented with arithmetic. He’s well beyond the fourth grade level. I would say at least two years ahead.” She leaned back. “It’s good that he’ll be in a classroom again before too long. I’m sure his teacher will have more knowledge of the advanced mathematics. My education was not strong in mathematics. I am not able to help Vincent in that subject as much as I would like, either.” Her face clouded. She lowered her head. “I must stop doing that.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Speaking of my son as if he were still alive.” Her voice was so soft, Peter nearly missed it. “I can’t seem to accept that he and the others are gone. When I think of them, I think in the present tense. But I must begin thinking in the past tense.”

  Peter did not understand the word tense, but he understood past and present. “It takes time.” It seemed as if he had said that frequently in the past days. “It was many weeks before I got up in the morning without thinking of what Elsa and I would do with the day. I wanted to keep her in the present, I think, so I would not forget her. Now I know how foolish that was. How could I forget someone so special as Elsa?”

  “Do you think that’s why I do it? Because I’m afraid I might forget them?”

  Peter would not pretend to know all of what she felt. He only knew what he had felt. “I do not know, but I do know this: You will never forget them. They will live on in your heart forever. Forever young, forever yours. No matter how far in the past they become, a love for them will live on inside of you each day.”

  Summer sat in silence, digesting what Mr. Ollenburger had said. Having lost his wife, he could understand her own loss. Yet in her opinion, her own loss was deeper, harder. To have a child die was to lose not only the child but the adult the child would have become. While she never wanted to forget her children, she resented they would always be young. They should be able to grow up, to fulfill hopes and dreams. While Mr. Ollenburger would see that happen with Thomas, Summer would never be allowed that privilege with her children.

  It was her own fault. She had uprooted her children from their safe, familiar home.

  Swallowing, she took up the pen. “I must finish this letter, and then I will make my list. I appreciate your willingness to take me to town tomorrow.”

  The man rose. “Bitte schoen—you are welcome. Now supper I must think about. When the boy comes back, he will want to fill his belly. Always his mind is on food at this age.”

  Summer completed her letter and began her list while Mr. Ollenburger fried sausage, potatoes, and eggs for a simple supper. Thomas came in, his arms laden with pale purple flowers that resembled bachelor’s buttons. His beaming face above the thick bouquet brought tears to Summer’s eyes. How often had Rose come in from play with her sticky hands holding frazzled clumps of flowers and her sweaty face wreathed in a smile? Oh, how she missed her children!

  She swallowed her sadness. “Thank you so much, Thomas. Why, you must have picked every remaining flower.”

  “I didn’t leave very many, but these strawflowers come back every year. There’ll be more in the spring. I’ll pick you more then.”

  His guileless words pierced Summer’s heart. She wouldn’t be here in the spring. Thomas would be back in school, and she would no longer be needed.

  Mr. Ollenburger produced an empty canning jar from beneath the dry sink and splashed a dipperful of water into it. Thomas placed the flowers in it, and Summer put the jar in the middle of the table. Blooms spilled over on all sides into a haphazard display of color.

  As they stood admiring the bouquet, the middle bedroom door opened and the grandmother emerged, leaning heavily on her cane. She spotted the flowers and a smile broke across her face. She hobbled to the table to cup a drooping bloom with her bent fingers, turning her smile on Thomas.

  “Die blumen sind fÜr mich?”

  It was the first time the old woman had spoken in Summer’s presence. She looked at Thoma
s, who appeared shame-faced. He turned to Summer.

  “Grandmother wonders if the flowers are for her.”

  The boy seemed so concerned about hurting his grandmother’s feelings that Summer longed to smooth his cheek. She clutched her hands to her skirt. “Tell her they are for her. You can pick the remaining ones for me tomorrow morning for the graves.”

  The boy turned to his grandmother and nodded, his hair flopping with the motion. “Ja, blumen fÜ r sie.”

  The old woman clucked, stroking the blooms with her crippled hand, her eyes sparkling. Summer did not regret the decision. She turned to see Mr. Ollenburger watching her with approval shining in his eyes. He shifted his gaze to his son.

  “Thomas, your hands must be washed. Then the table must be set so we can eat.”

  The boy rubbed his stomach as he moved toward the washbasin on the dry sink. “Oh good! I’m hungry!”

  Mr. Ollenburger sent Summer a smile that said, “I told you so.” And Summer came very close to answering it with a smile of her own.

  The next morning Mr. Ollenburger hitched up the oxen right after breakfast, as he had promised. Summer had donned her blue dress for the trip into town. It was the less dusty of her two remaining gowns. Her list included fabric—black muslin for two dresses. Her heart mourned; her attire may as well reflect it.

  Mr. Ollenburger helped Summer into the wagon, his large hands retreating from her waist the moment her feet were secure. When she was seated, he handed her the jar of flowers Thomas had picked just minutes before. She cradled the jar with both hands, inhaling deeply of the wonderfully sweet scent that emanated from the blooms.

  When he was aboard, he picked up a lap robe and draped it over her knees, his work-roughened hands careful to avoid contact with her skirts. He appeared coarse with his thick beard, shaggy hair, and simple work clothes, yet his behavior was always that of a gentleman. Summer appreciated his solicitousness.

  In her reticule she carried the folded letter for Rodney’s parents. As the wagon rolled down the dusty road toward Gaeddert, she wondered if Horace and Nadine would respond. In all likelihood, they would not. Furious with their only child’s decision to leave, they had demanded Rodney at least leave Vincent with them so the boy could have a decent upbringing. How her heart had melted with relief when Rodney had declared they would all go. Now, however, guilt pricked her conscience. Had they left Vincent behind, he would still be alive. Horace and Nadine had lost their whole family, too, the day Rodney and Summer left Boston.

  “Frau Steadman?”

  She gave a little jump. Mr. Ollenburger pointed, and she twisted her head. The familiar stand of cottonwoods waited, the row of graves nearby. He leaped over the side of the wagon, took the flowers, and helped her down.

  She took the jar and moved toward the graves, her skirts stirring dust. The ash pile was much smaller than the last time she had been here. The endlessly blowing wind had scattered the remnants of her belongings across the landscape. Her heart clutched with the thought. So much of her was here now, on this prairie called Kansas.

  She stood for a moment, deciding at which grave to place the flowers. Her gaze roved from Rodney’s down to little Tillie’s. Rodney’s mound had lost its new appearance with the passing of weeks, but Tillie’s grassless mound, so much smaller, seemed as new as the day she had been covered. Tears stung Summer’s eyes as she looked at that tiny hill and imagined the sweet child lying beneath the hard sod.

  The wind stirred the flowers; their scent filled Summer’s nostrils. She buried her nose in their depths, inhaling, savoring, remembering. Deliberately she conjured a picture of each child: Vincent with a book in his hands, his eyes alight with pleasure; Rose pushing a needle through her embroidery hoop, her little brow furrowed and tongue touching her upper lip; Tod chasing fireflies, his endearing giggle filling the air; and Tillie asleep in her bed with her curling lashes throwing a shadow across her rosy cheeks. Always young, always hers, Mr. Ollenburger had said. She willed the memories to never fade.

  After a long while she placed the jar between the graves of Rose and Tod, centered amongst her children. Of all the children, Rose would appreciate them most. The little girl had openly admired the wildflowers as their wagon lumbered across the land.

  Summer tamped the ground around the jar to insure it wouldn’t tip, then she turned back to the wagon. Mr. Ollenburger stood beside it, waiting. The sun touched his face, making his eyes appear even deeper in hue, and within their depths Summer recognized the sympathy that pooled there whenever he looked at her.

  She allowed him to assist her back into the wagon, and he encouraged the oxen with a firm command. When they were well down the lane, she finally spoke. “Thank you for allowing me to visit the graves.”

  He cleared his throat, sending her a brief sidelong glance. “You are welcome. You tell me when again you want to come. I will bring you.”

  A gust of wind slapped her face, reminding Summer of the coming winter. Visits to the graves wouldn’t be possible much longer. She had better visit often while she could. Observing Mr. Ollenburger’s slouched position on the bouncing seat, she recalled he had no grave to visit when he missed his wife. That must be even more difficult. At least she had a place to go, to mourn and remember.

  How did he manage to be so at peace with the loss of his wife? He gave credit to God, which Summer didn’t understand. Surely Mr. Ollenburger had prayed for his wife, yet she had died. How could a God who ignored pleas for help give comfort? She sighed. The faith she thought she’d possessed in Boston certainly paled when compared with that of Mr. Ollenburger.

  “I would like to speak to you about Thomas.”

  She jumped and clutched her heart.

  His thick brows came down. “I am sorry if I frighten you.”

  “It-it isn’t you.” She pressed her hands into her lap to steady their trembling. “So often I am lost in thought, not anticipating anyone talking. Then, when you speak with your deep voice … it startles me. Please don’t apologize.”

  “You are thinking of your family.” The words were a statement, not a question.

  “Yes.”

  “You will think of them often. I will try to give warning when I am about to blurt out loudness.”

  “Blurt out loudly. Loudness is a noun; loudly is an adverb that describes how you blurt.” She slapped a hand to her mouth. What was she thinking? He’d made it clear she was his son’s teacher—not his!

  He scowled but repeated, “Blurt out loudly.” He cleared his throat, his fingers twisting the whip. “Now … about Thomas.”

  But the wagon turned the last curve that led to town. He released a sigh. “We will talk when home we drive. What things do you need?”

  Summer consulted her list. “I need paper, envelopes, postage stamps, a pen and ink, material for dresses …” Next on the list was underclothes. Heat filled her cheeks.

  Mr. Ollenburger didn’t seem to notice her discomfort. “I will take you to Nickels’ store. It has all things you said except the stamps.”

  “Thank you.” Summer slipped the list back into her reticule.

  He stopped the oxen in front of Nickels’ Dry Goods, where the little camel coat still hung in the window. It served as a reminder of Summer’s loss, and she froze momentarily, her fingers curled around the wooden seat. When she saw Mr. Ollenburger reaching to help her down, she made herself place her hands in his. He guided her onto the boardwalk and opened the door for her.

  When she stepped inside, he paused in the doorway. “How long will you need?”

  “Half an hour at most.”

  He nodded. “I will leave the wagon here and will be back.” He closed the door. Summer watched his tall frame move past the windows. She suddenly felt very alone.

  8

  TWO WOMEN—one older, one fairly young—in plain dresses and bonnets stood near the fabrics, their curious faces aimed in Summer’s direction. When she moved toward the bolts of cloth, both women skittered to the counter.
They whispered in German to the man behind the counter. Summer raised her chin and ignored them even as her heart pounded and hands shook. Their low-voiced conversation continued as she selected a bolt of good quality black muslin, thread, and a packet of needles.

  She walked to the counter, her feet echoing hollowly on the planked floor, and placed the items at the end of the tall wooden countertop. The conversation immediately ceased. “I need eight yards of the muslin,” she told the clerk. She turned her back without waiting for an answer.

  Her chest felt tight. Although she could understand nothing of what was being said, she knew the women discussed her. And she didn’t like it. How she wished Mr. Ollenburger had remained with her. Would these women behave so rudely if she were in the presence of that “bear of a man,” a man the doctor said held the respect of the town?

  She found paper, a pen, and an inkpot, but the selection of clothing was minimal at best. Shoes, stockings, and some children’s items, but nothing of a personal nature for a woman. She had no desire to ask the location of such items with those two prune-faced women watching and whispering. Ordering from a catalog seemed her safest choice. Until she could order underclothes, she would have to continue to wash out her things each night as she’d been doing.

  She selected a small tin washtub to replace the bucket she had borrowed from Mr. Ollenburger’s barn. Picking up two chunky bars of soap from a shelf near the washtubs, she placed them inside the tub along with a new hairbrush and hairpins.

  While she shopped, the clerk measured and cut the muslin, the snip of scissors an intrusion in the hushed atmosphere of the store. Her arms laden, Summer crossed to the counter, where the two women continued to stare unabashedly at her.

  “Frau?” The older of the pair addressed Summer.

  Summer looked at her, noticing the clerk’s eyebrows quirk as his hands stilled in their task of folding the length of muslin. “Yes?”

  The woman moved forward one step, her palm pressed to the counter as if to gather courage. “On miller Peter Ollenburger’s place you are staying?”