I heard nothing from them.
Jack made the trek to the Woodards’ to pick up any mail, and he always returned empty-handed. I told myself they were on their way; I just didn’t know it yet. It was a thread I hung on to.
The persistent cold weather went all the way to the coast, or so Karl Ruge said when he brought me a new almanac. He hadn’t come by much since Jack and I married, and I missed his visits to my farm—our farm. My face had healed of any bruises that day and while my fingers swelled, I didn’t think any were broken. There’d been no recent altercations with Jack, so I wasn’t sure why Karl asked me if I was all right.
“I’m fine,” I lied. His eyes wore concern. I picked up a piece of wood I carved, settled it against my burgeoning girth.
“We don’t see you so much, so I just wonder.” His wording made me think of Catherine and I smiled. “You smile,” he said. “I guess I shouldn’t worry. You’re a newlywed still, ja?”
“I was smiling thinking about my sister. She’s always ‘wondering’ about things. I haven’t heard from her or Papa since well before I married Jack. I wonder how Lou is doing. She had a fall. But they don’t write. So …” I shrugged. “Tell me what you hear about weather on the coast.”
“There was a very high tide in February,” he said. “Along with the freeze, the oyster beds … Well, ice formed over the oysters at low tide. Then the rising tide picked them up like sand dollars and floated them on to another’s beds. Some even floated out to sea. Joe picked a good time to get us out of the business, by golly.” Another dream, gone. Did I ever think I might carry on the oystering on my own? The sound of my wood scraping filled the silence. “You don’t look well, Emma. Your eyes. That’s why I ask.”
“Just a woman’s lot,” I said as cheerily as I could. I wasn’t about to discuss this troubling pregnancy with Karl nor mention the uncertainties of living with Jack. I worked with my drawknife, making another shelf to put in the loft, so the children would have a special place for their treasures of rocks and shells and pretty flowers pressed into books. I had yet to make a frame for Jack’s drawing. He’d added that to my list of sins, tacked the drawing up along with several others that marred the back of the cabin. My finger stuck out at an odd angle. I stopped, folded my hands together as in prayer, resting them on my stomach. I felt the baby kick. “Do you have news of Missouri?”
“The war begins,” he said. “Already Alabama and Georgia and Louisiana have joined those who remove themselves from the Union. They elected Jefferson Davis and Alexander Stephens as their president and vice president. Two presidents we have now! This is not good. There can be only one leader in a country.” He took a draw on his long clay pipe. “Poor Lincoln. He has a bigger problem keeping people together than Wilhelm does, by golly.”
“Maybe the people from Bethel will come out now. Maybe they’ll hurry here to avoid fighting. Has Missouri seceded?”
“No. I hope you’re right, Emma. It grieves me to see Wilhelm so tired in his efforts. They still have no church there, no school, either.”
“I wonder what keeps you here instead of with your old friends at Aurora Mills,” I said. He dropped his eyes. I thought the color on his neck and ears darkened.
“John has need of me here. School starts next month,” he said. “I’ll look forward to seeing Andy. Pretty soon your Christian will be old enough to come too, ja?”
“Kate’s old enough now,” I said.
“Ja, that’s right.” He hesitated, then said, “Well, we’ll look for her then, too.”
It would get her away from Jack’s scowling. It was the first happy thought I’d had in weeks.
The days turned into themselves, and before I realized it, I was about to turn twenty-eight years old on the twenty-sixth of March. I had three beautiful children who needed me to help them remember that their father was a good, good man. I had another child on the way and a husband who was dangerous to me but appeared quite normal to those around us. He could make people laugh, and did; the contrasts frightened me all the more.
I rolled away from him the morning before my birthday and pulled my shawl on over my shoulders and lifted my belly from my thighs. This boy was larger than any of my other children. At least I assumed it was a he, since I’d gained such weight. I prepared a breakfast, then packed pancakes spread with thick butter and put several slices of smoked ham into a small bag. I thought of the chapter in the book of John where the disciples are fishing and see a fire on the shore, and then a man, who turns out to be Jesus, asks them to “come and dine.” How I wished I could begin my day that way, being served and filled up. What a birthday that would be!
Jack expected food ready for him to lift up as he headed for the mill. Things were picking up there, and Jack showed surprising skill at repairing things, supporting his claim at “blacksmithing some” before coming west. I tried complimenting him on his abilities. He’d scoff, saying I couldn’t manipulate him so easily.
The men began their spring routines that took them out of their cabins during the day, to the fields or the mill or the forests and away from the skirts and apron strings of their wives and Kinder. It was spring. I’d have the day without Jack.
I felt more hopeful in spring.
Jack slept as I waddled toward the half barn to milk the cows. I did the milking again, finding it a soothing thing to do each day. Routine had its way of bringing comfort. The smell of the warm milk made me ill, but I’d relieve my stomach and then return to finish the work, the cows looking bored with me as I pulled on their tails to help myself ease onto the stool again. I buried my head in the warmth of their udders, using their tails again to stand when I finished.
An eerie silence greeted me outside. The cows bellowed for no reason that I could see. I opened the gate so they could graze among the bushes and trees, but instead they ran together around the yard area, twisting their necks and tails up into the wind that had picked up. Swirls of leaves and needles blew about, driven from the east, which was unusual. There’d been no rain that morning yet, and now the sky had an odd greenish cast to it. Through the hole between the trees, I watched as the sky changed color and within seconds appeared black as charcoal. The goat bleated with her mournful cry. She shook her head, her little beard flapping as though she spoke to the wind. “I’ll be back to milk you,” I said, carrying the bucket to the house. That’s when I felt the wind blast against me, pushing me forward as I reached the cabin.
“The wind’s up,” I told Jack as I came in, slamming the door behind me, which took more effort than it should have. “Listen to it.”
We felt the house shake then with the violence. Through the window, I could see that trees leaned closer to the ground than I’d ever seen them, white oak leaves skittering through the air. Thunder rolled across us and then a lightening strike flashed and split Andy’s cedar before our eyes.
“Andy. Kate. Christian. Get down here, now,” I shouted. In Missouri, such a storm would drive us to the root cellar, but there was none here, nothing deep in the earth to offer protection. I just wanted them all close to me, huddled together. Christian cried and Jack told him to shut up, but I wanted to howl myself. My ears hurt. I held Christian and Kate, watched Andy who stood near the window staring at the storming rage outside.
“We-we be all right, Mama?” Christian asked.
“We will,” I told him, sounding as confident as I could. I hoped the goat had taken shelter in the half barn, as the wind would just skitter her aloft.
Jack glowered. I screamed when I heard a loud crack, then saw a cascade of branches fall beside the house, their leaves darkening the window.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jack said. “It’s only a storm!” He stood up then and pulled open the door and plunged himself into the tempest. The rain and wind thundered through the open doorway sounding like a herd of horses.
“Jack! Get back here!”
But he stood against the elements, drenched within seconds, his arms outstretched, his he
ad back, taking in the downpour, his hair whipping. He stumbled back, catching himself as leaves and boughs and branches brushed past him.
“Jack!” I left the children and made my way to the door. Do I close it and let him stay out there as he wants, let what happens, happen to him? Or do I go out after him and try to bring him in? I anchored myself to the door frame, my feet spread to the doorjambs. I reached my hand out. “Jack! Please! Come back in before you get hurt.” I didn’t dare let go of my hold, for the wind would surely knock me over. I called several more times, but he was a pugilist against the storm. There was nothing I could do to change his mind. I pulled myself back through the door. Andy helped me pull it shut.
“You took a bath with your clothes on, Mama,” Kate said. I stood drenched before them.
“Ja,” I said. “And Jack’s still taking his.” I couldn’t imagine what mood he’d be in when he came inside … if he came inside.
The storm subsided after a time into a drizzle, minus the blustering winds. A sunbreak followed behind. Jack entered as though he’d done nothing strange in standing out in a raging torrent. He looked almost … rested, the wild gaze gone from his eyes. He offered no explanation for not coming in when I called him, no comfort to the children. Such a contrast to Christian’s tendering in a storm.
“Should be the last blow of the season,” Jack said. He wiped his hand across his face, shook it of the rain. “School starts in April, right, Andy boy?” My son nodded.
“Kate gets to go too,” Andy said. Kate smiled, nodding up and down. They were both quite recovered from the fear of the storm, already looking for the rainbow that followed.
“Something I decided out there in that little shower. Kate’ll be needed when the baby comes. Just you,” Jack said, pointing his finger at Andy. “Like before. I’ll take you to school and leave you there at the Giesys. They’ll like that.”
“Mama?” Andy asked.
“Your mama agrees with me. She thinks that’s just fine, don’t you, Mama?” Water dripped off of his forehead. A puddle formed at his feet. “Ja?”
Is he crazy or just making me so?
“We’ll talk about it later,” I said. “I need to get some dry clothes on. You do too, Jack.”
“No talking,” he said. He grabbed my hand and pushed the wrist back. I saw Andy from the corner of my eye. His look … reflected Jack’s, all dark and dangerous.
“I’ll change and then head on over to the mill to see how it fared.” Jack released my wrist. Behind the curtain, Jack stripped off the wet clothes, dressed, and left, grabbing the food sack as he walked out the door. His leaving was my sunbreak.
“I won’t go without Kate and I won’t stay there,” Andy said. “You need me here.”
“I want to go to school too. You said I could go, Mama.”
“I’ll talk to Jack. Whatever is decided will be the best for you. And I’ll be fine.”
“He doesn’t listen to you. To nobody,” Andy said. He kicked at the rocking chair, making it move without anyone in it.
“You don’t have to worry. I—”
“I won’t stay at Oma’s,” he screamed. “I won’t.” He opened and closed his fists at his side. It was a movement of his father’s at his most frustrated. “I have to take care of you.”
I pulled him into my arms. “And sometimes that means doing things you can’t imagine can be helpful but in the end turn out to be. You have to trust me, Andy. It’s best if we do what Jack says. Best for all of us. You have to stay at your Oma’s house.” Kate started to protest. “No, Kate,” I said. “You can’t go to school just now. You,” I swallowed, pointed at Andy, “must go.”
“You-you-you must go, Andy,” Christian said. I turned to my youngest son. Had I said those words out loud? Had he heard them before? No.
“I wish Papa was here.” Andy sobbed the words into my shoulder.
“Ja, I wish it too.” I stroked his back, swallowed my own tears. “But it is not to be. He didn’t wish to leave us, but he did and so we must be wise, ja? We must make good decisions. Mama hasn’t always done that, has she? Ja, well, she will do better.”
Jack would return, but in what mood, who could say? He’d taken another step up that ladder of intensity by hurting me in front of the children. He was growing less cautious. He’d hurt the children next.
“Will you ask God to take care of us, Mama?” Kate asked.
I brushed the curls from her face. “I’ll ask,” I said. “Perhaps I’ll even be heard.”
28
Louisa
Even back in Bethel my husband sang her praises, as it was Helena who gave up the love of a good man because he would not join the colony. Wilhelm showed her as an example to the young people, how even without marriage one can be in service to the Lord. Maybe even be more in service without the distraction of a family. I heard him say that once, “without the distraction of a family.” I don’t think he meant it quite the way it sounds.
I would not ever say this to my husband, but sometimes I wondered about Helena’s love affair with that bridge builder. Where had they ever met? Helena never left the colony and the bridge builder had no cause to purchase items from our colony store. His father built a famous bridge in Brooklyn and one wonders how Helena would have encountered such worldly folk. I should not judge.
Once I heard Emma Wagner—she wasn’t married yet—say something of that sort too, that perhaps Helena exaggerated her sacrifice; or maybe that Helena was the rejected one and her story was a way of saving face. That Emma. So here we are, she and I thinking the same thing, again.
I was pleased to see how at home Emma made us feel on our journey north. Even Helena found no fault except in Emma’s refusal to attend the memorial of Helena’s father. But goodness, three little children, another on the way, a husband who was not the funny Jack that I remembered, rather one prone to melancholy and caprice—no wonder she wished a day at home. A wife and mother could understand Emma’s wish even if Helena couldn’t. She’s much too quick to judge, that Helena. Ach, but so am I at times, so am I.
My husband raves about Helena’s organizing the children and how she spoke to Karl Ruge, urging him to come to Aurora to teach them here. My husband thanked her profusely for her effort. I talked with Brother Karl too, but something holds him there in Willapa. Maybe he likes making his own choices without need to negotiate with my Wilhelm. Lord knows I’d like such an escape at times. To have to justify to my husband’s satisfaction each thing I think, even if it’s what we should have for dinner, is a tiring task. Warranted of course, as my Wilhelm needs much tending so he can give back to others. Even the slightest inconveniences that I can remedy, I wish to. Still, can there really be great fault between serving wilted lettuce with a vinegar dressing and one made with eggs and oil instead? Can it really matter whether the spoon-fork is lined up perfectly with the plate tin before one begins to eat? Does the food taste any less grand if the serving utensil sits a fingernail’s width off from where he thinks it should? And where is it written that his is the card that trumps all others? Ach, I use gambling terms to describe my husband’s wisdom. There is probably a sin there, and if my husband heard me say such things, he’d tell me to go deep to find it. I have no time. Maybe Helena does. A saint would, I suppose. There is still too much to do here every day and each day finds yet more undone. Surely God will understand if I fail to add one more trespass to my daily list.
Ah, I complain, I judge. I must not. Good things have happened in the midst of trials here. Helena has assumed the task of table preparation at our big house, and now the serving will be perfection. I can concentrate on gardening and helping with his herbs, being with my children, dying wool, writing letters back to Bethel urging others to come west. In any spare time, I can listen to the band rehearse while practicing my Fraktur. Is life so difficult that I should complain or use words such as escape? Nein. Life is good and could only be better if those from Bethel and Willapa would stop their stubborn ways and join us
as intended all those years before. Perhaps we’re closer to that end now that we’ve visited Willapa again. Maybe Emma and Big Jack will come. Maybe Barbara Giesy in her widowed state. After all, there’s been a change for good: Helena came west, an act my husband says marks the start of the next migration. My husband is so pleased. I must be too. I’m sure that Helena is.
29
Emma
A Reason to Run Off
The unusual April frost along the Willapa felt fitting for the coldness of my life. I was bedridden at the middle of the month and most of May, grateful that Kate hadn’t gone off to school with Andy. She was a fine helper for me and somehow knew how to scuttle out of Jack’s way when he returned from the mill in a foul mood or when he sauntered in from the half barn whistling a tune. Kate reacted to him either way with caution, her eyes on me to see how to proceed. I hated that she wouldn’t remember the love of her father, the safety and reliability that marked a good man. Instead she’d have this ebb and flow of an erratic stepfather to mark her memory. Maybe she’d never marry because of it, and who could blame her? Was that why some women chose the unmarried life? I’d never considered that before.
I knew my being in bed when he arrived home annoyed Jack, but I could not rise except to reach the slop jar. “Chamber pot” he called it, as though changing a name could make the thing different. The baby shifted and kicked and moved well, but it was the swelling I couldn’t stand, literally, and so I was abed. My body bloated, my ankles, my fingers. My face puffed and my eyes sometimes stuck together, especially in the morning. I remembered my mother speaking of these things happening to pregnant women, and that bed rest was all that could be done except for drinking chamomile tea and steaming my face with the bouquet of herbs. Kate secured both for me until I ran out of tea and Jack refused to request more. He said I should just drink coffee like everyone else.