To Keep the South Manitou Light

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59 “My land,” Mrs. Hostetler said when she opened the door to Jessie’s knock,“aren’t you a sight for sore eyes! Come in.” She ushered Jessie into the warm kitchen that always smelled like freshly baked bread. “It’s been a day for visitors.” Taking the basket Jessie held out to her, she said,“Now, now, your mother doesn’t always need to send a basket of goodies to us old people. But we do appreciate everything, the thoughtfulness, and seeing your sweet little face.” As was her custom, she kissed Jessie on both cheeks and gently pinched her nose. “Yes, Omie was here earlier, just wandering around outside. I couldn’t get her to come in, but you know how old Rolf growls at her.” Rolf, the Hostetlers’ collie, was wagging his tail so hard that his whole body wagged back and forth. Jessie knelt to scratch his ears and pet his silky back. “A good afternoon to you, Miss Jessie,” white-haired Mr. Hostetler said from his rocking chair by the fire. “Come sit over here. Warm yourself, child,” he said and motioned to the chair opposite him. Jessie had always thought the Hostetlers’ large farmhouse kitchen was the most comfortable room in the world. “You know Omie has been acting more strangely than usual lately,” Mrs. Hostetler said, tying a clean white apron over her skirt. 17 “If that’s possible,” Mr. Hostetler said, placing the book he’d been reading on the table beside his chair. “Oh, the poor woman,” Mrs. Hostetler said as she fussed about cutting slices of warm bread. “To think that someone— how many years ago was that Mr. Hostetler?—would just abandon her, with a young child, no less, here on this island.” She slathered the pieces of bread with butter. “Heaven knows, we’ve done what we could to help her, and so has your mother, Jessie. But a person has to accept the help that’s offered.” “And she’s not able to do that,” Mr. Hostetler cut in. “That’s not her fault, “ Mrs. Hostetler added. “Peach butter, Jessie?” she asked. At Jessie’s quick, “Yes, please,” she spooned her golden preserves onto the bread and arranged the slices on a plate, the blue willow one she knew Jessie liked. “Thank you, ma’am,” Jessie said, reminding herself to be ladylike and not just gobble the bread, as she wanted to, in a few large bites. “You’re very welcome,” Mrs. Hostetler said, stirring the cocoa that was coming to a boil on the stove. “If I remember right, Omie wasn’t nearly in such a world of her own when her little girl was living. They never did find the child’s body. The poor little thing just walked out onto the ice and disappeared. Sometimes I think Omie is still looking for her, expecting to find her still alive somewhere on this island. Jessie was her name, too. Did you know that, Jessie?” “Yes, ma’am, I think my mother told me a long time ago,” Jessie replied, starting on her second slice of bread. Mrs. Hostetler put a tray of three steaming cups on the table beside Jessie. “Here, let’s put some cream in this cocoa to cool it down a bit,” she said. The heat in the kitchen, the warm bread, Mrs. Hostetler’s chatter, and the smell of the cocoa had almost lulled Jessie to 60 sleep. This is the way things used to be at our house, Jessie thought, especially when Grandma was alive—apple pies, cinnamon rolls, pans of gingerbread. Was I eight or nine when she died? Mr. Hostetler’s deep voice interrupted her daydream. “How are you getting along down there at the lighthouse?” “All right, sir,” Jessie mumbled. It was a relief to Jessie that at least the Hostetlers knew about Granddad’s death. Even though almost the whole three-mile width of the island lay between their farm and the lighthouse, it was comforting to think of them as neighbors. Five and a half weeks ago, Mr. Hostetler had helped bury Granddad. The elderly man took his pipe out of his pocket. Removing the lid from his tin of tobacco, he scooped up the dry, sweetsmelling leaves and began tapping them into the pipe’s wooden bowl. “Well, Jessie,” he said, “it’s not as if your family hasn’t had its...