More Than Words (13 page)

I couldn’t be certain if Stefan’s face was burning red with anger or embarrassment. He didn’t argue or question his punishment. He knew it would do him no good. But I wondered if any consequence would keep him away from Loyco and that white stallion in the camp of Gypsies.

After returning from prayer services, Father and I sat in the parlor while I darned a pair of my stockings and he studied the latest catalog for new items he might want to order for the store. I was eager to hear about his time with Mr. Finley.

“What do you think about Mr. Finley, Vater? Is he sincere in his desire to live among us?”

After placing a finger between the pages, he glanced up. “Ja, he talks like he would be happy here. He asks lots of questions. All the time we were gone he was talking, talking, talking. My ears, they were starting to hurt by the time we got back home.”

I giggled and drew the thread tight before once again poking the needle beneath the hole in the lisle stocking. “But it is gut he asks lots of questions before he decides, ja?”

“Ja, but it will be a decision for the Grossebruderrat. They must be certain of his faith and his reasons for wanting to join us. There is no one to vouch for him, so they will not be so quick to embrace him into the society. Would be different if he had a relative who could speak for him.”

I knotted and snipped my thread. “You could speak for him after you know him better.”

“It is not the same. He can come here and say anything. I have no way to prove the right or wrong of it. He seems like a nice man. He has gut manners and asked questions about our faith and our history, but that does not mean he would be happy living here or that we would be happy to have him once he has joined us. I can look into his eyes, but I cannot see his heart.”

After a little prodding and a lot of questions, my father told me Mr. Finley had worked as a salesman for seven years. “He says he enjoys his work, but he doesn’t like the importance the world places on possessions and making money. He says he longs for a life of simplicity.”

“Well, I do not think of our life as being simple here in the colonies.” I didn’t know if I should be offended by such a remark or not. After all, we were a people of invention and foresight who worked hard and produced much. I did not think of our people as living simple lives.

“We have not lived in Mr. Finley’s world, Gretchen. I am sure that the way we live appears simple to him because it is different—more stable and dependable.”

“Maybe you are right. I don’t want to misjudge him, but I don’t want him to misjudge us, either.”

My father flipped the page of the catalog. “Do not worry about that. Before he is approved, the elders will be sure he understands all he must know about us.”

I hoped we would know all we should know about Mr. Finley, as well. Except for detailing his love of poetry, he’d avoided most of my questions about his life or family. He was, it seemed, much better at asking questions than providing answers.

CHAPTER 11

The following day I was surprised to see Mr. Finley enter the store. I was certain my father said he was going to take him to Middle Amana to see the printshop and bookbindery, where the school textbooks, hymnbooks, and other religious books used by the community were printed. He removed his hat and strode toward me with purpose in his step.

“My Vater is gone to the train depot, but he should return in a short time. You are going to Middle Amana today, ja?”

He nodded. “That was our plan, but I received a telegraph requesting my immediate return to Chicago. My aunt Lucille is ill and in need of assistance. Uncle Frederick must leave the country on business, and there is no one else to look after her.”

I attempted to hide my surprise. “You did not mention you have family in Chicago. They will surely miss you if you decide to move here.”

“They can arrange for live-in help.” His offhand comment reminded me of Father when he spoke of sending Oma to Mount Pleasant.

“But that’s not the same as family.”

“Next best thing, I suppose. We can’t always expect to have family around to take care of us, but my uncle’s business is a concern.” His attention settled on the telephone behind me. “I need to use your telephone to call Chicago.” He dipped his hand into his pocket and removed several coins. “I’m willing to pay, of course.”

When I shook my head, he reached into his pocket for more money. I waved aside the gesture. “You can’t reach Chicago on this phone. These telephones connect to our villages but nowhere else.”

He stared at me as though I’d spoken another language. “I don’t understand.”

I motioned to Brother Kruger, who had just entered the store. “Could you explain about our telephones to Mr. Finley? He wants to call Chicago from here. I told him that isn’t possible, but I don’t understand well enough to explain.”

The tall, angular man gave a firm nod. “With these telephones you can call the train depot, the doctor, the pharmacy, or the general store, but not outside the Amana communities. We use a ground telephone system with an overhead wire that runs to each telephone in the villages. The telephones are grounded to the earth, which acts as a conductor.”

“In other words, there is no telephone that I can use.”

Brother Kruger’s eyebrows dipped in a frown. “That’s what I just explained. To contact someone in Chicago, you must send a telegraph from the train depot.” He pointed across the store before turning his attention back toward me. “I need a new pair of suspenders. You will deduct them from my account?”

I hurried to the rack, removed a pair of black suspenders, and handed them to Brother Kruger. After assuring him I would charge his account, I returned to the counter.

“I don’t think he liked me.”

“Don’t be foolish. He doesn’t know you. The telephone system confuses most visitors.” I opened the ledger to Brother Kruger’s page. “So you will depart on the late morning train?”

“Yes. I think that will be best. If my uncle leaves early tomorrow, I’ll need time to discuss business matters, and Aunt Martha may need my help.”

I tipped my head to one side. “I thought it was your aunt Lucille who was ill.”

Beads of perspiration formed along Mr. Finley’s forehead. “Of course—Aunt Lucille. My aunt Martha is her sister. I’m always mixing up their names.” He traced his index finger beneath his shirt collar. “It’s terribly warm today, don’t you think?”

I shrugged. “Not particularly. There seems to be a nice breeze. Does your aunt Martha live in Chicago, too?”

He removed his handkerchief from his pocket and swiped his forehead. “No. Aunt Martha lives in New York. Otherwise, she could stay with Aunt Lucille.” He leaned his forearms across the counter. “I was wondering if you’d given any more thought to my suggestion.”

“Suggestion?”

“About having my friend read one of your poems. And I would be delighted if you would permit me the opportunity to read more of your writing. Perhaps you would allow me to take one of your journals to read on the train?”

The very thought of Mr. Finley reading my personal entries caused my stomach to rage like a summer storm. I clasped a hand to my midsection. “Never. There are many personal reflections in my journal that I would never wish to share with anyone.”

“Have you read any of the poetry in the magazines I gave you?”

“Ja, of course.”

“Did you notice how those that speak of personal longing and desires of the heart are written with the most eloquence?”

I tried to remember the poems I’d liked the most. None of them were about desire or longing. “I was impressed with the ones that described beautiful scenery, the rain, and snow: the ones that spoke of God’s creation.”

“Yes, of course. Those are lovely, as well. But the point I wish to make is that people who read poetry don’t necessarily believe the poem is about the author’s life or inner thoughts. They simply believe it’s an artistic expression. Much like an artist who paints a portrait. Those who view his painting don’t necessarily believe it is a picture of the artist.” His brows arched high on his forehead. “You see what I mean?”

“I do, but I still won’t give you my journal.”

He slapped his palm to his forehead. “It’s my hope to help you, Gretchen. Don’t you want to improve your writing?”

“Ja, but—”

He held up a hand to silence me. “What if you cut out several pages? Those that have poems you’re willing to let me and my friend read? I’ll purchase a new journal for you in which you can write only the things you are willing to share with others.”

“I think I could do that, but don’t purchase a journal for me. Accepting a gift from a man would be unsuitable.” I pointed to a stack of tablets similar to the ones used by the schoolchildren. I’ll use one of those.”

He glanced at the mound of writing pads. “One of those will be acceptable. You’ll be able to easily remove the pages you want to send with me.”

The sparkle returned to his eyes. I was happy that my suggestion satisfied Mr. Finley, although I wasn’t certain why I wanted to please him. “When will you return?” The question was personal and bold, and I wanted to take it back as soon as I’d spoken, but he didn’t appear to take offense. Instead he gave me a broad smile.

“Can I assume you will miss me and want me to return?”

His question caused warmth to rise in my cheeks, and I turned my focus back to the ledgers. “If you desire to make your home among us, you will be most welcome to return. As for missing you, I don’t believe I have known you long enough to miss you.” That wasn’t exactly true, for if he never returned I would always wonder if he could have helped me to improve my writing.

“I don’t anticipate my uncle will be gone for too long. I promise to write and keep you informed of my aunt’s progress.” He tapped my journal with his finger. “Were you going to give me those pages? I have some packing to finish at the hotel.”

I fumbled to open the journal and flitted through the pages to find poems that might impress Mr. Finley’s poet friend yet not reveal too much about my personal thoughts. After retrieving a pair of scissors from the shelf, I snipped out one page and then another. “I believe these will do.” I extended the two sheets of paper.

Mr. Finley grasped my hand with his right hand and removed the pages with his left. Still holding my hand, he raised it to his lips. “Thank you for trusting me, Gretchen. I won’t disappoint you.”

I twisted my hand and broke from his hold. “We do not indulge in familiar contact, Mr. Finley. I am certain my Vater spoke of such things when you were with him yesterday.”

“I’m sorry. Please accept my apology. Your father did explain some of the rules pertaining to men and women. I chose to remember only one.”

“And what was that?”

He leaned forward. “That men and women can marry so long as they obtain permission from the elders.” The train whistle sounded in the distance, and he folded my pages and tucked them into his pocket. “Promise that you will continue your writing. Try some short stories.”

“About what?”

“There is a saying that writers should write what they know. Why don’t you write some stories about the colonies? Tell about visits from the Gypsies or how the wine is made. Perhaps a story about the division of men and women during mealtime and church services or about work in the kitchens and the food that is served.” He hesitated a moment. “Or how you celebrate your holidays. Those are things you can write about with conviction.”

There was an urgency to his request. Probably because he feared the train would leave without him. Still, his persistence created a sense of discomfort. “If I have time, I may consider a story or two, but they can wait until I hear from your friend. He may say that I should never again set pen to paper.”

“I’ve seen enough of your talent to know he would never say such a thing. Besides, it would make me feel closer to you if you would send me your stories. I could learn even more about the villages.”

His explanation made sense. My stories could help him decide whether or not he wanted to make the colonies his home. “Ja, I suppose what you say is true.”

After pulling my journal forward and flipping the pages to the back, he wrote his name and address and slid the book back to me. “You can mail them to me at this address. Use this to pay for the postage.” He pulled some money from his pocket and placed it on the counter.

“That is far too much for postage.” I tried to push the money back toward him, but he covered my hand and held it in place.

“There is no way to know how many wonderful stories you may send to me. If there is money remaining, you can give it to me when I return.”

I withdrew my hand but didn’t soon forget the warmth of his palm or the look in his eyes when I lifted my gaze. “Please don’t expect much. I keep busy here at the store, and I have all those fine books of yours to read.”

“I know you’ll find time.” He glanced toward the door. “I really must go. Thank you, Gretchen. I am most grateful. I’ll write very soon, and I hope that you will do the same.”

The moment he departed, guilt assailed me. A part of me wanted to run after him and demand he return the poems. Yet another part bubbled with excitement over what I might discover about my ability. Besides, if I ran after Mr. Finley, people at the train station would question my unseemly behavior. I couldn’t possibly create such a scene. I remained frozen in place until the train whistled a final shrill blast and chugged away from the station carrying both Mr. Finley and my poems off to Chicago. Regret plagued me. I shouldn’t have done such a brazen thing. Neither my father nor the elders would have approved of my behavior. I was no better at following the rules than Stefan. But who could say—perhaps one day my writing could be used to benefit the colonies. If Mr. Finley’s friend thought I had talent, I’d do my best to think of some way I could use my writing in service to our people and the Lord.