Part 1 (2/2)

”I guess...I guess I don't really know. He said you were friends in seminary together.”

”Yes, we were. And I think I know why,” he answered decidedly. ”I think he trusts me. You are welcome to stay with us as long as you need a home.”

I searched his eyes, finding sincerity. Outwardly, I smiled. Inwardly, I felt the first sense of sheer relief since...well...I couldn't remember how long it had been. Months, perhaps. The truth was, I really didn't have a back-up plan of where to go or what to do had this man not extended the invitation to stay at his home.

As we crossed over one more hill, I saw a small town clinging perilously to the side of a mountain, as if defying gravity. The town looked as if it cascaded down a hillside of jumbled rock. Robert parked in front of a wood-framed church building covered with white peeling paint, belfry topping the tapered steeple.

”Here's the First Presbyterian Church of Copper Springs. That's my church. And my father's before me. And over there is the parsonage. Your home, too, for now,” he added. ”My office connects the two.”

I turned to see where he was pointing. The house was an old bungalow with steps leading up to a covered porch. It, too, had peeling white paint. The roof of a covered breezeway connected the church and the parsonage with a small room. Through the window I saw bookshelves lining the walls. Robert's office.

In front of the house was the neglected remnant of a garden. I couldn't help but think back to the beautiful gardens of Germany. Germans prided themselves on their fine gardens.

Robert held the screen door open for me as we walked inside the house. In the center of one wall was a ma.s.sive stone fireplace flanked by two large bookcases on each side, filled with thick books bearing important sounding t.i.tles. The afternoon sunlight filtered through the trees in front of the large picture window, causing shadows to dance on the wall.

Immediately, I loved this front room. It held a wisp of saintliness.

A tall, plain woman entered the room, wiping her hands on her ap.r.o.n. Her peppered hair was twisted up in a hard little knot held with two wire hairpins. She had a look on her face as if she had just swallowed a teaspoonful of vinegar.

”Louisa, this is my Aunt Martha. My father's sister. Aunt Martha, this is Louisa. Louisa Schmetterling. Our houseguest.”

It might have been my imagination, but he seemed to announce that to her, as if he was closing the subject. ”h.e.l.lo, Frau Gordon.” I reached my hand out.

With one arched eyebrow, she cautiously returned my handshake. ”Miss Gordon, Louise,” she corrected.

”Actually, my name is Louisa. With an 'a' on the end.”

Her eyebrow remained arched.

”And there is my son, William. He's peeking around the corner.”

A small, serious-looking boy poked his head around the door jam to peer at me.

I peered back. ”h.e.l.lo, William. How old are you?”

William stared at me with wordless curiosity.

”He's four-and-a-half,” volunteered Miss Gordon, as if it was one word.

Robert picked up my suitcase and offered to show me to my room. I followed him up the stairs. He showed me the bedroom that he slept in, a bunkroom for William, and Miss Gordon's room. There was a bathroom with a claw foot bathtub, a shower curtain circling around it, a toilet and a sink. Down at the end of the hall was the room where I was to stay. It had a small bed, a night stand, desk and chair, and a bureau.

Robert pointed to the window. ”The best view from the house is out your window.”

I looked out the window and saw a sheer wall of rusty red rock. The knot in my throat was rather sizable. His words struck me as a metaphor. The end of the road.

I slept in the next morning. Well, I didn't really sleep in. I stayed in bed hours after I woke, because I couldn't quite figure out what to do with myself. Plus, I was more than a little intimidated by Robert's aunt. And the bed felt heavenly. It had been weeks since I had last slept in a real bed. Finally, I dressed, went downstairs, and found Miss Gordon in the kitchen.

”I was beginning to think I should send William up to make sure you hadn't expired in the night,” she said dourly as she handed me a cup of coffee.

”The house is so quiet. Where is everyone?” I asked.

”It's nearly noon! Robert is a busy man; he went to the church hours ago.”

”Where is William?”

”Right behind you.”

I looked behind me and saw him, crouched on the rug in the parlor, coloring with Crayola crayons on a sheet of paper. I went over to him and asked if I could color with him. He didn't respond, so I sat down next to him, picked up the purple crayon, and started to draw.

I thought he must resemble his mother, because he didn't look anything like his father. William had sandy blond hair with a p.r.o.nounced cowlick in the center of his forehead and big blue eyes with thick blond lashes. Robert's and William's eyes were the only obvious resemblance they shared. But it wasn't the color, it was something else. Something behind their eyes.

I wondered about his mother. There was no mention of her last night by Robert or his aunt. There was no evidence that another woman lived in this home. Not even a family photograph.

”Do you like to color, William? I do.”

Miss Gordon whisked back into the kitchen as William and I colored. Ah, relief. The woman made me nervous. She did all of the right things, such as getting me fresh towels for a hot bath last night, but she carried an air of general disapproval.

I offered to help Miss Gordon around the house, but she refused my help. So I invited William to go on a walk with me and show me around.

”He won't talk to you,” she offered without elaborating.

”William, come show me the town?” I waved to him to come. He c.o.c.ked his head, looked at me, and jumped up to join me. I took his hand, and we started our tour of Copper Springs.

The streets of Copper Springs were laid out in a haphazard way, wiggling here and there, as if no one had antic.i.p.ated a town would eventually emerge. Telephone wires criss-crossed the streets, hanging like strings from abandoned kites.

The buildings were just as erratic as the streets. New, stately buildings looked out of place next to small, hastily built and badly sun-worn storefronts. Residences were curiously tucked in between business buildings. And there were staircases, from the street, leading up to teetering cottages on the precarious ledges of the hillsides.

”William, imagine anyone carrying groceries up fifty stair steps to their home!” His blue eyes appeared suddenly larger, as if he was seriously considering the notion.

Only a few buildings looked as if they intended to be around for a while. The red brick bank, an obviously young building, had a Roman temple portico in front. Over the columns there was a bold proclamation: The First National Trust of Copper Springs. ”Now there's a name people can have confidence in,” I said to him.

We pa.s.sed by one lonely public telephone box. Gazing at the telephone box filled me with a sudden wave of nostalgia. Oh, the many times I had stealthily slipped into a similar box in Berlin, heart hammering, to deliver a message of a plot or to let someone know information had been conveyed. A strange part of me missed the thrill, the excitement, even the danger, of being part of Resistance Work. Now, I thought with an absurd twinge of self-pity, I didn't even know a soul in America to call.

Robert called to us as we walked back past the church. ”I was just going home for lunch. Did you rest well?” he asked. Absentmindedly, he took William's hand, swinging it back and forth as we headed home.

”Yes, I really did. I just got up, I'm embarra.s.sed to admit.”

Miss Gordon had lunch waiting on the table. Meal preparation seemed to be her main preoccupation. Well, that and thoroughly sterilizing the house, as if the King of England was due any moment for an inspection.

<script>