More Than Words (16 page)
Two weeks had passed since I’d sent my poem and writing about the Küche to Mr. Finley. I’d been watching the mail for an acknowledgment from him, but so far there had been nothing. I continued to write stories but made the decision to send nothing further until I received a response. There was no need to continue sending my writings to Mr. Finley’s friend if he thought I lacked talent. In truth, I didn’t know what I would feel if the man rejected my efforts as trite and amateurish.
I shouldn’t have allowed myself to become excited over the prospect of receiving praise for my work. But if praise should come, I would give thanks to the Lord for gifting me with a talent, and I would use it only to honor Him. That’s what I told myself when I sorted the mail each day. And today would be no different.
My heart pounded with anticipation when my father walked through the doorway carrying a crate with the mailbag on top. “Leave the bag on the counter. I’ll take care of it.” Sorting the mail wasn’t a task that took long. Most of the residents didn’t receive many letters and didn’t bother to check until they came to purchase something at the store.
“Why are you so eager to sort the mail?” Resting one edge of the crate on a shelf, he tossed the mailbag onto the front counter. “Always before it could sit and wait, but now I hardly make it to the door before you are asking.”
Rather than meeting his questioning eyes, I gave him a halfhearted shrug of one shoulder and focused upon the sack. If he looked into my eyes, he’d know that I was hiding the truth. “If I do it first thing, then I don’t forget later in the day.” I hoped the simple explanation would be enough to satisfy his curiosity.
“Ja, well, don’t forget there are crates of thread and yarn to be sorted and stocked. And be sure to count each item so we get the inventory right.”
I sighed. “Yes, Vater, I know.”
My attempt to avoid an impatient tone failed, and my father glanced over his shoulder with a frown tugging at his lips. “This is how you were taught to speak to your Vater?”
“No. I’m sorry, Vater. Please forgive me. It’s just that I’ve been counting and stocking the shelves for all these years, and still you remind me of the same things over and over.”
He settled the crate on the floor. Using the toe of his boot, he shoved it along the wall. “I accept your apology. To be reminded is a gut thing, Gretchen. Even though you don’t think it is needed, an extra reminder hurts nothing and can halt mistakes.”
I didn’t want to argue. He was probably correct, but it didn’t lessen my irritation. In truth, his question about changes in the mail routine is what had set me on edge. The reminder to count the stock had simply added to my annoyance. Once I heard the claw hammer pulling at nails and the creak of a wooden lid being loosened, I unfastened the canvas mail sack and dug to the bottom of the bag. There wasn’t much inside, but when I removed the contents, my heart quickened at the sight of my name on one of the envelopes with a Chicago return address.
I glanced around the room to make certain no one was watching before I shoved the letter into my pocket. After slipping the remaining mail into the proper mail slots, I tied the bag and tucked it beneath the counter. Father would take it with him tomorrow morning and exchange it for the incoming mail. How I wished I could rip open the envelope and read the letter right now, but I dared not take a chance. I’d waited this long. A few more hours wouldn’t make a difference.
Only minutes after I’d convinced myself I could wait, my father strode to the front of the store. He raked his fingers through his hair and grabbed his straw hat from the hook along the wall. “I forgot that I promised Conrad I would stop by the barbershop this morning.” I arched my brows, expecting further explanation, but my father offered nothing more. “Maybe you should finish the crate I was working on before you begin the ones with yarn and thread. Better to finish one task before beginning another.”
“Will you return soon?” I thought my question would urge him to tell me why he was going to visit Conrad, but it didn’t.
“I cannot be sure. Expect me when you see me. And if those Gypsies come around, keep a good watch over them. No more stealing candy—or anything else.”
There wasn’t any way I could defend the Gypsies without implicating Oma. And implicating Oma meant telling Father that my grandmother was having more frequent spells of senility. For now, the Gypsies would have to remain the thieves, at least in my father’s mind. A disquieting thought that I forced from my mind. Perhaps one day I could explain and clear them of any wrongdoing.
With my hand resting on the pocket of my skirt, I walked down the aisle to where my father had been unpacking kerosene lamps. I sat down on the low stool beside the crate and removed the letter. Hands trembling, I slid one finger beneath the seal and opened the envelope. I willed my fingers to quit shaking and removed the thick sheets of cream-colored stationery. After carefully pressing open the pages, I scanned the bold script for the words I longed to read. My attention didn’t remain upon the portion relating to the weather or his journey to Chicago. I could read that later. For now, I wanted to know if Mr. Finley’s friend had read my poems and short story. I turned to the second page and slowed when the paragraph spoke of my writing.
As promised, I have taken your writings to my friend Mr. Philpott. He tells me you possess immense talent. In addition, he would count it a privilege if you would permit him to read more of your work. He is particularly interested in reading stories about the Amana villages. He says they are filled with a quaint and variant style that is particularly engaging. He will be pleased to read any additional poetry you wish to send, as well.
The letter went on to say I could forward anything I’d completed by return mail. I slowed and once again read the final paragraph.
I hope to return to Homestead soon. My uncle has been unexpectedly detained in his travels. I will write under separate cover and explain the circumstances to your father. I am eager to make my return.
Your fellow poet and admirer,
Allen Finley
My cheeks turned warm at his closing words. That he considered me a fellow poet was a compliment of the highest regard, but I wasn’t certain about his use of the word
admirer
. Had he meant he was an admirer of my writing or of me as a woman? To admire my writing was one thing, but to consider himself a personal admirer would be improper and unacceptable. Then again, maybe this was suitable manners for outsiders. I wouldn’t take offense, but should Conrad or my father ever see what Mr. Finley had written, I doubted they’d be so generous.
At least the man had enough foresight to realize the importance of writing a separate message to my father. Had he asked me to explain his delayed return, there would have been many questions about why the salesman had written to me. Questions that would be very difficult to answer.
I folded the letter, shoved it back inside the envelope, and tucked it into my pocket. I’d read it again this evening when I was alone and could digest each word. For now, I needed to unpack the lamps, or Father would return and ask what I’d been doing during his absence. I plunged my hand into the straw packing and wrapped my fingers around one of the glass chimneys. Lifting with care, I shook the pieces of straw into the crate and then wiped the chimney with the polishing cloth Father had dropped atop the crate. My thoughts focused on the letter from Mr. Finley, and my excitement mounted as I considered how many of my writings I should send. I didn’t want to take advantage of Mr. Finley’s friend, yet the letter encouraged me to send several compositions.
After Mr. Finley had returned to Chicago, I had continued to write more stories about life in the colonies, though I doubted such tales would be of interest to anyone. I thought each story more boring than the last. Was that why Mr. Finley’s friend referred to my writing as having a “quaint and variant” style? Was that a kind way of saying boring and abnormal? Yet if he wanted to see more, it couldn’t be so terrible. I must quit analyzing each word of the letter and stop questioning my own ability. I would place the short stories in the mailbag, and tomorrow they would be on their way to Mr. Finley and his friend.
At the sound of footsteps I looked up from my work. Oma wandered down the aisle, dusting shelves and humming one of the hymns we sang in church.
“Where is your Vater this morning?”
Good! She was still in her right mind. At breakfast she had appeared somewhat confused, and I’d worried this would be one of Oma’s bad days. “He went over to the barbershop.”
“He goes for a haircut with all this work that needs to be done? Ach! What is he thinking?” She dusted with more fervor. “I will help uncrate when I finish the dusting.”
Her impatience with my father’s absence brought me to his defense. “I didn’t say he went for a haircut, Oma. Conrad wanted to meet with him about something, but he did not tell me anything more.”
“Ohhh, I think I know why they are meeting.” Oma clasped her fingers across her mouth. I could see the smile beneath her fingers.
What would make her smile about a meeting between my father and Conrad? I doubted she truly knew anything, but I would play her game. “What do you know, Oma? Tell me why Vater went to see Conrad. I promise I won’t tell that you told me.” I folded my hands in supplication. “Please tell me, Oma. Please.”
Her eyes twinkled, and her slight grin widened into a broad smile. She was enjoying the moment. “You will act surprised when your Vater speaks to you?”
“I promise to act very surprised.”
“Maybe I should not say.” Her eyes turned wary, and she glanced over her shoulder. “I am guessing a little. Your Vater did not tell me, but after prayer service Conrad said he wanted to have a talk about you.”
“Me?”
“Ja.” She nudged my arm. “I think he wants to know if your Vater would object if he asked the elders about marriage to you.” She lowered herself onto a nearby stool. “This makes me very happy. I did not think Conrad was ever going to gain courage to speak with your Vater.”
We had spoken of marriage, but I always thought Conrad would tell me before he asked Father for his permission. “I am surprised he didn’t tell me first.”
She shook her head back and forth. “Nein. That would not be proper. First he must speak to your Vater.” She slapped the air with her hand. “And what difference? You and Conrad have been talking of marriage from the time you were little children, ja?” My grandmother stared at me waiting for my reply.
“What happened when the two of us were children playing games isn’t important; we didn’t understand the true meaning of love or marriage. It’s not the same.”
“Ach. He loves you; you love him; your Vater will agree; the elders will agree. You should just be glad that you have a gut man like Conrad. Now we must pray the Grossebruderrat will decide he can stay in Homestead until you marry.”
I didn’t respond, but I knew what Oma meant. Once the Grossebruderrat gave permission for marriage, the man could be sent to another village for a year. During the time of separation, the couple saw each other only on Sunday afternoons or on special occasions. Since members of our faith believed an unmarried person could more easily remain focused upon God, it was a test of commitment prior to marriage. Most people remained steadfast and married, but a few decided to remain single before the year of waiting had ended. If I agreed to marry Conrad, and the Grossebruderrat gave their permission, we would still be required to wait a year, but I thought they would permit Conrad to remain in Homestead. Some of the old rules had been relaxed, but you could never be sure until the elders gave their final decision.
“There isn’t time for talk of love and marriage right now. We need to unpack these crates, or Vater will question what we’ve been doing during his absence.” I lifted one of the glass shades from the crate and admired the painted scene. I would have no difficulty selling these lamps.
I had finished unpacking all of the lamps and was working my way through a shipment of teapots when I heard the clomp of boots. Both my father and Conrad entered the store. Blotches of red colored Conrad’s cheeks, and his eyes were fixed on the floor. He reminded me of a schoolboy who’d been called before the class to recite his lessons.
My father nudged Conrad’s arm. “Go on and tell her. No time like the present.”
Conrad raised his chin a notch, but he still didn’t look at me. Oma and my father stared at him while he coughed and then struggled to gain his voice. “I have asked your Vater’s permission to court you, Gretchen. I hope this meets with your approval.”
I didn’t miss the question in his quivering voice. Before I could offer a response, Oma gave a single clap of her hands. “Ja, she approves, and so do I. Now, let’s get to work on the rest of these crates.”
“You and Vater can go on without me, Oma. I would like to speak with Conrad alone. We will go out to the backyard for a few minutes.”
Neither of them questioned my statement, nor did Conrad. I could hear his footfalls behind me as I walked to the apple tree. I wanted to be well out of earshot, for I knew my grandmother wouldn’t be above standing inside the back door listening. I inhaled a deep breath and gathered my courage before I turned around to face Conrad.
