Part 16 (2/2)
”Why is that so funny? I know the words, but I just can't understand what they mean. I just hate feeling...not smart.”
”Exactly why it is amusing!”
I raised an eyebrow at him, irritated.
”It's a saying used when someone seems unusually quiet. It comes from an old punishment when the tongues were cut out of prisoners' mouths and fed to the cats.”
I looked at him in horror which only got him laughing again. I shuddered in disgust and handed him the other armful of laundry.
”Thank you. I'll need these.” He put the pile down next to his suitcase and started to pack. He glanced up at me. ”You do seem a little out of sorts lately.”
I ignored that remark. ”When are you coming back again?”
”I've told you three or four times. A few weeks. Why do you keep asking me?”
”Because it's always changing.” It was always getting longer.
”Well, I've heard Dr. Peter Marshall might attend.”
”Who is Peter Marshall?”
”He's a Scottish minister with an excellent preaching reputation. He pastors the church where Abraham Lincoln used to wors.h.i.+p, right in Was.h.i.+ngton D.C. Called New York Avenue Presbyterian Church.”
”A Presbyterian and a Scotsman. No wonder you want to meet him.”
”Aye, la.s.s. A winning combination,” he said, feigning a Scottish accent.
I threw a ball of socks at him from the pile of laundry on his bed. He caught it and tossed it into his suitcase, an uncontrollable grin spreading across his face. I sat down on the bed across from the suitcase. ”And you have a ride to the train station?”
”Yes. Judge Pryor said he could take me. We're leaving at dawn. He has some law business to do in Tucson and then I can leave the Hudson for you and Aunt Martha. You're going to start taking William to that Bisbee tutor, right?” He glanced up at me as he was putting clothes into his suitcase.
I nodded. ”First meeting is scheduled for next week.”
”I might talk to Judge Pryor about Mueller and the ring, Louisa. I just want you to promise to leave it alone until I get back.”
”I promise. I told you that,” I said, sounding a little more annoyed than I intended to sound.
He stopped packing and looked right at me. ”Are you all right?”
”I'm fine.”
”Have you heard some news about Dietrich?”
”No. Still no trial. He is getting some letters smuggled out. The warders and the guards are helping him, amazingly enough. They let him have visitors. But that's all that I've heard.”
”Are you worried about him?”
”Of course.”
”Is that why you seem so quiet lately?”
”I told you. I'm fine.”
”Not worried about Glenda?”
I shook my head.
”Or Mueller?” He eyed me with suspicion. ”You're not cooking up another crazy evil scheme that he's up to, are you?”
I frowned at him and stood up to leave. I was not interested in being preached a sermon about the pitfalls of an overactive imagination. I put one hand on the doork.n.o.b and turned back to him. ”I heard on the news this morning the Germans are withdrawing in Italy. And that's after surrendering in Crimea just a few days ago. Hitler is starting to get backed into Germany. Things are looking good for the war to end soon, don't you think?”
”It's certainly looking better. In Europe, anyway. We're still in for a long fight on the Pacific front, though.”
”You'll be back in two weeks?”
”Probably three. Maybe four.”
I shut the door behind me, holding on to the doork.n.o.b for a moment.
During the night, I woke up and couldn't get back to sleep, so I went downstairs to get one of Robert's thick theology books to read. That always did the trick to help me fall back asleep. He was in the parlor, sitting on the davenport, staring at the fire. I didn't expect him to be downstairs; I thought he had gone to bed hours ago.
”What are you doing up? I thought you were leaving early.” I curled up on the opposite end of the davenport.
”Same as you. Couldn't sleep,” he answered.
The fire crackled, warming the room with its dancing light.
”So...you're looking forward to this General a.s.sembly meeting?” I asked.
”Yes. I really am. They're creating an important report on a theology called dispensationalism.”
”Are you for or against it?”
”It's a little more complicated than that,” he said in that condescending tone I knew so well.
”I know, Robert. I've read about it. Dispensationalism believes in a literal interpretation of the Bible and makes careful distinctions between different periods of G.o.d's dealings with man.” I looked over at him. ”Does that cover it?”
Surprised, he answered, ”impressive scholars.h.i.+p, Miss Schmetterling.”
”Do you think I just borrow your big books to use as a doorstop?” I said, smiling, and turned back to watch the flickering flames of the fire. For a long stretch of minutes, we continued to sit without talking.
Then, without thinking first, I blurted out, ”it just won't seem the same while you're away.”
He reached over and took my left hand in his, weaving his fingers with mine. ”Louisa, I...”
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