The House on Malcolm Street (10 page)

“She said that?”

“Yeah. That people working and being happy together is like heaven.”

I moved a rake to one side and started dragging the washtub from its place. “Aunt Marigold seems to be very religious.”

Eliza wasn’t fazed by my comment. “I like her.”

We headed for the pear tree, and I could see right away that the squirrel was back. I thought that running at it again, especially with the washtub in my hands, would scare it away. But this was a stubborn squirrel, and it only retreated to a higher branch in the pear tree and hunkered down, chattering at us.

“I’m sure we’ll have to leave you a few,” I told it as I scanned the top limbs. “Just like in the apple tree. I’ll never be able to reach up there. So you can have those.”

Eliza laughed at me talking to a squirrel. She shinnied right up to the lowest branches without my help this time. I hung the bucket from a branch near her where she could reach it, and she stretched her arms to pick what she could find.

I got out the ladder again and picked into the bowl I’d brought along. When that was full, I’d climb down and transfer the pears into the washtub. Slow going, but it’d get the job done.

We’d been at it a while and Eliza had changed position twice when she suddenly sat stark still and stared across the yard. I turned my head to see Mr. Abraham, still a complete stranger to Eliza, coming toward us with a bucket in each hand.

“Thought you could use these,” he said, bringing them close. “Will Marigold be making apple butter and pear jelly?”

“I expect,” I said simply, watching his face for any sign of what I thought I’d seen in Marigold.

“Well, it’s nice she’s got good help this year.”

“We made pies!” Eliza announced, suddenly not shy anymore.

But I wasn’t sure Marigold wanted to disclose that information. Perhaps she wanted to surprise the gentleman with pie if he accepted her invitation to tea later. So I said no more about that. “We enjoy helping,” I told him. “And it’s only right while we stay here.”

“Are you kin?”

“Yes, sir,” I answered, wondering briefly why I found it so much easier to answer his questions than Josiah Walsh’s last night. Because he was so much older, surely. And therefore in some fashion not as much of a threat.

“Might you be John’s family?” Mr. Abraham asked on, and I was surprised that he could know enough about us to understand that so quickly. Marigold, or Josiah, must have already mentioned us to him.

“Yes, sir,” I said again, hoping he wouldn’t ask anything about our losses or our present circumstances.

He didn’t. He only set down the buckets, gave Eliza a friendly nod, and then looked up at me briefly. “Shalom.”

Was that Hebrew? I wasn’t sure what to say. And he turned without another word and began walking slowly back to his own yard. “Thank you,” I called, though I wasn’t completely sure what he’d meant.
Shalom
was a blessing, wasn’t it? Or a greeting? I didn’t think it meant good-bye. “We very much appreciate the extra buckets. I’ll be over in a while with a few apples for you, and maybe some pears as well. Have a good day.”

He turned with a little smile. “Thank you.”

Eliza and I worked on in silence for a moment or two before she finally spoke up again. “Maybe
everybody
here is nice. At least everybody we’ve met so far. You think so, Mommy?”

I wasn’t going to say one way or another about Marigold’s nephew. He was probably a good man, but he hadn’t been at all pleased when he realized who we were. Now I wondered why. It hadn’t bothered him to be taking strangers to the boardinghouse. In fact, he’d rather seemed to enjoy himself with that. It was only when he knew we were John’s family that he cooled toward me. Maybe he’d just wanted idle banter with a stranger. Or maybe he was genuinely concerned that I was here to use his aunt’s good graces to my own ends.

We picked till the washtub was full. Then we had to stop. I simply couldn’t reach anymore. But it was plenty, and Marigold was pleased.

“Now those squirrels can eat and I won’t begrudge ’em,” she said. “We got us enough to speak of, if we don’t get even another one. Praise the Lord that it’s a good year for fruit, ’cause I’ve not been able to work the garden worth my salt, and it’s sure a blessing to have something else to can.”

Again I wondered if Aunt Marigold struggled to make ends meet. I expected that soon enough I’d be seeing what, if anything, she had already stored on her pantry shelves.

But she wasn’t ready to think of canning yet. “Go take Mr. Abraham his apples,” she told me. “Put ’em in one of his buckets and fill the other with pears. Ask him over and don’t take no for an answer. It’s time for a break, and he’s entitled to join us.”

So I walked boldly to the neighbor’s house and knocked soundly at the back door. His yard was kept up a bit better than Aunt Marigold’s. Everything was nice and trim and orderly, even the lilacs. The chicken house was painted a crisp cream color and the trim was even painted to match the house, which appeared to be in immaculate condition. I imagined Mr. Abraham must be retired but a hard worker nonetheless. How old might he and Marigold be? Sixty? Sixty-five? It was impossible for me to tell. In a moment I saw him through the screen, walking slowly to the back door and looking far more somber than he had earlier out-of-doors.

“Aunt Marigold sent you apples. And pears,” I said quickly, though I knew he’d already expect that to be why I’d come.

He opened the door and took the buckets from my hands, barely looking at me. “She’s a dear heart to think of me so often. Thank you.”

He might have turned away again, but I continued before he had the chance. “If you planted the trees, sir, I don’t know how she could help but think of you. Anyway, she wanted me to ask you to tea. Right away. And not take no for an answer. Can you come?”

I could still see the touch of solemnity in his eyes, but he smiled. “I would be glad to. Right away, eh? I suppose that would be all right.”

He set the buckets down, then stepped out the door and followed me across his smooth lawn and into Marigold’s, which was not quite so neatly clipped.

“Will you be able to stay long?” he suddenly asked.

“I . . . uh . . . I don’t really know yet.”

“That’s all right,” he answered, his voice suddenly as soothing as the breeze blowing gently against my face. “The Lord has good thoughts for you, and not evil, to give you paths of peace and a satisfying future.”

I stopped. I turned. There was something strange, something different, about those words. Why would he say them to me?

“Are you familiar with Jeremiah the son of Hilkiah? He recorded that. In his book among the prophets, of course.”

The prophets? He must be speaking of the Bible, though I’d never heard anyone identify a book of the Bible in quite such a manner.

“How old is your little girl?” he asked.

“She’s six.”

“Yes.” He nodded. “Old enough to remember but too young to understand the things that have happened. May I have my Shabbat group pray for you both?”

I had no idea what “Shabbat” meant, but dumbly I nodded, unable to respond in any other way. Maybe Mr. Abraham was a recent immigrant from the old country and things were done differently and referred to differently over there. But no. He could not be a recent immigrant. Not if he had planted that thick-limbed apple tree capable of bearing such an amazing bounty.

We reached Marigold’s back door and I was glad to go inside. Not that it bothered me to be with Mr. Abraham. There was something very peaceful about him, but at the same time now strangely intense.

Marigold had places set very cheerily with cups and plates and a teapot ready and on the table. Eliza sat prim and still as if taking tea were an everyday occurrence for her. Mr. Abraham seated himself, and Marigold happily served generous slices of her pie as I filled each cup with the fragrant blend that somehow reminded me of flowers.

“What have you put in the tea this time?” Mr. Abraham inquired gently. “It doesn’t smell quite normal.”

“Rosehips. And they’re perfectly kosher, so don’t question me. I checked.”

“Just curious,” he replied. “I trust you, good neighbor. Don’t doubt.”

I took a sip of my tea and watched them, fascinated.

“It’s a very good-looking pie,” Mr. Abraham continued. “The same as the last time?”

Marigold smiled, almost mischievously. “Of course not. The last one was cherry. Your memory fails you.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.” He lifted his fork.

“Of course it’s the same,” Marigold acquiesced. “I learned the kosher pastry from Mrs. Liebwitz just as you suggested. I haven’t even any lard in the house anymore. At least not today, so you needn’t worry.”

“Just curious, as I said before.” He took a generous bite, winking at Eliza at the same time. “Did I hear someone say memory fails you? Did you remember the sugar?”

“Yes!” Eliza was quick in answer. “Yes, we put in sugar. And cimmanum too.”

“You make a worthy pie, ladies. Many thanks.”

Eliza drank milk from a teacup and enjoyed a bigger piece of pie than I’d ever given her, but after all the work today she’d definitely earned it. I’d never had rosehip tea before, not even with Mother on the farm, though she’d grown roses aplenty. It was tasty, and the apple pie was even better. But the lightness of the conversation between Marigold and Mr. Abraham soon faded.

He looked at the floor for a moment and seemed to need to draw in a deep breath. “You should know that my father will return to my house early next week, or perhaps sooner. He’s not been well, and he should be where I can care for him.”

How old might Mr. Abraham’s father be? He must be ancient!

“Is he willing?” Marigold asked. “I mean, are things well between you again?” She suddenly glanced my way, then Eliza’s. “Oh, my. I’m sorry to have completely left you out of the conversation, dears. We shouldn’t be so rude.”

“Oh no. You’ve been talking to us plenty in the midst of everything,” I assured her. “But it’s your first opportunity to sit down and speak with Mr. Abraham all day. Go right ahead. We’d rather eat pie than talk right now, anyway. Right, Ellie?”

Eliza nodded and shoveled a big bite into her mouth. Mr. Abraham took another sip of tea and got around to answering Marigold’s question.

“Papa knows my heart, good neighbor. And he trusts the promise I gave him.”

Marigold stared down at her plate. “Then I suppose I’ll not see you for tea in a good long while.”

“Maybe not. He’s been very ill. When he is in my house, I should not leave his side for long.”

“Then we’ll have to bring the next pie right to your door. And apple butter, when I’ve got it made.” Aunt Mari smiled. “And jelly. Does your father like pear jelly?”

“He does.” Mr. Abraham returned the smile warmly. “Even if it is made by a Christian lady friend, though maybe it would be wise this time not to tell him so.”

By the time our tea was finished, I was sure that Mr. Abraham must be Jewish and that he and Marigold had more than purely neighborly feelings toward one another, though I was not quite sure how to define the sort of relationship they had. I had plenty of questions, but their business was not mine, so I made myself keep quiet.

I realized it was already evening when Mr. Abraham returned to his house, carrying the rest of the pie we’d shared. We must have been pouring tea at the time most people begin preparing for their evening meal. And I soon realized that Aunt Mari had planned it that way, to hold us over so we could sit down and eat a late dinner with Josiah when he came home.

Marigold already had a pot on the stove of cut apples cooking down for sauce, and we worked together to fill a second pot. I wished I could ask Marigold about herself and Mr. Abraham, but it was far too soon for me to be prying.

“I suppose I’d better leave a couple of burners open to get supper going after a while,” she said. “How would you like corned beef without any cabbage?”

“That would be fine,” I told her. “We’re not picky. And I’d like to help if I could.”

She said she had home-canned corned beef in the basement if I wouldn’t mind fetching a couple of jars. And we’d have apples and creamed squash and pie.

“I’ll need an order from the grocer before long,” she told me. “To add a little variety around here.”

“You have quite a bit of variety already,” I said. “Do you have a digging spade? There are carrots in the garden to be dug whenever you’d like to get them out of the ground.”

“Oh, did they make anything at all? They were choked by weeds last I saw them.”

“They may not have grown large, but there are definitely carrots out there.”

“Now see what a blessing you are,” she told me. “I’d have left them to the gophers and never known the difference. We’ll dig them tomorrow, Lord willing. We’ve got enough to do tonight getting some of this fruit canned and put away.”

She told me exactly where to find the corned beef in her “fruit room” in the basement, and I made my way carefully down the dimly lit stairway. She must have been sending Josiah down here for things lately or only using what was within reach in the kitchen. These stairs were far more difficult to maneuver than those going up to our bedroom. Darker, steeper, with two turns and a crack in one step wide enough to catch the heel of a shoe. I wouldn’t want Aunt Marigold to even try going down them.

Her basement had two generous rooms, the second of which was lined with shelves. Jars and jars filled over half of the available space, unfortunately most of them empty. It wasn’t hard to find the corned beef. There weren’t very many canned meats left. I was a bit surprised that she had home-canned meat at all, since she lived in town and had no livestock. But maybe she’d gotten extra from a local farmer.

I looked through the other jars, still wondering if we would be a burden to John’s aunt just by being here to eat her food. There was not near so much as I would like to see. Several pints of pickles and a few quarts of green beans. Six or eight jars of beets, and a few other things, but not much to speak of. Especially for the fall of the year with the summer garden nearly done. No wonder it had been important to her to save the pears from the squirrels. But maybe there was no real cause for concern. Maybe Marigold had an abundance of store-bought canned goods upstairs. Or plenty of money for the grocer when the time came.