Chapter 3 #2
Phoebe drew in a sharp breath, trying to settle her nerves.
She was being ridiculous, not only about Aunt Bertha but her fears about Jalon.
It had been only three days since she’d written to him.
There was no need to panic. Not yet, anyway.
And what was the worst that could happen if Aunt Bertha found the letter?
Her aunt didn’t know Jalon, and there wasn’t a house rule that she couldn’t write to a friend .
Okay, so he was more than a friend, at least in her heart, but her aunt didn’t have to know that.
Surely she wouldn’t keep her from writing to Jalon. Her aunt wasn’t that cruel, was she?
The sound of a vehicle came down the street, and she let out a relieved breath as she saw the mail truck approach. She waited by the mailbox, her breath coming out in frosty puffs, unable to keep her toes from tapping the ground. “Please let there be a letter from Jalon,” she whispered.
“Morning,” the mailman said, then handed Phoebe two envelopes. “Have a good day.”
“You too!” she said, waving. Then she looked at the envelopes.
The first one was an advertisement from a car dealership.
Well, that was a waste of postage. She looked at the second letter.
It was from Jalon. She ripped it open, fumbling with the envelope in her gloved hands.
As she read, she leaned against the mailbox post. He wasn’t angry with her.
He said he understood, and then said he would be in Dover right away if he could.
The cold surrounding her seemed to disappear as Jalon’s letter warmed her through. She continued to read.
Sounds like you’re really busy with all the cooking you do. I wasn’t sure what to say when you asked me what my favorite meal was, because I like almost everything. I’d have to say the one thing I won’t touch is buttermilk. Never had a taste for the stuff.
Phoebe sighed. A man after her own heart.
I guess if I had to pick something, and this is going to sound weird, it would be Hunan beef, which is Chinese stir-fry.
There’s a Chinese place near the construction site and I go there for lunch at least twice a week.
I like my food hot. The spicier the better.
It’s not something I could make for myself, though.
I definitely wouldn’t trust Leanna to make it. She can barely boil water.
What Phoebe wouldn’t do to be able to make him a Chinese meal. She didn’t know how and had never eaten Chinese food in her life, but she could learn. For him, she would do anything. Except tell him the truth.
“ Mamm! ”
She turned at the sound of Malachi’s voice.
He was running toward her, his small boots making light imprints on the thin layer of snow covering the driveway and yard.
He’d been bouncing a small rubber ball on the front porch while she got the mail, but the activity hadn’t kept him occupied for long.
She folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, then tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
She’d read the rest later. The few lines she had read would keep her going for the rest of the day.
She squatted down in front of Malachi, then smoothed back a lock of his blond hair. He had his father’s hair color and bright blue eyes, along with her round face and the identical dimple in his left cheek. “I love you,” she said. “So very much.”
He grinned, revealing a gap where his front tooth had fallen out the week before. “Love you too. Can I have another cookie?”
“Later,” she said, unable to resist his adorable smile. “Right now we have to stack firewood for Aenti Bertha.”
The cherubic smile disappeared, his face scrunching. “I don’t want to help her. I hate her.”
“Malachi! You can’t hate anyone.”
“ Ya , I can and I hate her. She’s mean and she smells weird.”
Her aunt did smell weird, like the homemade arthritis cream she slathered all over herself every morning. “Malachi,” Phoebe said, trying to maintain a stern tone. “That isn’t nice.”
“ She isn’t nice.”
“She’s letting us live here. That’s what’s important.”
“But I wanna geh home. Can we please geh home? I miss Devon and Zeb and Zeke and Owen and Ezra and Nelson and Perry and Jesse and Moses and Mahlon and Grossdaadi and Grossmammi and baby Elam and Crackers—”
She put her finger over his lips. “I get it, Malachi. You miss everyone at home.”
“Everyone and Crackers,” Malachi corrected, referring to Devon’s horse.
She frowned. She wanted to go home too. The idea of being stuck at her aunt’s for much longer made her wilt inside, as did the letters she received from her family.
Her parents wanted her home. They said her brothers did, too, even though Ezra, who was eleven, was the only one who had written to her.
“I kind of miss you,” he’d said. That nearly brought her to tears.
With each letter she received from her family, the urge to return became stronger. But she had to resist until she could figure out how to return. Right now that seemed impossible.
She hugged her son, then leaned back so she could face him again. “Now, don’t pout. It makes you look like a duck.”
He beamed. “I like looking like a duck. Quack, quack.” He turned away from her and started to waddle.
Standing, she followed her son to the backyard. He was quacking full force, having a great time and forgetting that less than a minute ago he’d been missing his family. She loved to see him smile and laugh. There was so little to be happy about lately, aside from Jalon’s letters.
“Phoebe!” Aunt Bertha poked her head out the back door. “Get yer sohn under control.”
Her aunt never called him Malachi. She rarely acknowledged him at all, unless he was doing something that bothered her, which was basically everything he did.
How had she heard him from inside, anyway?
The doors and windows were closed. Letting out a huff of frustration, Phoebe went to Malachi and put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s enough.”
“Quack, quack!” He looked up at her, then glared at Aunt Bertha. “Quaaaaaaaaack!”
Aunt Bertha’s face turned red as she stormed out of the house. “Get him under control or I will!”
Her words stopped Malachi. He stood up and stopped quacking, but the anger on his face remained. When he stomped over to another part of the yard, Phoebe said a quick prayer of thankfulness. For once he did as he was told.
“The things I put up with from you two.” Aunt Bertha adjusted her glasses.
“He’s a little bu , Aenti . He was just playing.”
“He was acting a fool. Train up a child in the way he should geh and he won’t depart from it. Too bad yer mudder didn’t heed that wise, biblical advice when it came to yer upbringing.”
Phoebe flinched. Was Aunt Bertha’s scorn part of her punishment too?
“Finish sweeping that snow off the walk,” Aunt Bertha ordered.
“I thought you wanted us to stack the firewood.”
“You can do that after you finish sweeping. I don’t want to see a flake left behind. Do you understand?”
“ Ya. ” Phoebe fisted her hands at her sides. “I understand.”
After her aunt shut the door, Phoebe rushed to Malachi, who was picking up snow and grass and throwing it.
“Please,” Phoebe said, taking his cold hands and turning him toward her.
“You must behave. Aenti Bertha is upset with both of us.” He tried to pull from her grip but she held on.
“Malachi, listen to me. It’s important that you obey while we’re here. ”
“I don’t want to obey. I want to geh home.”
Back to that again. So many times since they arrived here she’d felt out of her depth as a mother.
At home she’d had better control over Malachi.
She’d also had her parents’ help, and even her eldest brothers pitched in when they could.
However, he was better behaved at her parents’ home.
Here, he was stubborn, argumentative, and disrespectful.
Yet regardless of where they lived, she was his mother and she should be able to discipline him.
“Malachi,” she said, giving him her most patient tone. “One day we’ll geh home.”
“Why not today?”
“Because.”
“Because why?”
“Because we can’t.”
“Why can’t we?” He bit his bottom lip. “You don’t like it here either.”
She sighed. “It doesn’t matter what I like. What matters is that we do what she tells us to do. That means you can’t throw dirt or refuse to eat yer supper.”
He tilted his head, as if he were considering her words. “Can I quack like a duck?”
“Only around me. But as soon as you see her, you’ll be a little bu again. Got it?”
He nodded. Then he whispered, “Quack.”
“Quack,” she whispered back, then kissed his cheek. Another crisis averted, for the meantime. “Now, let’s finish sweeping the snow. After that, I’ll get you that cookie.”
Jalon opened the back door and, despite the mail in his pocket, dragged himself inside.
It had been a long, hard week at work, even with the welcome respite of having lunch at his favorite Chinese restaurant and the excitement of becoming a property owner.
The temperatures had dropped and the added cold made working outside harder, despite the extra layers he wore.
He took off his boots and outerwear in the mudroom, then walked into the kitchen.
Blue, Leanna’s Coon cat, swirled around his legs.
“ Ya , ya. You want food, you big ball of fur.” He fed the cat, his own stomach growling.
But he wouldn’t eat until he read Phoebe’s latest letter.
Dear Jalon,