Authors: Marie Bostwick
River's Edge (8 page)
Chapter 6
T
he hailstones melted before the day was out, leaving puddles and flattened fields in their wake. The whole landscape looked forlorn, defeated, and weary. But in spite of the ruined crops, the annual harvest supper at the church went on according to schedule.
he hailstones melted before the day was out, leaving puddles and flattened fields in their wake. The whole landscape looked forlorn, defeated, and weary. But in spite of the ruined crops, the annual harvest supper at the church went on according to schedule.
For the entire week before the supper the Muller kitchen was a hub of activity, constantly buzzing with committees of white-haired women, some plump and friendly, with soft, sponge-cake figures; some thin and sharp-tongued, with bodies that seemed to be made entirely of bony angles covered with skin.
One group sat in the corner of the kitchen sewing a beautiful quilt that was stretched tight over a wooden frame. These ladies met together every Thursday morning during the winter to stitch the quilt top together, and now they were hurrying to finish it in time for the drawing that would take place at the harvest supper. The holder of the winning ticket would get to take home the quilt, and the money raised from ticket sales would be sent to missionaries in Darkest Africa. It was a simply breathtaking quilt, all done in shades of blue, red, and green and covered with flowers, birds, vines and hearts that one of the ladies said was a Baltimore style. I would have loved for one of the women to show me how to make those tiny stitches for myself, but I didn't have the courage to ask any more than I had the courage to ask what Baltimore was.
While the group in the corner sewed and gossiped, the rest of the ladies peeled basins full of ripe apples, baked pots of beans, mixed countless bowls of cake batter, and gossiped. The whole atmosphere was one of happy and industrious female companionship.
Members of the church congregation were always stopping by the house. Sometimes it was an official occasion, such as Papa's monthly meeting with the elder board, which meant we were all expected to dress in our best, greet the elders politely as they filed into Papa's study, and then spend the rest of the evening being as quiet as possible. Sometimes it was Mama's weekly women's Bible study or a ladies' committee meeting, but more often than not, people just dropped in unannounced for advice, to complain, or just to talk. These uninvited guests were invariably asked to stay for a meal, and nine times out of ten they accepted. Breakfast was generally the only meal of the day that didn't include visitors.
Mama and Papa always made a point of introducing me to people, and I was welcomed politely, but no one took much notice of me. I was just as happy not to be the object of anyone's attention, though I enjoyed it when Mr. Scholler dropped by. He always greeted me with a hearty handshake, called me “the best hand I've ever had on the place,” and said that any time I decided I wanted a job on his farm there was one waiting for me. I liked him very much and would have liked to ask him what happened after the hailstorm and if he was going to lose his farm, but it seemed a very forward question, so I kept silent on the subject.
Although it seemed rude to me for people to drop in without a formal invitation, in the short time I had lived with the Mullers, I had become accustomed to the endless stream of guests and now accepted it as one of the many things about Americans that I would never understand. However, in the week before the church supper the stream of visitors became a flood. It was tiring having so many people around, but there was something exciting about it, too. It amazed me how all the women seemed to know their way around the Mullers' kitchen. Upon their arrival each woman poured herself a cup of coffee from the pot sitting on the back stove burner, donned the apron she'd brought with her from home, and set to work on some task seemingly preassigned to her, though I never heard anyone give anyone else instructions.
Cookie moved about the kitchen with an aura of capability and maturity that I envied. She seemed to know just what to do and was able to pull out just the right size mixing bowl without being asked or refill a lady's coffee cup just at the moment she realized it was empty. Cookie was clearly a great favorite with the ladies of the church, and she talked to them easily and comfortably, something I was simply unable to do. They asked her questions about how she'd spent her summer, patted her on the cheeks, and thanked her for assistance, saying she was a credit to her mother. I wanted to help, too, but remembered my earlier clumsiness and the resulting broken glasses, so I hung about the edges of the kitchen, just hoping to stay out of the way.
Mama noticed my discomfort and set me to work peeling apples, taking the place of Mrs. Walsh, who had been working at the task all morning and was ready to do something else. I was glad to have been given a job in which I couldn't possibly break anything and started peeling with enthusiasm, determined to make the mound of Mrs. Walsh's already peeled apples into a mountain. I started off well enough, but ten minutes into the operation, the paring knife slipped in my hand and I cut my thumb and the heel of my left hand.
A thin red line appeared against my skin and quickly widened to a bright gash, dripping blood into the bowl of newly peeled apples, mixing with the apple juices and turning the whole bowl a disturbing shade of pink. The wound was painful, but I was so horrified knowing that I'd ruined an entire morning's work that I sat at the table speechless and frozen while my hand continued to drip more and more blood.
Cookie, who was standing at the sink washing pots, was the first to notice what had happened. “Mama!” she shouted, “Look at Elise!”
Mama turned from the counter where she was measuring flour and sugar carefully into a bowl and gasped, “Oh my Lord! Cookie, quick! Get me a towel!”
Suddenly the whole room of women sprang to their feet, buzzing and clucking. A towel was located, and someone ran upstairs for the first-aid kit. There was a brief discussion about the need to call the doctor, but Mama, who held my bloody hand in her lap, declared that the cut was not deep enough to require stitches. Before I really knew what was happening, my cut had been washed, thoroughly slathered with rusty-colored iodine, and bandaged with clean white gauze. I don't know why, but the sight of all those concerned, motherly eyes focused on me was suddenly overwhelming, and I burst into tears.
My weeping brought on a fresh wave of scurrying among the women and a collective “there, there” and patting among those who were standing nearest to me. Mrs. Jensen declared that what I needed was a nice cup of tea and put a kettle on to boil. Mrs. Scholler decided that I probably had a headache and started rifling through the drawers, looking for a towel suitable to make a cold compress.
Mama, who had overseen the bandaging of my hand and was now seated on a chair next to me, put her arm across my shoulders and started rubbing my back. “You'll be fine, “ she said in a soothing sing-song voice, the way one speaks to a frightened animal or a very young child. “You've just had a scare, that's all. Sit quiet for a few minutes and you'll feel better. You need something to eat. Cookie, cut a piece of pie for Elise.” She nodded her head toward the counter where several freshly baked pies were cooling. “And see if we have any of that nice cheddar left to go with it.”
Cookie's face clouded over with annoyance. “We need to save these pies for the harvest supper,” she said. It was the first time I'd ever heard Cookie contradict her mother. Mama's eyebrows raised, and she shot her daughter a pointed look that Cookie ignored.
“We were far enough behind as it is,” Cookie grumbled, “and now that Elise has ruined a whole basin of apples, we won't have enough for Saturday night.”
It was true. The thought caused fresh tears to well up in my eyes. “I'm sorry,” I whispered to Mama. “I wanted to help, but every time I try, it ends in disaster. I've spoiled everything.”
“Nonsense!” barked Mrs. Ludwig, the oldest lady in the church and the one I found the most intimidating. It seemed like half the people in the church were named Ludwig, and Milda Ludwig was the matriarch of that clan, mother of eleven sons. She was thin and sharp as a tree branch, with eyes that seemed to take in everything around her from behind thick glasses. She was a commanding presence, rarely speaking, but when she did, every woman in the church deferred to her. I suppose this was partly because four score years of living had made her wise, but also because she was mother-in-law, grandmother, or great-grandmother to a good portion of the ladies assembled in the Muller kitchen.
“Baking a few extra pies won't take much time. When my boys were little, I'd decide to make pie for dessert about the same time I put the stew on the stove. Before it was done simmering I'd been in the orchard to pick the fruit, washed it, mixed up the filling, rolled out the crust, and had four pies cooling on the sideboard before I rang the bell for supper,” she croaked.
“People today make too much fuss over something as simple as a pie. Problem with young women today is, you're lazy,” she declared authoritatively, nodding at Cookie, who blushed bright red at the accusation.
“Don't you feel bad about the apples,” she said, turning her attention to me. “Won't take half an hour to peel up another basin.” I knew she was lying, but appreciated her kindness in wanting to make me feel better.
“You know,” she continued, “I'm feeling hungry myself. Maybe it's time we all sat down and sampled some of these pies.” She turned to Mama and gave her a questioning look. I had noticed that Mama was the only woman to whom Mrs. Ludwig deferred. Possibly her position as the minister's wife gave Mama an elevated status in the old woman's eyes.
“Milda, that's a very good idea,” Mama replied. “If we all took a break and had something to eat, I'm sure we'd be so refreshed that we'd be able to work more quickly for the rest of the afternoon. At the very least”âshe smiledâ“we'd know if the pies are any good.” This comment was met with light female laughter and a scuffling of chairs as the ladies started to move about the kitchen in cheerful anticipation of warm pie and hot coffee.
Wanting to be of some use, I started to get up to help with the table setting, but Mama placed her hand firmly on my shoulder and pushed me back down into my chair. “No, you just sit still, and I'll bring you a piece of pie,” she said gently. “Cookie, would you please get the plates out of the cupboard while I find a knife?”
Cookie, whose face was still slightly pink from her earlier chastisement by Mrs. Ludwig, murmured a soft assent and moved toward the pantry but not before casting a resentful look in my direction.
After the pies were cut, eaten, and declared a success, the ladies rose from the table and went back to work with renewed vigor. Mama tied an apron around her waist in preparation for washing up the dishes.
“Elise, you should go upstairs and lie down.”
“But I'm feeling much better now,” I protested. “At least let me help dry the plates.”
“No,” she said firmly. “I don't doubt you're feeling better, but you had quite a scare. It would be better for you to rest this afternoon. Go on now, and try to take a nap. I'll be upstairs to check on you in a few minutes.”
I felt deflated, certain that she was banishing me from the kitchen just to keep me from stirring up yet another disaster. No matter what Mrs. Ludwig said, Cookie was rightâI had cost the women a whole morning's work. I trudged up the stairs to my bedroom and lay down, but I couldn't sleep. I left the door open a crack so I could hear the ladies talking down in the kitchen.
Until that day, none of the ladies had taken much notice of me; no one in Brightfield had. There were so many Muller children that the appearance of an extra cousin coming to stay for the summer was not an event of much consequence. Now the women were suddenly curious about my history. Mama seemed to be filling them in on the details. I couldn't hear everything that was said, but I knew that the conversation was about me from the fragments that I could hear every now and then.
“And you don't know how long she might be here?”
“Doesn't her family ever write? What about her mother?”
“Oh, the poor little dear!”
“You wouldn't expect her to, would you? She never had anyone to teach her.”
“You and Herman are perfect saints to take her in!”
I heard a generalized rumble of agreement among the women followed by a croaking but unintelligible voice that I recognized as belonging to Mrs. Ludwig.
It was humiliating to lie in bed listening to them discuss me as though I were a stray cat the Mullers had rescued from the roadside. Father, I knew, would have been furious to hear his daughter being discussed as an object of pity by a roomful of women who back in Germany would never have been received in our home unless they in came by the servants' entrance. A few months before I would have felt the same way, but now my anger was all directed at Father. He was the one who had abandoned me and shipped me off to live with people who, though tied to our family by the thinnest of genealogical threads, were complete strangers. Half the blood that flowed in my veins, the blood that had spilled into a bowl of New England-grown apples, belonged to Father, but he had left me orphaned.
These women hardly knew me, yet they were fussing over me, binding my wounds, and mothering me as if I were one of their own. How often I had heard of the long and noble heritage of the Brauns. But what was nobility, anyway? Was it something you were born with, or something you aspired to? At that moment it seemed to me that any one of the women working in the Mullers' kitchen had more nobility in her little finger than we Brauns had in our whole family tree.
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