More Than Words (3 page)

Mina was thrifty—about everything. If she could say something in five words instead of ten, she did so. If she could accomplish something in two steps instead of three, she did so. If she could get by with a few inches less fabric instead of a few inches more, she did so. And I, for one, admired her ability to get things done without fuss or furor.

The scent of wild roses drifted through the window on a warm breeze, and I lifted my head to inhale the sweet fragrance before flipping to the next ledger page. When a train whistled in the distance, I glanced toward the clock. No doubt there would be visitors arriving to tour the town and make purchases at the store. I’d become accustomed to the stares and questions and had memorized a speech of sorts that I recited when a large group would enter the store together. It saved me from responding to the same questions time and again. I’d thought the task quite fun when I’d first taken over my mother’s position in the store, but it had soon grown wearisome. Though I understood the outsiders’ curiosity, it didn’t lessen the tedium of answering their numerous inquiries. And now that spring had arrived, the number of visitors increased with each passing day. The thought sent me back to my paper work. If I was going to get the accounts completed, I needed to quit daydreaming.

When three short blasts signaled the train’s arrival, I balanced the Metzgers’ ledger sheet and closed the book. “Finally,” I sighed. After sliding off the stool, I arched my back and stretched my arms. I had hunched over the accounts far too long, but at least I was done for today. And after Conrad had returned with Oma a short while ago, she had remained quiet and out of trouble. In fact, she’d appeared fine when I’d asked her to arrange spices on the shelves at the far side of the store.

“Oma? Have you finished over there?”

I could hear her muttering, but she didn’t answer. Still rubbing the small of my back, I walked toward the spice shelves and stopped in my tracks when I caught sight of her.

“Oma, what are you doing?” I stared at the sack of sugar she’d emptied onto the floor.

She sifted a handful of the white crystals through her fingers. “Playing.” She sounded like a young child, her tone so meek and innocent. Her clear blue eyes, so much like my own, were clouded by a gauzy veil of confusion. “Want to play?”

“Not now. You need to go and rest for a while. Let me help you up from the floor.” I uttered a silent prayer that she would cooperate. Soon customers would be coming in, and I needed to clean up before they arrived.

She grasped my arm and permitted me to help her to her feet. She turned to me, her eyes suddenly clear and bright as she pointed to the floor. “Did Stefan make this mess? Doesn’t he know how much sugar costs? We need to get this cleaned up right now. That boy needs to learn to behave. I’m going to have a talk with your father this evening.”

I took a deep breath, thankful Oma had returned to her right mind yet wondering if I’d ever adjust to her transformation from normal to abnormal behavior in mere seconds. “I believe it was an accident. The train has arrived, so we’ll need to hurry. I’ll get the broom.” I crossed the room at a near run and grabbed the broom and tin dustpan from the far corner of the store. “Please, dear Lord, let her stay this way until after any customers have come and gone,” I whispered.

My grandmother extended her arm and took the broom. In no time she’d brushed the sugar into a heaping pile. I stooped down and held the dustpan in place while she swept the sugar onto it. After resting the broom handle in the crook of her arm, she grabbed the cloth bag and held it open while I dumped in the soiled sugar. I tied the sack and headed toward the back door.

“Nein!” she called and waved me in the other direction. “Put that in the corner so your Vater can see what Stefan has done. Such a bad boy he can be sometimes.”

There wasn’t time to wage a battle before the customers arrived. I could only hope that Oma would forget about the sugar by the time Stefan or my father returned home.

A fashionably dressed group of ten women and five men entered the store, the women snatching an occasional glance at Oma and me when they thought we weren’t looking. Once they’d made their way between the rows, I stepped from behind the counter and near the front entrance.

“My name is Gretchen Kohler. My father, George Kohler, operates the general store here in Homestead, and I will be pleased to answer any questions about the Amana Colonies you may have. I usually give a brief history and explanation of our community to those interested.”

The men appeared bored by my invitation, but their wives seemed interested. One woman glanced toward her peers and then stepped forward. “I believe we would all be pleased to hear whatever you can tell us. We like to learn new things, and your strange group is fascinating.”

One of the men stood at a distance with a small case. Likely a salesman, but I’d never before seen him. He turned toward the woman, his forehead creased in deep ridges. “Perhaps the word you meant to use is
unique
rather than
strange
, madam.” He pinned her with a dark-eyed stare that made me catch my breath.

She coughed into her handkerchief and gave a hesitant nod. “Yes, unique. That is the word I was searching for.” She turned her attention back to me. “Do tell us about your community, my dear.”

“We are known as the Amana Society or the Community of True Inspiration. There are seven villages in all, and Homestead is the only village that existed prior to the time we arrived here from Buffalo, New York. The other villages are known as Main Amana, High Amana, East Amana, West Amana, South Amana, and Middle Amana.”

A tall man at the rear of the group chuckled. “Not very original with the names, are you? I hear tell you folks own more land in Iowa than anyone else. Is that right?”

“Yes, I believe that is true. Our society owns approximately twenty-six thousand acres. We are known for the fine calicos and woolens that are woven in our mills. We produce our own food as well as most of the items needed within our homes. We are also known for our sauerkraut, onion sets, and several other farm products that we ship to other markets when we have an abundant supply.”

“Do you and your family own this store?” a tall, angular woman asked.

Oma shook her head and frowned. “Nein. This store, the society owns. The things you see, they are owned by all of us. We own everything, and we own nothing.” She waved a dismissive hand and turned her back.

An older woman inched forward a few steps and tipped her head. “I heard from a friend that you’re like those Shakers. Men and women don’t get married or have children.”

The tall woman shook her head. “That’s not correct, Frieda. The Shakers remain single, but Amish people marry.”

“We’re not Amish,” I interjected. No matter how often disputed, these constant comparisons had become impossible to dispel. “Our religious beliefs teach that to remain single is the best way to live because a person can then devote one’s full attention to God. But marriage is not prohibited. Many people in our villages are married and have children. Unlike the Amish, we are interested in all new inventions and time-saving devices. We view anything that helps us complete our work in a more rapid fashion as a good thing. That way we have more time to worship God.”

One of the other women nudged her friend in the side. “You see? I told you she was wrong. They do get married.”

The woman spoke as though we were some strange species and as though I weren’t within hearing distance. “We take our meals together in communal dining rooms, and if you plan to remain for the rest of the day, you may dine with us. You’ll be able to observe a few of our customs at that time.”

“And eat some gut food,” Oma said.

“We’ll come back to the store before we leave. I want to see the rest of the town first,” the tall woman said. “Come along, group. We can shop later.”

This woman was clearly in charge. Even the men did her bidding. All except the one with the case standing near the east wall. He didn’t make any move toward the door. I decided he must be alone. Once the others had departed, I looked his way. “If you need assistance with anything, I’ll be pleased to help you.”

He picked up his leather bag and strode toward the counter. His eyes twinkled, and one side of his mouth curved in a lopsided grin. “I’m Allen Finley—from Chicago. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Kohler. I’ve been looking around your store, and I notice you have a good selection of lace and trims, but I believe I have some that will fancy up even the plainest of dresses.” His gaze settled on my unadorned dark waist and skirt.

“Is this your first visit to the Amana Colonies, Mr. Finley?”

“Yes, but you can be certain it won’t be my last.” He opened his case and spread forth an assortment of delicate lace.

“These must be quite expensive. I’ve not seen any quite so lovely.”

“Imported. From all over the world. That’s why I have such a variety. I’m sure the women would much prefer these to anything else you have to offer.”

Oma drew near and lifted a piece of the lace between her arthritic fingers. “Fancy lace our women do not use, but this is very nice.”

Mr. Finley twisted around and waved toward the rows of trim. “But you have all—”

“We sell to outsiders who come here to visit. We carry a better supply of lace and trim than the stores in Iowa City or Cedar Rapids, so many ladies from those cities come here to purchase their fabrics and trims.”

When the salesman opened his case a little wider, I caught sight of several fashion magazines tucked beneath the lace. Heat warmed my cheeks when he noticed me staring at the periodicals.

“You enjoy magazines, Miss Kohler?”

Oma rushed across the room and waved a finger beneath Mr. Finley’s nose. “We read the Bible.”

“As do I, my dear lady, but I must keep informed on the latest fashions for my employer. If we see a new type of lace or trim in the magazines, we want to be certain we can supply those to our customers.”

My grandmother grunted and headed toward the door to our attached rooms, apparently satisfied with Mr. Finley’s response. Once she’d moved out of earshot, I leaned closer to the case and pretended to examine another piece of lace, though my gaze remained fixed upon the magazines.

“My father orders all of the supplies for the store. He should return within the hour if you’d like to speak with him about placing an order.”

“I would indeed. And if you’d be so kind as to discard these periodicals for me, I’d be very grateful. I read them on the train, and they take up space in my case.” He spoke in a quiet voice as he slid the magazines across the counter to me.

“Yes, of course.” I shoved the magazines into a basket beneath the counter and covered them with a dustcloth.

He bent at the waist and rested his arms on the counter. “Feel free to read them before you put them in the trash. I promise I won’t tell your grandmother.”

I didn’t respond, but I had no intention of discarding the magazines. Not now. Probably not ever.

“I’m quite interested in learning more about the Amana Colonies, Miss Kohler.”

His comment surprised me. We had many salesmen visit our villages, but they wanted nothing more than to conduct business—either to take orders for items needed in our stores or to place orders for our calicos and woolens. “For what reason, Mr. Finley?”

He leaned further across the counter. “Because I am considering making my home in the colonies.”

“You are?” I couldn’t hold back a chuckle.

He pushed away from the counter and straightened his shoulders. “Why is that amusing?”

“I apologize, but becoming a member of our society is a little more complicated than simply saying you want to live here.”

“I’m sure it is. That’s exactly why I said I was hoping you would tell me more. The idea of communal living appeals to me, and I think I have abilities that would be beneficial. I’m certainly willing to work.” He hesitated a moment. “That’s a big part of it, isn’t it? Each person must contribute by doing some sort of meaningful work.”

He seemed a genuinely nice man, but for me to explain our way of life in a brief conversation would be impossible. “First and foremost, it is our faith that brings us together, Mr. Finley. We work together so that we will have more free time to spend in worship.”

“That sounds like a fine thing.”

I arched a brow. “We gather for prayer meetings every evening. In addition, we have Sunday services, and on religious holidays, we attend even more often. Does it still sound like a fine thing to you, Mr. Finley?”

The veins in his neck tightened for a fleeting moment. “I’m not running for the train station just yet, Miss Kohler. I understand this is a religious community, but there is much more I would need to know than your schedule of church meetings, isn’t there?”

I folded my arms across my waist. “Yes, of course, but one of the elders could better explain to you the ways of our society.”

Several strands of unruly brown hair drooped across Mr. Finley’s forehead, giving him the appearance of a young boy. “Then we’ll let them explain the rules, and you can tell me about everyday life.” His look of expectancy reminded me of my brother on Christmas mornings.

Perching my elbow on the counter, I rested my chin in my palm and leaned forward. “I suppose I could tell you—”

“Gretchen!” My father’s voice rumbled through the room like thunder.

I straightened and jumped away from the counter, suddenly realizing the unsuitable picture my father had observed of my leaning on the counter and staring into the eyes of a strange salesman as though he were an old friend.

“This is Mr. Finley, a salesman,” I said in a strangled voice. “He has some lovely imported lace that I think will interest you. I’m sure the ladies from Iowa City will buy all that we can stock.” My rambling attempt to rectify the situation didn’t seem to help. My father’s jaw twitched as he crossed the room. “He also has an interest in joining the society, but I told him you or one of the other elders could answer his questions in that regard.” My father’s jaw relaxed a bit.

“Thank you for your help, Miss Kohler.” Mr. Finley gave a slight tip of his head and looked toward the floor behind the counter. “Don’t forget the magazines,” he whispered.