Another Homecoming Read online

  Kyle had climbed the stairs and gone to her room and lain on the bed with her clothes still on. Her mother had come in to say something, then she had left. But Kyle had paid no mind. She had lain there and stared at the ceiling, watching the light from outside fade until the pale blue walls were a dusky gray, and then to black. And she had felt as though she had died with her father, only her body had not realized it yet.

  Now, at the cemetery, Kyle allowed herself to be guided into a chair in the front row. She was grateful for the veil, as it helped to hide her face and her thoughts from all the prying eyes surrounding them. She kept her attention on the pastor, but only because it helped to avoid looking at the ugly hole in the ground, the one ready to take her as well as her father.

  Did other people have such thoughts? As she sat and watched blindly as the ancient ritual concluded, Kyle wondered if she was the only one in the whole world who felt as though she did not belong anywhere or to anyone. Was there anyone as alone as she was? Had anyone ever felt so helpless, so utterly out of place?

  8

  SUMMER GAVE WAY TO AUTUMN, and autumn had begun to drift into winter’s cold embrace, yet Joel still had not gone to Simon’s house for the promised dinner.

  Not that he hadn’t spent a lot of time at the Millers’ home. His reluctance about the meal was not due to the strangeness of some of their ways, although the Miller household was certainly different from anything Joel had ever known. Even so, he felt comfortable with them. But though they had often invited him to share a Sunday dinner, Joel held back.

  The Miller household held many mysteries. Everyone was busy all the time, and yet a sense of calm overlay all the activities. Mr. Miller was so sick they had been forced to leave their farm in Pennsylvania and come to live in this strange town near Baltimore, and yet they all seemed happy. He had lost his leg, and sometimes his stump was so sore he could not even strap on the prosthetic limb, and yet he moved about all the time. Even when he was sitting still, he was talking or reading or balancing the baby, or all those things at once.

  Mr. Miller did not even seem to realize he was handicapped. He kept up a successful business as a custom cabinet and furniture maker. He moved about the back shed where he kept his tools and wood, deftly carving and shaping and hammering and sawing, supporting himself on one leg and a crutch or a wall or a table, whistling and happy. Yes, happy. Not some artificial smile pasted over his sorrows. The man was genuinely happy. The whole family was. And Joel simply could not understand it.

  Yet the biggest reason why Joel had not accepted their invitation was that he was afraid to ask his parents. The littlest things could set his father off. The issue of pets, for instance. The second time Joel had dared to ask for a puppy, his father had stayed angry for days, as though the asking itself had been a very bad thing. Joel never could tell what would ignite another bout of anger and shouting. So he chose to remain silent and ask for nothing at all.

  But more than Joel’s naturally reserved nature was at work here, he knew. Joel felt as though the visit could hold some special significance. Without working out exactly why, Joel sensed that joining them for the meal and the promised talk with Mr. Miller would catapult him into something new. Something alien. And Joel was not sure he was ready for that, or if he ever would be.

  A month after his fourteenth birthday, Joel waited as usual for Simon after school. But when his friend appeared, his normally spirited expression was downcast. Joel fidgeted nervously, avoiding Simon’s eyes. “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing,” Simon replied glumly.

  “Is it your father?” Mr. Miller had gone through a bad time earlier that summer, something about the doctors not being able to adjust his insulin correctly.

  “No, Papa is fine.” Simon scuffed along the road, kicking at stones. Finally he said miserably, “A letter from home this morning came. Missy has foaled. And Daisy has another litter. Six this time.”

  Joel had to think a moment. Daisy was the dog, he knew that much. Simon’s sister Sarah talked about little else. That was another amazing thing about this family. They had over two hundred animals, counting the dairy herd. But all of them had names. And the children talked about them as if they were all family. “I forget. Which one is Missy?”

  “Papa’s horse. He promised me the foal would be mine for raising up myself.”

  Joel felt a stab of envy. His father would not allow him one small puppy, and the Millers had everything. Four dogs, three cats, cows, four horses, two mules, thirty hens, a bad-tempered rooster, and seven nanny goats. There was even a squirrel that had fallen out of the nest as a baby and Mrs. Miller had bottle fed; she now lived in the tree back of their farmhouse and would come and bring her own family whenever Mrs. Miller called to her. “So, that’s great. What’s the matter?”

  “So now somebody else sees after my foal. Somebody else curries him. Somebody else watches him learn to stand and walk and run.” Simon seemed ready to cry. “I want to see him. To do for him myself. I miss home. I miss our farm.”

  Joel did not know what to say. He had never known another town except Riverdale. His parents had taken him to Washington one afternoon to see the White House and the memorials. But he had never even been to Baltimore. He could not even begin to picture the Millers’ Mennonite community outside Lansdale, Pennsylvania. From everything Simon had said, it was an utterly different world from anything Joel had ever known.

  They walked the rest of the way to Simon’s house in silence. Before they had even climbed the front steps, Joel heard the wails from inside. “Sarah, she makes tears,” Simon said forlornly. Sarah was Simon’s younger sister. “She wants the puppies. All of them, here with us now. Mama says no, there is not the room. And we could not get them down here to us. So Sarah, she wants to go home. We all want to go home.”

  Mrs. Miller pushed open the door and tried for a smile, but she could not raise one today. She was dressed, as always, in a dark blouse and printed skirt, with a kerchief tied over her hair. “I am sorry, Choel. Today is not so good.”

  “Sure, I understand.” Mrs. Miller’s accent was a little stronger than Simon’s, but nothing compared to her husband’s. According to Simon, his mother’s family was progressive, whatever that meant. “I’ll see you later, Simon.”

  “Perhaps you will come and choin us for worship on Sunday, yah?” The words had been spoken by Mrs. Miller every week since she had met Joel. And every time he had come up with another excuse. The woman did not press. And Joel had never delved into his reasons for delaying.

  Today Simon did not even wait for Joel’s response. He trudged up the front steps, his shoulders slumped in misery. Joel felt a sudden yearning to do something for his friend, something that would make him happy again. “Sure, Mrs. Miller. I’d love to come.”

  His unexpected assent astonished them both. Mrs. Miller’s anxious expression gave way to a beaming smile. Simon whirled about. “You will? Really?”

  Joel was so surprised at the effect of his words that he could only nod.

  “That is good.” The word off Mrs. Miller’s tongue sounded like goot to Joel’s ears. “Welcome you, we will. Come at ten, and stay you must for the Sunday meal.”

  “This is very good, Choel,” Simon said, and his grin upheld the words.

  “Sunday next,” Mrs. Miller said and reached forward to pat Joel’s head. “It is good to have reason yet to smile today.”

  Joel walked down the block, turned, and waved back to where Mrs. Miller and Simon stood on the porch watching him. Sunlight and shadow played over the street as a brisk autumn wind sent clouds scuttling overhead. For some reason, he felt lighter than air, able to skip forward, as if just barely tracing his way along the earth.

  But the closer Joel got to home, the heavier he became. He tried to sort out in his mind the best way to approach his parents. His first urge was to not talk about it to them at all. Rather he would just do his paper route, then slip over to the Millers’. But much as he hated the tho
ught of conflict, he decided he had to meet this head on. To do otherwise would taint the way this day felt.

  As he headed up his street, he concluded that the direct approach would be best. He would simply lay his request before them and hope they would understand.

  The next big question was which parent to tackle first. His mother would probably be the most likely to give permission, but his father detested what he considered playing one parent against another. Harry interpreted it as an act of deceit and reacted with denial of the request, no matter how reasonable it might be.

  No, Joel decided, it was best to face them both at once and take the consequences. But when? They were so seldom together. Family fellowship was unknown in Joel’s household. He had never experienced an atmosphere like that of Simon’s home. There the father read near the room’s big lamp while the mother tucked up close on the other side of the small table, knitting needles clacking in rapid succession, keeping time with her chattering tongue. And all about the room, children of various sizes hovered over homework while the smaller ones amused themselves with homemade toys. The baby cooed from the cradle, near enough to one parent or the other so that an outstretched foot could continue the steady rocking.

  No, Joel’s home could not be more different. His father either hid behind his newspaper or Argosy magazine or just sat in his corner chair, staring out at the black night. His mother often retired early, giving Joel a quick brush of a kiss and telling him to be sure to finish his homework. Sometimes she would read in bed her dime novels from the corner drugstore. His father called them “your mother’s trash” and always tossed them out if he came across them.

  No, Joel decided, heading up the front walk, it would have to be at mealtime. Certainly there would be little competition for their attention if he were to voice his request then. Mealtimes were silent at the Grimes home. But the very thought of the coming ordeal made Joel’s stomach knot.

  Joel did his evening chores and tried to formulate the right words. But every idea he had was met with images of frowns and headshaking. As he trudged into dinner, he resigned himself to the fact that there was no good way to say it. He would just have to blurt it out.

  They were halfway through another silent meal before he cleared his throat, swallowed, and dove in. “Simon has invited me to his house for Sunday morning.”

  Heads did not even lift.

  “His folks have a sort of worship every Sunday.”

  His mother looked up.

  “He’s invited me to join them,” Joel pressed on. His mother’s eyes were on him now. He wanted to speak directly to her but feared it would not please his father.

  “What do you mean, worship?” Martha asked.

  Joel wasn’t sure himself but repeated what little he knew from Simon. “They read stories from the Bible and stuff. They sing, too. Together.”

  His father’s head lifted now. “You mean, at home?”

  “In their house,” Joel confirmed.

  “Why? That’s what churches are for.”

  Joel could not recall his folks ever setting foot in a church, but now was not the time to be pointing that out. “They don’t have a church here.”

  “There are churches all over Riverdale.”

  Joel was skating toward the edge of his knowledge. “Not their kind.”

  The frown on his father’s face deepened. Joel could see he wasn’t pleased. “What are they, some kind of weird sect? I don’t want any son of mine getting hooked up with a bunch of crazy fanatics.”

  He sounded so angry. So final. Joel felt his heart sink. He lowered his head.

  “I’m sure Simon’s family aren’t fanatics,” he heard his mother saying. “It just doesn’t fit.”

  “They sure dress funny,” his father shot back.

  “They are Mennonites. That’s the way they’re supposed to dress.”

  “It looks goofy.”

  “You might not like it,” Martha replied in her quiet, flat voice, “but it doesn’t mean they are strange.”

  “So what does it mean?”

  “It’s a sort of uniform. Like the army.”

  His father’s tone sharpened further. “It’s not like the army at all. That’s a stupid comparison. The army has a perfect reason—”

  “So do they,” Martha cut in. “They choose to be identified in such a manner.”

  Joel listened as the angry words swirled about the small room. He wished he could just take it all back. He had not wanted to cause another argument. He hated these quarrels worse than anything. He should have just stayed silent, as always.

  But his father was not finished. “So where did you get all this information?”

  “I read about them,” his mother replied.

  “In one of those trashy books of yours, I guess. Well, if that’s the kind of folks they are, then it’s settled—”

  “For your information, I found out about Mennonites in the public library. I looked them up when Joel started keeping company with that young boy.” She flung the words like a well-aimed lance at her husband. Joel looked up in surprise. It was a rarity that his mother would stand up to her husband over anything. But Martha was not finished. She tilted her head, a defiant look in her eyes, and said, “At least I am interested in what goes on in Joel’s life.”

  Silence again. Joel’s father seemed too angry to even respond. Joel turned back to his half-finished plate. He had to eat all that remained before he could leave the table, but his appetite had vanished. All he wanted was to flee the room.

  At length his father stirred slightly and demanded, “What are they asking you to do?”

  Joel found himself reluctant even to respond, not wanting to start the whole controversy over again. “They just wanted me to join them for the singing and reading time, then stay for a late lunch. They call it dinner.”

  Again silence. At long last his father spoke again. “Don’t suppose it would hurt anything,” he said without even looking up. “Might give us a chance to catch up on some sleep around here, with you out of the house.”

  Joel let his astonished gaze travel from his father’s lowered head to his mother’s still-flushed face. She simply nodded.

  As an afterthought she added, “Make sure you wash your face and brush your hair before you go. Folks are supposed to look their best for church.”

  9

  “MRS. ROTHMORE WILL BE WITH YOU directly, Mr. Crawley,” Bertrand announced solemnly, leading him into the library. “She asks that you wait for her here.”

  “Fine, fine,” Randolf replied absently. When the tall double doors closed behind the departing butler, the young man resisted the urge to pace about the room. It was not like him to suffer from nerves when meeting with Abigail. But something about her summons worried him mightily.

  When he had taken over his father’s position on the Rothmore board, Randolf had discarded many things. One had been the ‘Junior’ attached to his name. Another had been the deferential attitude he had formerly used around Abigail. The first time he had addressed her as an equal had been in this very room. She had noticed it instantly, of course. Very little escaped Abigail’s notice. She had acknowledged the change in his attitude and its intended message with a regal nod.

  There was much that remained unspoken between the two of them. Which was fine with Randolf. As far as he was concerned, some of life’s most important matters should never be spoken of aloud. Such as the hunger for real power they seemed to share. The kind of power that could be theirs, would be theirs, once the reins of Rothmore Insurance were firmly in Randolf’s grasp.

  Randolf lowered himself into the leather armchair and glanced about the room. The Rothmore library had always fascinated him. Whenever he saw himself taking over control of the family assets as well as the family company, it was to this room that his daydreams took him. If any chamber of the Rothmore manor spoke of opulence, it was this room. The rich wood of the oiled wall panels, the enclosed shelves heavy with leather-bound volumes, the huntin
g scenes and the full-length portrait of Abigail that graced the walls, the Oriental carpets strewn across the polished floor—somehow the room managed to be both masculine and elegant, a marvelous combination in his eyes.

  His reverie was interrupted by Abigail’s entrance. “Ah, Randolf, so good of you to come,” she said as she swept toward him. “I hope it wasn’t too much of a bother to join me so early on a Saturday morning.”

  “Not at all.” Something about her tone brought a new surge of nerves. Yet Randolf managed to hold to his outward calm and languidly rose to greet her. “Your call sounded rather urgent.”

  “No, not urgent. Just desirable. With the reading of Lawrence’s will set for the day after tomorrow, this could not be put off any longer.” Rather than settle upon the sofa opposite where he had been seated, she marched to the other side of the hand-carved cherrywood desk. “Won’t you be seated?”

  He had no choice but take the high-backed chair across the desk from her. “Thank you.”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking.” She hesitated, toying with the open ledger on the desk before her. Then she added, “About Kyle.” Another long moment of silence before Abigail offered, “She’s still very young.”

  Randolf had the sudden impression that all this was staged. Making him wait, seating herself behind the desk, the hesitation—all of it was simple theatrics. No, not simple. Not with Abigail. Everything had a purpose. Even this. And the implications of where this was headed filled him with foreboding.

  “I know I have been pushing you to seek, well, some sort of commitment.” She picked up the gold-plated dagger used as a letter opener and rolled it back and forth between her fingers. The light flickered directly into his eyes. “But recently I have been experiencing second thoughts.”