Chapter 1 #4
She opened the back door and went inside, placed the wood in the wood box, then slipped off her coat and boots.
A few minutes later the stove was hot, and after washing her hands she started preparations for supper.
Again, like everything in Aunt Bertha’s life, the meal was both scheduled and planned.
Each Monday her aunt pinned up the week’s menu, which was to be followed to the letter.
It didn’t matter if Malachi didn’t like beets or Phoebe would rather drink four-day-old coffee than buttermilk.
There was no room for negotiation or compromise.
Phoebe peered at today’s evening meal—cabbage rolls with horseradish.
She shook her head. Malachi wouldn’t eat either of those.
He’d always been a picky eater, but since living with Aunt Bertha he ate like a sparrow.
At least he would eat the bread she’d made.
She wished he’d eat more. He needed more meat on his bones.
“Make sure you roll those cabbage leaves up tight.” Aunt Bertha had come into the kitchen, her silver glasses perched on the end of her nose. It was a miracle they stayed on her face.
“I will.”
“I hope you didn’t overwork the dough.” She poked at the top of one of the bread loaves. “If you did, the bread will be tough.”
Phoebe didn’t respond. If there was one thing she knew how to bake it was bread. Her white bread was so light it practically floated off the plate. Still, she was sure Aunt Bertha would find something about it to criticize.
When her aunt finally left the kitchen, Phoebe let out a deep sigh and focused on making the cabbage rolls. At precisely 5:45 Aunt Bertha came back into the kitchen. “ Geh get the bu ,” she said. “And be quick about it.”
Phoebe placed the platter of lightly browned cabbage rolls and another plate with sliced bread on the table, then went upstairs.
She opened the door to Malachi’s bedroom, expecting to see him looking out the window or pouting on his bed.
She pushed the door open a little more and smiled.
He was asleep on the floor. He rarely took naps even though Phoebe often prayed he would.
He hadn’t slept well at night since arriving at her aunt’s.
At first he’d cried every night to go back home.
He missed his grandmother and grandfather, and all his uncles.
He missed the animals, especially Devon’s horse.
After a few days he’d stopped crying, but he still didn’t sleep enough.
He looked so peaceful lying on the floor on his back, his cheek resting against the frayed rag rug, his arms straight on each side of his slender body.
His room was empty save for his single bed and the rag rug.
Aunt Bertha’s house was surprisingly large for a single woman with no children—three bedrooms and an extra bathroom.
Yet all the space seemed claustrophobic.
Aunt Bertha insisted on keeping all the upstairs windows locked.
She also refused to let Malachi have anything interesting in his bedroom, so there was nothing for him to do there. No toys. No books. No escape. Although Phoebe thought it was unfair, she didn’t challenge her aunt’s decision.
Knowing her aunt would fuss if she dawdled too long, Phoebe knelt beside Malachi and patted his shoulder. “Malachi. Time for supper.”
He moaned and turned his face away from her. That made her smile again. He had a rebellious streak a mile wide. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. She patted his shoulder again a bit more firmly. “Malachi, we have to get downstairs. Aenti Bertha is waiting.”
“Don’t wanna.” He didn’t look at her.
“You’ll like tonight’s supper.” A lie, but it got his attention.
He sat up. “You made pizza?”
She shook her head. Now she had a craving for pepperoni. They hadn’t had pizza in so long, because Aunt Bertha didn’t like pizza. “Cabbage rolls,” she said, forcing a light tone.
“Ew.” He crossed his arms over his narrow chest. “I don’t want that.”
“Phoebe! You two get down here!”
She winced at Aunt Bertha’s voice. “Malachi, don’t argue with me.”
He pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m not hungry.”
“But you hardly ate any of yer lunch.” She tried to speak in a calm voice, the way her mother always did. Sometimes Mamm yelled, too, but only when she was furious, which wasn’t often. Now that Phoebe was an adult she respected her mother’s kind, firm parenting.
“I will give yer suppers to the pigs if you are not seated at the table in one minute,” Aunt Bertha yelled.
Phoebe tried not to wilt. All that effort to make a perfect dinner and now her aunt was going to throw it away out of spite.
“Coming!” she called, then turned to Malachi.
“Please. Let’s geh downstairs and eat.” She didn’t want to say the next words, but they came out anyway.
“If you do, I’ll give you two of the cookies I made yesterday. ”
His blond brows lifted. “We have cookies?”
Phoebe nodded. Like her sketches, cookies were also something she could have for herself.
She thought about the Christmas cookies she made a few weeks ago.
She’d set a few aside to send to Jalon, but she hadn’t anticipated her aunt taking the rest and giving them away to the bishop’s family.
Not that Phoebe begrudged her aunt’s generosity, but Malachi hadn’t had a single cookie, even though he helped her make them.
To make up for it, she’d baked a batch of Malachi’s favorite sugar cookies while Aunt Bertha was out getting groceries.
“ Aenti Bertha doesn’t know about them.” She leaned forward. “It’s our little secret, ya ?”
“ Ya. I like secrets.” He shot up from the floor and bounded out of the room.
Phoebe said a quick, thankful prayer that he had stopped arguing with her, then followed him downstairs. When they arrived at the kitchen doorway, they both halted. Aunt Bertha was seated at the table, her eyes closed as she prayed.
Phoebe put her hands on Malachi’s shoulders to keep him still. She glanced at the clock. Six on the dot. Supper always started at 6:00 p.m. Not 5:55 or 6:05. Nothing short of a natural catastrophe would knock her aunt off schedule.
Aunt Bertha opened her eyes. She turned her head slightly and glared at Malachi, then at Phoebe. They both went to the table in silence and sat down. Phoebe had just started to pick up Malachi’s plate to serve him a cabbage roll when Aunt Bertha spoke.
“Do not give him too much food. It’s wasted on him.”
Phoebe nodded, biting the inside of her cheek to keep from saying anything.
This from the woman who less than two minutes ago was ready to feed the feast to the pigs.
Phoebe wanted the pigs to eat well, but not at Malachi’s expense.
She selected the smallest cabbage roll, placed it on the plate, and put the dish in front of Malachi.
Then she picked up a slice of bread and reached for the butter.
“Cut that piece in half. And nee butter.” Aunt Bertha narrowed her gaze at Malachi. “Butter is for gut little buwe .”
“I’m a gut bu ,” Malachi said with a lift of his chin.
“Malachi,” Phoebe whispered. “Don’t talk back.”
“I’m not talking back.” He raised his voice. “I’m talking to her.” He poked a stubby finger at Aunt Bertha. “And I want some butter.” He picked up his fork and started banging it on the table.
Before Phoebe could say anything, Aunt Bertha shot up from her chair, grabbed Malachi by the ear, and yanked him off his seat. “You will learn manners,” she hissed.
“ Aenti Bertha, nee !” Phoebe cried.
Malachi wriggled, then yelled as Aunt Bertha twisted his ear harder. “Upstairs to yer room, and you are not to come down until breakfast.”
“But I’m hungry—ow!”
Phoebe moved to stand. Aunt Bertha held up her hand, her glare forcing Phoebe to sit back down.
Aunt Bertha marched Malachi out of the kitchen and up the stairs. Phoebe heard her aunt’s heavy footsteps, then the slamming of Malachi’s door. She closed her eyes and could almost hear the turn of the key as Aunt Bertha locked the door.
When Aunt Bertha returned, she sat down in her seat and placed the key to Malachi’s bedroom beside her plate. Upstairs Malachi wailed and pounded his fists against the door.
Phoebe’s heart wrenched. “Please, Aenti . Can I geh upstairs and help him calm down?”
Her aunt placed her napkin in her lap. “ Nee. You indulge him too much, which is why he won’t listen to you.”
Phoebe started to protest but closed her mouth. Despite not having any children of her own, her aunt seemed to think she was an expert. Phoebe looked down at her plate, the food she’d spent so much time preparing growing cold. She didn’t care. If Malachi couldn’t eat, Phoebe wasn’t going to either.
She expected her aunt to force the issue, but Aunt Bertha didn’t say anything.
As she finished her food, Malachi’s yelling ceased.
She wiped her mouth on the napkin, then picked up the key and put it in the pocket of her apron.
She walked out of the kitchen, leaving Phoebe to clean up and do the rest of the evening chores.
Phoebe picked up the plates, her heart hurting for Malachi. Through tears, she scraped the uneaten food into a bowl. The pigs would eat well tonight after all.
Her thoughts turned to the guilt she always carried with her.
Malachi wouldn’t be suffering like this if they weren’t here.
She wanted to see her parents, to give her brothers hugs even though the older ones wouldn’t want something so mushy and sentimental.
But because of her bad decisions she couldn’t go back.
She touched the letter in her pocket, wondering if she was making another bad decision by not being upfront with Jalon.
She could write him back and give him the real reason she was hesitant to see him.
He would understand ... wouldn’t he? By his own admission he also had a past, although she was sure it was nothing compared to hers.
The more she thought about it, the more she warmed to the idea. She could tell Jalon about Malachi. He would come and visit, and she would deal with Aunt Bertha when that happened. She could finally meet the man she was falling in love with face-to-face. Wasn’t that worth exposing her shame to him?
She gripped the back of a chair and shook her head. There were so many things wrong with that plan. She couldn’t risk inciting Aunt Bertha’s wrath for such a selfish reason. More importantly, she didn’t want to lose Jalon. Not yet. Not ever.
She had to find a way to make peace—in this house, and with herself. She couldn’t let Malachi continue to suffer.
“Lord, forgive me,” she whispered, swallowing her tears. “Forgive me for being such a terrible mother.”