61. Jacob
Jacob
Two weeks on the road had been unkind to my hat. I tugged the poor thing low across my forehead and turned away from the sunset, hauling my weary self the last steps toward home.
I stumbled. Deep ruts had been cut into the road by repeated wagon trips to the neighboring farm. Viola’s farm. Should be watching my footing instead of straining for a glimpse. Wouldn’t do to turn an ankle this close to home.
The darkness approached from the east as I hefted the satchel to my other shoulder.
It contained the writing journal Viola had given me.
During my weeks on the road, I’d filled pages that were haunted by her touch.
My gaze shifted from the familiar farmhouse before me toward the neighboring farm to the east.
She would be right there. Eventually. I searched from under my beaten-up brim, but didn’t see anyone. I hoped Viola was there, and hoped she was not there in equal measure.
I paused at the base of the steps. They’d be happy to see me, to see I wasn’t broken.
Hold it together. The smell of Ma’s beef stew drew me inside and I was immediately surrounded with hugs.
Everyone spoke at once, everyone except me.
I could barely string two words together, but I hugged them back. It was good to be home.
We sat down to supper. Jo and Beth filled the silence with nonstop words and cheer that scraped against my raw edges. Their worry tightened my jaw to an ache.
“Heard Ellie say they did double the usual business at the store last week,” Beth said. “Makes sense with all the… Ow. Why’d you do that? Ma, Erik kicked?—”
Say her name—don’t make me ask.
“Anyway,” Jo said. “Plans are already underway for the harvest festival…” They didn’t mention Viola, her farm, or our public argument.
And the absence screamed louder than any chatter.
I set down my fork. Their words flowed out with increased urgency, as if the flood could somehow hold me together.
But they wouldn’t give me a single word to hold onto.
Viola. They wouldn’t say anything about her. I couldn’t take any more tiptoeing. I slammed one palm to the table with a smack that vibrated up my arm and quieted the room.
“Just tell me.” I softened my voice. “I want to know.” Stillness filled the room.
Ma’s calm words broke the silence. “Viola left this morning. Back to Chicago with her father.” I looked down at my stinging hand, still pressed to the table.
She was gone. Ma continued, “She’ll return in mid-October and stay with us for a couple of weeks.
Construction is progressing on her house in a race against winter. ”
Beth said, “There are going to be so many rooms, and I memorized the plans. I can give you a tour.”
Jo said, “There are no walls yet, but the framing is underway. You should see the crowd of workers over there. Looks like every man in town who can lift a hammer has been hired on to help.”
“And a windmill,” Erik said.
Pa said, “She’ll have a windmill, yes, but she already has something more important.” He nodded. “Com-punc-tion. The lass has regrets, owned up to her foolery.”
My attention flew to him. No. Don’t do this to yourself again. So what if she has regrets…
Pa held my gaze and added, “Might should think about doing the same.” A foolish corner of my heart sprang back to life. Viola has regrets. I pulled in a deep breath.
Beth said in a sing-song voice only an eight-year-old could get away with, “Viola left a note for you up on your bed.”
My ears burned like coming into the warm kitchen from the cold of deep winter. The burning spread to my cheeks and then my whole body. A note from Viola. With one hand, I gripped the bench and forced myself to stay seated. With the other, I pushed food around on my plate.
When the table was cleared, Ma said, “Jacob, you are asleep on your feet. Off to bed with you. We will hear tales of your travels tomorrow.” She hugged me and pushed me toward the stairs.
Dear wonderful Mother. I kissed her cheek and raced up the steps to the room I shared with Erik. A folded letter rested on my pillow. My name in her familiar script. Would her words blame me as I deserved? But Pa had said compunction…
I stepped to the window. The page shook in my hand as I angled it toward the light.
Dear Jacob,
I am an idiot. Please accept my sincerest apology for springing my news on you in such a jarring, impersonal way.
I said and did many things I regret. I have not figured it all out, but I hope that someday we will have a chance to share our thoughts and feelings, preferably without the whole town as an audience.
Perhaps, far off into the future, this will be a memory we can laugh about.
I do not have your way with words, and I admit I feel intimidated putting pen to paper.
Know I write from the heart. Know I do not want to lose you.
Yours,
Viola
I reread the letter until the words blurred into the darkness. Then I refolded the page, but instead of tucking it with the others on my shelf, I pressed it to my chest.
We’re both fools. She had regrets and so did I. They’d followed me all the way to California and back. Clung to me more tightly than the ever-present travel dust. I’d been so sure I’d lost her.
But Viola had written what was in her heart. She was trying to let me in.
She had not said I don’t want to lose your friendship. No, she had said, I don’t want to lose you. Those words settled deeper than my first sunset over the Pacific Ocean, deeper than my first glimpse of the Rocky Mountains.
Curled in my too-small bed, something inside me finally loosened. My exhaustion didn’t vanish, but it eased enough to let a smile find me. I held her letter over my heart, feeling its warmth seep into me, and let her words echo softly through the quiet.