My mind filled in the gaps with images of what he’d told me—of the accident at the mill, and his selling pencils on the street, and Peter having to pay most costs for them; of how they’d stayed in a cheap lodging house until Peter was fired from the mill for protesting his rough treatment by the more skilled workers; then, for seven cents a night, they’d slept in a long room of beds made of fabric strips suspended between boards. To raise money for a better place, Peter joined a gang of day laborers from that lodging house, and Johan traveled farther on foot to buy his pencils at a discount, and spent more hours selling them each day.
By this time, Johan had seated himself beside me on the mattress, and Charlotte was asleep on a blanket. I joined my eyes to his.
“Now will thee marry me?” he said, leaning closer, so that I felt his warmth.
There had been no grand time in Pittsburgh of thriving and exploring, as I’d imagined. And Johan had been truthful about his letters. But I retained one stubborn reservation.
“Why did thee stay away? Thee should have returned to find out why I never answered.”
Johan looked to his damaged hand, his expression not self-pitying but ashamed.
What lies at the root of a man’s shame? Perhaps his failure to serve a cause, to perform the roles he’s given.
He rubbed the scar as he spoke and shook his head side to side. “I had nothing to offer. I left to set things up for us, and all I could do was stand on the sidewalk and hawk pencils.”
“So the will was sucked out of thee.” I saw a strange picture. “By life’s giant mouth!”
He smiled wanly. “That, and maybe—maybe I already doubted that thee could love me.”
“Doubted? I would have married thee here,” I said. “We should have gone to Pittsburgh together. Thee treated me as if I was baggage to send for.”
But blame can often be justified only by a partial view. I’d permitted myself to be treated like baggage, as if I couldn’t strike out on a journey without his consent.
“Thee could have written the truth to me,” he replied, “instead of writing Peter. Why didn’t thee?”
I searched his face. How certain I’d been that he’d tricked me. Or had I been certain? I recalled that vision I’d had of him, downcast and beseeching. I asked, “Would thee have come back?”
“Would I have—?” His voice broke. “Without thy news, I didn’t dare. But with it? If I’d known that thee needed me, that we had a child? Absolutely.”
Look how our corresponding burdens of doubt and shame had kept us in our private hells. Father had set these wheels in motion by hiding Johan’s letters, yes. But we’d continued their turning.
I wanted to weep. We might have embraced. But Peter came back then, walking through the door to our one room with an exhausted stoop, his hands and clothing stained with ink. He sank to the floor to remove his boots, and I apprised him of the day’s occurrences.
“Did Father apologize for holding back the letters?” he asked.
“He admitted to doing wrong.” A pang came as I said this. No matter that I craved his apology, to receive it was bittersweet. A giant of my younger years was proven, after all, a man.
“That hardly helps,” said Johan. He stood up from the mattress. “He ruined our lives.”
“No.” Peter turned to Johan. “It was thy carelessness that caused the ruin. How could thee take liberties with my sister—and leave her behind?”
“I didn’t think—”
“Thee didn’t think.”
“Neither did I,” I argued. “The fault was both of ours.” I said this, but I was glad when Peter pushed further.
“Whose idea was it, to draw so close”—Peter spit the next words—“to copulate before you parted, without marrying first?”
We all blushed pink.
“I suggested it,” said Johan, his face downcast. “I invited her to my room. I pressed her.”
“I refuse to regret it.” I pointed at Charlotte on the blanket beside me.
Slowly Johan shook his head. “I don’t regret her.”
My brother couldn’t bear us. “What’s all this mawkishness?” He began to pace the painted wood floor. “From what I’ve heard, the baby almost died at the almshouse. Lilli could have perished with her on the street, even been murdered or badly abused.” He lowered his tone. “I’m sure there’s some abuse she isn’t telling.”
I shut my eyes briefly against their stinging. He knew me well.
“All because this fellow”—he jabbed toward Johan—“is too much of a dreamer to see the possible effects of his actions.”
“Thee sounds like thy father,” Johan observed.
“Well, in this case, Father’s right.” Peter stepped to his pile of belongings on the floor and pulled out an envelope, withdrawing a photograph and waving it before my face. “I left her behind to come find thee. Anyway, her mother wouldn’t let her see me after I lost my work. But I’m going to visit once I’m good and settled here.” He handed me the picture. “And we didn’t do the careless thing that thee and Johan did.”
I looked at the young woman. It appeared she had light brown hair. Her clothing and manner were free from vanity. There was a pleasant press to her lips, and her face held an eager, honest look. “What’s her name?”
“Meredith Henson. I think thee will like her.”
“I believe I will.” I stood and kissed his cheek. “This is happy news!”
Yet I couldn’t help but feel stung at how easily my younger brother judged himself superior.
Seventh Month 5
Father sent a letter by post. “It’s too late to defend against thy disgracing,” he wrote. “But Peter mustn’t live with thee and Johan. Tell him he’s welcome here, and I’ll employ him again. I need his help. Tell him.”
Inside his letter was tucked something far sweeter, an envelope that bore these words in Mother’s calligraphic hand: For my daughter, to be opened on the occasion of her marriage.
She must have written it a few days before her death, after receiving her leading that Johan and I should marry. With a shiver of joy and grief, I tucked the envelope into this notebook, until the time to read it should arrive.
“She wanted us together,” Johan said. He leaned and kissed my forehead as I wept.
Seventh Month 7
Last evening brought a surfeit of sweetness.