ATOP Chapter Twenty-Eight

The aforementioned path meandered on through the woods a mile or two and ended at a little A-frame log cabin with eaves that reached to the ground. Picture windows covered the front. A giant and ancient elm tree overshadowed it and so surrounded was the house with elms and oaks and poplars that it was quite dark in the lawn, although it was a bright, sunshiny day. It gave the entire place such an air of mystery and allure. The path narrowed here to wind over a little wooden bridge that crossed a bubbling brook, and traced all the way to the front door. On the other side of the path lay an enormous garden, overladen with enough fruits and vegetables to sustain an entire farmer's market.

Rachel was so charmed that she simply could not resist knocking on the front door. There was no answer, so she knocked again after a few moments. From deep within, she heard an answering voice... a somewhat gravelly, impatient, rattly old voice.

"I heerd ya, I heerd ya, now hold yer horses, I'm a'coming!"

A few moments more passed and through the glass door, Rachel caught sight of an elderly woman, short and somewhat stout, with a gruff expression on her face as she walked towards the door. She was bent slightly forward at the waist and paused to lean on the couch a moment and catch her breath. She had a tiny knot of mostly silver hair at the nape of her neck, with a few threads of gold in it, and she wore a faded cotton-print dress of pale purple with, of all things, a teddy bear appliqued over her heart, on the right side. And a teddy bear with a large yellow sunflower in its paw, no less.

She pushed the door open on squeaky hinges and Rachel suddenly felt very nervous. The woman looked something of a... grouch. But then she met a pair of the kindest blue eyes... very pale blue... behind gold-rimmed spectacles... and they twinkled merrily at her. Rachel felt instantly at ease. Those eyes marked a kindred spirit if there ever was one, and she knew the woman's gruff exterior could never daunt her again.

"Well, good morning," the woman grinned, and it transformed her. She seemed suddenly a creature of the best humor. "What do you want?"

"I... my name is Rachel Stewart, and I..." she got no further. The grin widened.

"Oh, so you're the girl Ronnie married, why didn't you say so before? Why come in, come in..." she opened the door wider and all but herded Rachel in. "Been meaning to get down to yer place and get to know you, all neighborly-like, bring some of my raspberry jam and beet cake, oh the jam goes so well with the cake, there's nothing better, and I've made ya an afghan that I keep meaning to take to ya, but oh, you know how it goes. And Lyle won't quit bringing in them green beans, I tell him and tell him, we've got more than enough, good grief, there's only the two of us, but he just never listens and I've got more than I can handle. Did you know girl, I put up one hundred and ten pounds of blueberries? I declare... what are we gonna do with them berries I just don't know, but Lyle eats them with his oatmeal every morning, says they keep him good looking. Ha! I told him he'd better start eating more of them." at that she paused to chuckle. During the entire monologue, her voice had gone from low and gravelly and ascended up into something of a high whiny tone only to drop back to gravelly again. 

They were in the kitchen now, a very neat and cozy little kitchen, having passed through a large and dimly lit living room with a vaulted ceiling, the walls all lined with every manner of mysterious curiosities that simply begged for further inspection. 

"Sit down, my dear, take a load off yer feet..." she chuckled again. "Not much of a load though, I declare, you're skinny as a stick, there's nothing to ya! Real pretty though. Look at all that thick black hair... yer like a picture, girl," she smiled appreciatively. "You tell that Ronnie of yours that he's got real good taste. Here, I've got ice cold mint tea, Lyle grew it, there's buckets of it in that fool garden, here take that glass and let me get you a slice of my beet cake. Would you like raspberry jam? It's homemade, pretty good stuff. Any whipped cream? I have some fresh. Oh, my dear, I am so glad you came, here's your cake, Lyle's so busy with all his fool projects, it gets awful lonesome and quiet in here... and I just can't wait to show you your afghan, such a pretty design and I did it all in real handsome blues and grays. It's my shell pattern, one of the prettiest I have. Oh, have I even told you my name? Getting more forgetful every day, tain't easy getting old, mark my words! I'm Lynette Krupp, call me Netty, everyone does, here's your whipped cream and the jar of jam, help yourself, be real generous now, you need to get some meat on them bones, if a child comes along, you'll want to be healthy, mark my words!"

Having handed Rachel a china plate that would have revealed a pattern of purple flowers if not covered with an overly-large slice of the aforementioned cake with jam and cream, Netty sat back heavily in a rocking chair that squeaked noisily, and sighed in relief. There was a brief space of silence here in which Rachel could have spoken, but she wasn't sure what exactly to say. So she simply ate cake instead.

"Ya like it?" at Rachel's enthusiastic nod, Netty beamed. "I'll get ya the recipe. Real good way to use up them extra beets... and Ronnie likes it too, many's the time when he was a boy that he came over here for a piece of it... don't s'pose he ever told you the story of the time he was in awful trouble... can't remember what for, exactly... but he got sent up to his room without supper. Eight or nine years old, he was. And what does that boy do but climb out his window and come sneaking over here in the dark! The dark and the rain, to boot! I remember that day like 'twas yesterday... Lyle was gettin' up a racket in his music room back there with his squeak-box... accordian, I think it's called, but it's a squeak-box, one an' the same. I was sitting right here, just like I do most nights, just trying to listen to the rain on the roof and not the squeak-box. And there was Ronnie-boy, a'knocking on the door, all soaking wet and looking like he was half-starved. Well, how was I s'posed t'know he was being punished? I brought him in and sat him down by the fire and ransacked the fridge to give him a feast. Finished it up with a giant slice of that beet cake, and he's loved it ever since. Tried to send him one when he was overseas, but never found out if he got it or not. Do me a favor and ask him for me." She paused to chuckle reminiscently and here Rachel had another chance to get a word in edge-wise. But she didn't even attempt it.

"Now just listen to me a' jawing on like an old crow... I declare... Lyle always says I talk too much, but he is a man, and men don't know much about talking, but maybe there's some merit in that after all. Anyway. Do me a favor, honey, and scoot that basket over here where I can reach it and then just you tell me all about yourself. Don't worry none 'bout tiring me out, I want all the details. I'm a good talker, but then I'm a good listener, just try me and see."

Rachel scooted over the indicated basket and hesitated in silence a moment or two as Netty flipped open the basket lid and pulled out a lovely length of crocheting in a swirling pattern of warm reds and yellows and browns... autumn glory in comfortable homey style. This strange little woman was an artist of textiles as well as of the kitchen. She began stitching away in a slow, relaxed sort of way as if she had all the time in the world and rocked to the rhythm of her needle as Rachel began her first few halting words. Netty interrupted her six or seven words into it to say,

"Real pretty accent you've got. Sounds like music..." she smiled companionably and Rachel took courage. She launched into her story full-force and the minutes flew swiftly by, shaping into hours as Rachel recounted her happy childhood, the uncertainty of her early teenage years, her marriage to Isaac, the death of her parents, the separation from her precious sisters, losing Isaac, the birth of Benjie... her voice faltered now and again, and tears came to her eyes. As often as she retold that painful, bittersweet story, it never hurt any less. Netty proved to be as good as her word. She listened beautifully, only interrupting here and there to murmur such things as "Oh, you precious girl"; "Bless your poor heart"; and "There, dearie, just cry it out, it's all right. Here's a hankie."

Rachel stammered through her meeting with Ronnie, the short time in the refugee camp, her wedding, and finally her arrival in America. Before she knew it, she was pouring her heart out about the trouble with Ronnie, how she had tried to get through to him, how she didn't know what to do... 

"I'm losing him," she faltered, and, abruptly, she ran out of words. Netty set her afghan carefully aside and heaved herself slowly out of her armchair. 

"I'm not much good at hugs, but you look like you could use one," and then she proved that she was indeed good at them as she wrapped Rachel in a warm embrace. "There, dearie, feel better? It's one o' those things of life that don't make much sense... but it does sorta take a burden off your soul to cry it all out to someone, doesn't it?" she smiled. "Maybe that's what that Ronnie of yours needs. Always was a quiet one, wasn't he..." she let her voice trail off a moment and then she spoke up briskly. "Now. I s'pose you'll want to be getting along home, so why don't you come and get that afghan I made for you... it's here in the back room, it's where I keep all my stash of yarn and such, it's like Lyle's music room. We each have our own peculiar haunt... now you take this afghan and the rest of this cake, and I'll get you a half-gallon of soup and a loaf of bread for your supper so's you won't have to worry 'bout cooking just tonight, and then you get on home to your husband and little one, eh?"

Rachel wended her homeward way with a lighter heart and something akin to a spring in her step.