Wonderful Lonesome (6 page)

“Did he eat?” Esther set a basket of washed and sun-dried shirts on the floor.

“No. He believes we are running out of food.” Abbie caught her mother’s hand, forcing the older woman to look at her. “We aren’t, are we?”

“The chickens still lay nicely, and the cows give milk morning and night, don’t they?” Esther snapped a shirt flat on the table and began to smooth the sleeves. “It’s all this talk about losing the summer crop. I’ve told your
daed
he must be more careful about who is listening.”

“It’s never been his way to coddle children.”

“Surely there is something in between coddling and frightening.”

“Yes, I suppose so.” Abbie stood and returned to the butcher block to slice more bread. The family of seven would easily consume at least one loaf for supper.

“It’s getting hotter every day,” Esther said. “We may have to start doing our baking in the middle of the night.”

“I haven’t seen
Daed
in the fields since the hail.”

Esther folded the shirt she had smoothed, wordless.

“Mamm?”

“He does not tell me what he is thinking.”

“Surely he is going to put in a fall crop.”

“Have you put the water on to boil?” Esther abandoned the laundry basket and moved toward the stove.

“I’m going to make a quilt,” Abbie announced.

Willem looked up from the patch of ground he was assaulting with a shovel. Sweat oozed out from under his straw hat and down the sides of his face.

“It’s a hundred degrees out here,” he said. “Just thinking about a quilt is more than I can take.”

“But it won’t always be a hundred degrees, and we won’t always be in a drought.”

“Why then, I suppose a quilt is an act of faith.” Willem stabbed at unyielding earth once more. It was not too far into summer to put in a few vegetables—something that did not require much water.

“That’s exactly right.” Abbie folded the empty flour sack she had exchanged for Willem’s weekly ration of bread inside his cabin. “An act of faith. It’s going to be a tree of life quilt.”

Willem chuckled. “The attraction of this land was that we didn’t have to clear trees before we could plant. Right now I could do with a bit of shade.”

“It’s a beautiful pattern. I can make one tree for each of the twelve families in our settlement.”

Willem nodded. It seemed unlikely the Elbert County settlement would attract more families anytime soon. He tipped his hat back and looked at Abbie full on. “And what will become of this quilt once it is finished? Will it be big enough for two?”

That blush. That was the reason he said these things.

She unfurled the folded flour sack at him. “You would like to think you’re deserving, wouldn’t you?”

He grinned. “I’m just choosing my moment.”

“And what excuse will you have when the fall harvest is over and it’s marrying season?”

“Ministers are as scarce as trees out here.” Willem raised the shovel above his shoulders and let its point drop directly into the cracked soil.

“Maybe you’d better start solving that problem now.”

“There’s always Jake Heatwole.”

He heard her gasp but refused to meet her eyes, instead scraping at the thin layer of soil he had managed to loosen. “What if it comes down to a Mennonite minister or no wedding at all?”

“Aren’t you getting the cart before the horse? I don’t recall hearing a proper proposal of marriage.” Abbie folded the sack once again.

“You know I’m irresistible.”

“Willem Peters! That is the most prideful thing to say.”

“Perhaps. But it is a legitimate question, considering we haven’t had a minister even visit us in a year to preach, much less baptize or marry.”

“That’s not going to last forever. The drought will end. The settlement will grow. We will have a minister.”

Willem wiped a sleeve across his forehead. He hoped she was right. He hoped the day would not come that he would have to tell her that the optimism had worn off his own faith.

“Are you tempted to use some prints?” Ruthanna smoothed the folded blue apron one last time before handing it to Abbie.

“Oh my, no.” Abbie clutched the apron to her chest. “I don’t want to use any fabric that our people would not wear.”

“Some do, you know. Nothing too outrageous, but remnants or old skirts from the
English
.” Ruthanna sat in one of her four kitchen chairs and wished she had washed the morning dishes before Abbie arrived.

In another chair, Abbie shook her head. “Not me. My tree of life quilt will be a symbol of our growing settlement. I don’t want the suggestion of anything
English
.”

Ruthanna gave a small shrug. “You wouldn’t have to go all the way to the
English
. The Mennonite women are beginning to wear small prints.”

“I wish them well in their own settlement, but I do not want their worn dresses.”

“I wish I had more to give you. I only have three dresses. I feel I can spare the apron because I spilled ink all over it and couldn’t get it out. But there are plenty of unspoiled patches that will do fine in a piece quilt.”

“Don’t feel badly,” Abbie said. “My
mamm
says it is time for her to give her quilt scraps to me anyway. If I have even one item from each of our households, the quilt will truly represent the settlement.”

“How much do you have so far?”

Abbie tilted her head to think. “I still need to go by the Millers’, but Mary promised me one of Albert’s old shirts. And I haven’t spoken to Rudy yet.” She had contributions from the Yoders, Nissleys, Chupps, Yutzys, Mullets, Troyers, and now the Gingeriches. Even Willem and Widower Samuels had found something to donate. Her mother’s scraps would fill in many gaps.

“Do you really think Rudy will have something you can use?” Ruthanna stroked her stomach. “Most of his clothes look ready for the rag pile as it is.”

“I know. I ought to make him a shirt.”

“He’s sweet on you. You know that, right?”

Abbie bristled. “I most certainly do not. Where do you get such nonsense?”

“I see the way his eyes follow you when everyone is together.”

“Without church services, that hardly ever happens. You’re imagining things.”

“Would it be so bad if he were? Willem is not exactly…”

“Willem is Willem.”

“Right.” Ruthanna cleared her throat. “Are you sure you don’t want a cup of
kaffi
?”

“Positive. I’m perspiring as it is, and I still need to take eggs and cheese to some of the other families of the settlement.”

Ruthanna breathed in and out slowly. “Do you think we’ll ever stop calling it that?”

“Calling it what?”

“The settlement. Nobody at home in Pennsylvania or Ohio uses that word.”

“Because they are all in established districts, with ministers.”

“That’s what I mean,” Ruthanna said. “If no minister ever comes, we’ll never be more than a settlement.”

Abbie stood. “I am far too busy to let such doubts into my mind, and I suggest you banish them as well. You have a baby to get ready for!”

Ruthanna received the kiss her friend offered her cheek and watched as Abbie skittered across the cabin and out the front door. Last year’s failed crop. A horrific winter. Spring hail. Summer drought. Yet Abigail Weaver believed.

Rudy Stutzman leaned on a fence post and wiped his eyes against his shoulder to contain the dripping sweat. Even when he came out to work in his fields at first light, long before the sun slashed the sky with full-fledged rays, he was drenched in his own perspiration before breakfast. Indiana summers were hot, but mature oaks and elms dotted the countryside, and creeks and rivers ran with as much cool water as a man could ask for. Here Rudy reminded himself to swallow his spit because drinking water was scarce and he had the animals to think of—never mind sufficient water to irrigate.

After the hail, Rudy had dutifully begun turning his soil again, inch by backbreaking inch. Not all of it. He did not have seed for a second planting even for half of his acres—not even a third. He only turned as much earth as he needed for sparse rows he could afford. Without any delusions that he would have enough crop to generate cash in the market, he settled for hoping for enough wheat to grind and mill. If the Weaver women were going to continue to bake his bread, he ought at least to contribute grain to the process. He had not intended to be anyone’s charity case when he came to this land he could only describe as desolate. Unyielding. Everthirsty. Stingy. Yes, desolate.

Rudy wanted to throw off his hat, stick his head in a bucket of cold water, and gulp freely. And when he pulled it out again, he wanted to see the rolling green hills of Indiana, the smile of his mother’s face, fresh clean sheets on his bed. He still had the voucher for a train ticket that he bought the morning when Abbie Weaver pleaded with him not to leave. Alone in the evenings, he sometimes took it out of its envelope and fingered the edges.

She still stopped him from going. If he left now, he would never see her sweet face again. In all the weeks since that day, he had heard nothing new about what was between Abbie Weaver and Willem Peters. Perhaps it was not as much as many people presumed.

Let me help you, Eber.” Ruthanna reached for the metal pail. Eber grunted and turned away from her without releasing his grip on the handle. “Do you think I cannot manage a milk pail on my own?”

“That’s just it.” Ruthanna moved one hand to the achy spot at the side of her back more out of habit than pain. “It’s only a milk pail. I can carry it to the house while you get started with the other cow.”

“There’s no need. I can bring them both when I come. You have the child to think of.”

“The baby is not coming for months,” Ruthanna said. “There is no need for me to give up simple tasks, at least not yet.”

“You have a tendency to overwork yourself.”

Ruthanna bit her bottom lip. How could Eber not see that he had taken his own tendency toward overwork to extremes? Every day that he spent outside in the heat worried her more. Even the brown tones the sun gave his skin did not hide his underlying pallor, and he was breathing too fast for her liking.

“Eber, please let me take the pail. It’s not even half-full. I will be careful.”