Beneath the Apple Leaves(50)
The rooster hollered mournfully before the promise of light turned the black sky to slate. Wilhelm turned on his back, grabbed the pillow and shoved it under his skull.
“They’re dead, Wilhelm,” she revealed quietly.
Her husband pulled up on one elbow. Blurry-eyed and disheveled, he looked at one baby and then the next. A sound Eveline had never heard cracked from his throat as he reached for the babies, took his sons from her stiff arms and held them to his chest. She had never seen him cry. Ever. And the sight sent a fury through her veins.
“Stop it!” she snapped. The contrast between his despair and her own callousness frightened her, made her feel inhuman, and she wanted to hit him, wanted to punch him in the jaw for his sensitivity and her lack.
“They were sick from the start,” she told him. “Better they went now instead of suffering on.” Her voice leveled with effort. “God did us a charitable grace by taking them without further pain.”
Wilhelm’s tears flowed unending upon the pale heads. “That’s enough!” she commanded, her hands shaking. She pulled the babies and wrapped them in the crocheted blanket. “You need to tell the pastor.”
Wilhelm turned as if in a dream, his skin still stained with drying tears as he pulled on his pants and snapped the suspenders over his bent shoulders and slunk downstairs.
Eveline moved the babies to the crib and did not look at them again. She made the bed and set off to the kitchen to start breakfast.
*
The small funeral service only highlighted their isolation. A few parishioners from the Protestant church attended, those who felt their presence mandatory at any event hosted by a pastor, as if their absence would be instantly recognized by God and in his anger he would strike down a herd of locusts to wipe out every crop.
Widow Sullivan came and drove her small buggy by herself, holding the reins with her aged and gnarled hands. The Muellers attended with their brood of children and grandchildren. So many Muellers joined the Kisers at the church that a stranger would mistakenly think them quite fortunate in friends. Old man Stevens and Bernice were there, childless and holding each other’s cracked hands. The Mortons were there as well, Frank’s customary cowboy hat left at home and his thick hair combed neatly behind his ears. Between the Mortons and the Muellers the Kisers formed a wedge, and the eyes of one family did not meet those of the other. And when the tiny babies were finally blessed with humble words, they were brought back to the Kiser farm to be buried beneath the apple tree.
The mourners gathered in the Kisers’ dining room, ate the food brought by the neighbors and spoke idly about the cold and lamented about the harsh winter expected.
But Eveline couldn’t feel. As the chatter rose and fell, words exchanged, she couldn’t feel any of it. Her fingers held the silver serving spoon as she scooped corn onto a plate and yet the silver did not seem to exist against her skin.
Frank Morton approached, put his hand lightly against her forearm, and this she felt. In fact, the heat was such a contrast from the numbness that she withdrew her arm quickly, as if she had been burned. She rubbed the spot absently.
“I didn’t mean to startle you,” he said. “Lily would still be happy to help you out with the house. Don’t need to pay her. She’d be happy to do it.”
Eveline folded her arms at her waist and acknowledged Frank’s offer. “I’d like that very much. Lily is welcome anytime.” At that moment, she wanted him to wrap his arms around her, press her head against his broad chest and stroke her back. She wanted him to tell her about the time he visited Holland, wanted him to paint a picture that would bring happier memories, wanted his touch to spread fire to the parts that had grown dead.
Instead, Frank turned to the woman who approached meekly from behind. “I know this isn’t the best time for introductions, but I want you to meet my wife, Claire.” He put his hand on the woman’s slight back and nudged her forward.
The woman rattled slightly with nerves. “I-I-I’m sorry for your loss, Mrs. Kiser.”
The words fell hollow and empty upon her ears and Eveline hated her. Claire was weak and shy and didn’t deserve the man at her side, Eveline thought. “That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Morton,” she answered coldly. “We’re glad to have you.”
That evening, the neighbors left one by one save for Lily and Claire. Lily tucked in Will and Edgar upstairs. Wilhelm talked to Heinrich Mueller outside. Andrew was nowhere to be found.
Claire worked in the kitchen cleaning off plates and wrapping up the leftover meats and casseroles, her movements quieter than a mouse.
Eveline was exhausted, stuck in sludge, wanted the woman to leave. “No need for you to stay, Mrs. Morton.” Her skin prickled just being near her. “Wilhelm will drive you home.”
“No, I’ll stay,” she stated plainly. “And please, call me Claire.”
The woman invaded Eveline’s space, her kitchen, irritated like ants on the skin.
Claire bustled for activity, twisted her hands. “I’ll make us some tea,” Claire offered, her voice high and nervous. She filled the teakettle and set it upon the iron stove, her movements jittery.
Eveline followed the woman’s figure as she went through her cupboards and found the tea, sugar and cups. Eveline’s back twitched, her shoulders hunching around her ears. Just leave. The woman placed the hot tea in front of her.