Fields of Grace (38 page)

Eli scanned the ground, searching for stones as he considered Joseph’s question. In Gnadenfeld, the cooking hearth had been constructed of Mennonite-fired mud bricks. Lillian missed her little thatched house in the village; a familiar kitchen would please her.

“We will fire bricks for the stove and oven.” He flashed a smile over his shoulder. “And the
Meagrope.
Your mother wants to raise pigs, so she will need a lard cauldron, too.”

Joseph nodded, his face brightening. Then he stopped suddenly. “Then . . .”

Eli came to a stop, too, and turned to face the boy.
“Jo?”

“Then you will not . . .” Joseph’s chin quivered; he blinked in quick succession.

Concerned, Eli placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “What is bothering you, boy? Tell me. Do not be afraid.”

Joseph swallowed, peering into Eli’s face with a pained expression. “You will not give up? You will keep . . . loving Ma? Until she loves you back again?”

With a strangled gulp, Eli pulled Joseph into his arms. The boy clung, burrowing his face into Eli’s jacket front.
Oh, Lord,
please work Your miracle in Lillian’s aching heart. Let what is broken be
restored. . . .
Pressing his chin to Joseph’s cap, Eli made a promise. “I will not give up, boy. I will love your mother forever.”
Even if
she never loves me back again.

32

T
hrough snow, rain, sunshine, and shadow, Eli worked on the house, with Joseph beside him. Winter faded into a spring so rife with scents that Eli sometimes felt almost drunk from breathing in the aromas. Musky soil, tangy grass, sweet moisture—a potpourri designed to thrill a farmer’s soul. This was a good land—he refused to think otherwise.

The house, constructed with an assortment of brown, tan, and gray rocks, reminded Eli of the patchwork quilts Lillian worked to complete. But unlike a quilt, which eventually became tattered and worn, this house would endure for centuries. Just as his love for Lillian would endure.

He heaved a stone to chest level and rolled it into position, pressing it firmly into the thick slab of mud and clay mortar. Joseph stood to the side, his lips sucked in as he held his breath. Eli held the rock and counted silently to ten before stepping away from the wall. The rock held.

Joseph let out his air in a mighty whoosh, then grinned at Eli. “I always worry it will fall on your head, like that sod did on Henrik when we built the fireplace.”

Eli smiled, remembering. That had been a good day. “One of these rocks would do more harm than a lump of dirt, I can tell you.” He pointed to the waiting pile of rocks. “Hand me another stone—a
lenkjlijch
one.”

Joseph sorted through the pile and selected an oblong stone. He thumped it into Eli’s waiting hands with a light laugh. “It looks like a gray watermelon!”

Eli chuckled in response. “
Jo
, but I would not suggest trying to bite into it. You would break your teeth.” He added the rock to the wall.

Joseph laughed appreciatively. The sound of the boy’s laughter, accompanied by the whisper of wind and the song of birds, brought a lift to Eli’s heart.

“We need to clear ground for a watermelon patch,” Joseph commented. Eli hid a smile when the boy tucked his hands into his pockets and rocked on his heels—just the way Eli often did. “Soon it will be planting time. Can we ready the ground Saturday?”

“I thought you wanted to go fishing on Saturday.”

Eli and Joseph had developed a routine of hunting or fishing on Saturdays. The time together had bonded them as securely as two rocks joined with mortar.

“The creek will still be there next week.” Joseph begged with his eyes. “We need watermelons so when Henrik comes back, we can have one for his birthday.”

Rarely did Joseph mention Henrik’s name, but often Eli saw the boy staring into the distance. He knew Joseph missed both his brothers. Eli chose another stone while Joseph went on pensively. “Where do you think Henrik lives now?”

“I do not know, son.” He pushed the words past gritted teeth, speaking while lifting the thirty-pound rock. A grinding
thunk
sounded as the rock found its position, and Eli stepped back, rub-bing his shoulder. “He wants to attend a university, so maybe he went all the way back to New York.”

How long would two hundred dollars last in a big city like New York? Had Henrik learned enough English to communicate? He didn’t like to think of the boy being cheated. Many unscrupulous people lived in the world, and they wouldn’t hesitate to take advantage of a young Mennonite boy from a faraway country. But Eli didn’t mention those concerns to Joseph. “Wherever he is, you can be sure he is saving his money for school. Being a teacher, that is important to him.”

Joseph pushed his foot against a rock, his head low. “Wish he would come back, though.”

Eli didn’t need to ask why Joseph wanted his brother to return. Lillian’s continuing despondence created a bigger chasm between mother and son each day. He and Joseph had begun praying together for Lillian, and Joseph’s heartfelt petitions for his ma’s happiness brought tears to Eli’s eyes. When would God answer the prayers of this young, faithful servant?

“He will return.” Eli spoke with confidence, praying his statement would prove true. “He loves you and your mother, and he will want to show you the certificate he receives from the university so you can be proud of him.”

Joseph nodded slowly, his expression apprehensive. “If he waits until he has a certificate, it might be years before he comes back.” Suddenly, he squared his shoulders, his chest puffing. “I will be grown by then—as tall as him, probably, but stronger.”

Eli laughed. “Stronger?”

“Jo.”
Joseph hefted a large rock. His face reddened and the tendons in his neck stood out like cords. Eli quickly took the stone, and Joseph flexed his arms. “I carry stones, and Henrik carries books. I will be stronger.”

With another laugh, Eli turned toward the house. “You are probably right. Now mix some more mortar. We are ready to put another row on the north wall.”

They continued building, one stone at a time, all morning and into the afternoon. The early-March sun beat down, warming them, and they removed their jackets. Midway through the afternoon, a movement caught Eli’s eye, and he looked to see Lillian walking toward them. A bucket hung from her hand.

His mind skipped backward to the days when he, Henrik, and Joseph had cleared the land to receive seeds. Lillian had walked across the grass to bring them a drink of water. But in all of their weeks of house building, she had never come near the growing stone structure. To see her coming now sent quivers of anticipation through Eli’s body.

“Ma?” Surprise underscored Joseph’s brief query. “Did you come to see the house?”

Lillian set the bucket on the ground and stood upright, pulling her shawl back into position. “I brought you a drink. And I need to speak with Eli.”

Eli’s heart leapt. Not since the day Henrik had left had she initiated a conversation. Surely, despite her sober face, this was a good sign. “For sure we can talk.” He gestured toward the half-built stone house. “Come inside, and I will show you the house while we talk.”

For a moment, he thought she would refuse. Her lips puckered, a sharp V forming between her eyes, but then she nodded and moved stiltedly through the opening that would eventually frame the front door.

Eli, hands trembling with excitement, followed. “See, Lillian? This will be the sitting room, and over here”—he trotted to the opposite side of the wide space—“the kitchen. Your
Spoaheat
will go right here in the corner so the flue can send smoke through the attic to smoke your hams.”

He waited for an answering smile, but she remained somber. His spirits dampened somewhat, he continued, “Back here”—he walked to the far corner and held out his arms—“this will be the main sleeping room, with a stairway over there leading to the loft. Then this space will be a dining room.” Envisioning it, Eli’s enthusiasm soared again. “When the others arrive, and our furniture builders set up shop, we can buy a good Mennonite-made table and chairs, and there will be room to host gatherings for Sunday
faspa
or—”

“Eli.” Her sharp tone brought an end to his explanations. She caught the tails of her shawl and folded them in an X across her body. “We must talk.”

“All right.” He crossed his arms over his chest, chilled now that he stood still in the shadow cast by the shoulder-high wall.

She took a few small steps closer and glanced over her shoulder. “Will Joseph hear?”

Eli leaned to glance out the door. “I will send him to the sod house, if you prefer.”

“Please.”

He stepped past her, giving a wide berth, and stuck his head out the door opening. “Son, will you take the bucket back for your mother? Refill it at the well, and then go into the sod house and eat a snack—some bread or dried venison. You have earned a rest.”

“Sure, Pa.”

Eli turned. “He is going.”

She nodded. For a few moments she stood silently, worrying her lower lip between her teeth. He waited patiently, his palms sweating. Finally, she released a heavy sigh.

“Remember when you said you planned to have the minister dissolve our marriage?”

Eli jolted, the comment catching him off guard. The conversation had been so long ago, and so much had transpired in the intervening months, he had forgotten the intention. But he nodded. “
Jo
. . . I remember.”

“I would like you to speak to the minister when the others arrive—make arrangements for the dissolution of our union.”

Eli licked his lips, his temples throbbing. “Lillian . . .” He cleared his throat, staring at the spot of ground between his boot toes. “That . . . that is no longer possible.”

“Why not?”

The confrontational words brought his head up. Heat built in his neck and ears. Could she be so naïve? “We have . . . have lain together.”

Color rose in her cheeks, and she turned her face away. Her throat convulsed.

“Why do you want this now, Lillian?” Pain laced his voice, and he made no effort to hide it. She needed to understand how her behavior inflicted hurt.

“We cannot go on like this.” The words, strained and hoarse, barely reached his ears. “I cannot live with you now that I know . . .”

Although part of him feared the answer, the greatest part needed the truth. He stepped forward, stretching one hand toward her. “Know . . . what?”

She swallowed and met his gaze. Her wide blue eyes expressed disappointment, disillusionment, despair. “Our love was a farce.”

Memories tumbled through Eli’s mind—moments of sweet intimacy, moments of awakening. A farce? A pretense? He hadn’t pretended. Every word, every touch, every emotion had been genuine and cherished. Until now.

“How can you say such a thing?” Anger lowered his voice to a growl. “How can you sully the memory of our lovemaking?”

“Do not speak to me of lovemaking!” She matched him in tone and volume. “Our bodies were joined—yes. But our souls? I thought they were . . .” For a moment her voice faltered, but then she set her jaw and continued in a steely tone. “But I was wrong. Very wrong. And I will not continue in this make-believe marriage!”

She spun to leave, but Eli tromped forward and grabbed her arm. “
Nä
, Lillian! You tell me why you call our marriage make-believe.” When she clamped her lips together, he shook her slightly. “Tell me!”

“All right!” She wrenched free and faced him, her body tense and her chin high. “You professed to love me. You promised to meet my needs. But my greatest need—to have my remaining children close to me—you . . . you tossed aside as if it were nothing of importance. Although I begged you not to, you sent Henrik away.

“Now you build this big house.” She threw her arms wide, her disparaging gaze bouncing off each wall in turn. “But for what purpose? The family that could have resided here is no more. The family crumbled, Eli, the day my son walked away in the snow. And if there is no family, then there is no marriage. I . . . want . . . out.”

The spiteful words hung in the air. They stood, facing each other across an empty expanse. Tears glittered in her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Eli’s chest felt as though it would collapse, so great his hurt and frustration.
Lord, how could we have shared so much and now
be so far apart?
If only he didn’t love her . . . But he couldn’t do what she asked. To request a dissolution, he would have to lie to the minister. And he would not lie.

He took several deep, slow breaths. His next words shouldn’t be spewed in anger. “Lillian, if you want out of this union, then we will have to seek a divorce.”

Her face went pale. The ugly word, rarely spoken by Mennonites, loomed like a black cloud.

He gave her no time to respond but continued in an even tone. “If that is what you want, when the others arrive, we will go into McPherson Town and inquire about ending our marriage. Are . . . are you sure?”

Tears trembled on her lower lashes, and she swished them away with her fingertips in quick, impatient movements. “I cannot continue as we are. It is too . . . hard.”