Beneath the Apple Leaves(67)
He went quiet. The exertion from the walk left him shaky. The warmth of the house, the quaintness and finished aspects, made him think of his own home with horror. Heinrich lost his smile and nodded, read his neighbor’s demeanor as one remembers a dream or his own story. Without taking his eyes off Wilhelm, he called out to his wife, “Gerda, bring up the new stout. A man needs a bit more fire than broth.”
Gerda laughed. “Ha. Fire is right. Dat stout burn the chest hair right orf ya. Pieter,” she called. “Bring up the stout.”
Heinrich pointed to the chair and waved off the wet pants with a nod that said, Will dry. A few minutes later, Pieter carried the familiar worn cask, set it on the table between them. “Hello, Mr. Kiser,” he greeted merrily, his cheeks pink with health.
“Hello, Pieter,” he answered. “Good to see you.”
“Andrew come with you?”
“No, trek was enough for one man.”
“Yeah. Tell him I’ll come down once the snow stops and we’ll go hunting.”
Heinrich poured the beer and waited for Wilhelm to speak.
“Didn’t expect the cold to set in so quick,” he finally said. “Can’t get the car or wagon up the lane. Why I came to see you. To ask a favor.” He weakened with the words. Never remembered asking a favor from anyone.
Heinrich perked, waited to be of assistance.
“I need a ride to town. Need to load up on food for the winter.”
Heinrich laughed, waved him off. “That’s all you come to ask? But of course.” He waved it off as silliness again. “We’ll go tomorrow in the vagon. Car too much trouble in the snow. We’ll load you up and the boys will help carry. Fritz is all muscle and can carry the whole load on his shoulders, I t’ink!”
Heinrich pulled a cigarette from a dented case and offered one to Wilhelm, who declined. The man smoked easily, his worn and wrinkled face still young despite years of hard labor. Wilhelm glanced at the house, at the comfortable furnishings. Heinrich followed his gaze slowly. “Need more than just a ride, ja?” he asked.
Wilhelm rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m short for spring. Winter’s going to drain us.” The words constricted his throat, his voice low and deep. “Was thinking about going to Morton for a bridge loan. Just enough to cover the seed and new hay.”
His neighbor took out his cigarette, stuck out his tongue like the tobacco had leaked out and soured it. He shook his head roughly. “No, Vilhelm. You don’t do business vith dat man. No.”
“I know. Heard people talking. But it’s a short loan. Six months at most until the sows are ready to be sold and chicks can lay.” The bank wasn’t an option. The manager knew there was nothing left in the account, would never loan to a German, regardless. Campbell had cut off credit at the store. Between the bank and the general store, they had him in a choke hold and knew it, enjoyed watching him squirm.
“Frank Morton.” Mr. Mueller said the name as a conviction, leaned forward and bore with the intensity of a giant. “Dat man no good. No heart.” He thumped his chest.
“Don’t see I have much choice. Besides, he’s been kind to Eveline.” The words brought a heat to his hands that he didn’t expect. “His wife and sister-in-law have been good to us,” he corrected.
Heinrich stared at the carpeting between their feet. “I have some seed, Vilhelm. It not much but could give you an acre. From that, you vould have enough seed next year. It would be a hard year vithout, but a man goes through many hard years. Take the seed and make do. Work in town if you have to, but don’t go to Frank.”
“I won’t take your seed, Heinrich.” The man started to insist and Wilhelm held up a hand. “I won’t take it.” His chest puffed with decision. “I’ll think about what you said.”
Heinrich patted his shoulder sadly and stood. He cleared the air with a clap of his hands. “Now, you come and eat vith us, get warm and drunk, before your walk.”
Wilhelm ate with the family. He drank so much beer that the faces blurred and the voices slurred into one. He ate homemade blood sausage and spaetzle and roasted chicken and he ate until his pants cut into his waist. And he laughed. Forgot that he knew how to laugh. Laughed at the stories and the German songs that spewed out of Heinrich like soap from a washtub.
When Wilhelm left, the full moon, brightened as a lighthouse lamp, dyed the snow blue and sparkled. He was drunk and did not feel the cold, his footsteps uneven and curved from side to side so it looked like several men left footprints instead of one. And he walked with unbuttoned coat, sang at the top of his lungs the German songs that he didn’t even know the words to, and he felt alive with food and drink and didn’t care how long it would take to get home, didn’t even care if there was a home to get back to.
But he did get home and Eveline waited at the door in her night coat, her limbs stuttering in cold and anger. But Wilhelm, still happy with stout, stumbled toward his wife, who seemed so beautiful, and he puckered to kiss her sweet lips.
She slapped him hard and square across the cheek. “Do you know what time it is?” she screamed. “Been scared to death that you froze out there and here you come staggering in drunk and smelling of beer and gravy!”
He sobered now, the cold blasting, the songs and the waiting lips and the warmth of a cozy fire and friendly stories slapped away by her cold fingers. The dead twins screeched in his ears.