Chapter 2
C HAPTER 2
T O MY DAUGHTER MARY ,
Greeting you in Namen Jesu .
I am hoping this finds you well in body and spirit. I don’t know how that can be possible, given the way you define obedience, but I continue to pray.
Jemima has been down with the flu, so the house is filled with the smell of her onion plasters. I have learned what it takes to peel an onion. She seems to have it in her chest, but won’t see a doctor in spite of my urging.
We missed you at Christmas. I hope you know your place of business is now your idol, which you choose to worship instead of the true God.
Mary imagined herself prostrated in front of the bakery, praying to the sign.
You must repent, Mary, for the day draweth nigh. Daily, I see you in that color red, with the white apron, walking the way of the heathen. Daily, I pray for your repentance while you are still here on earth. My old heart is getting weaker. I am hastened to an early death on your account. Please come back, Mary. Come back to the blessed land of your family, take back the faith of Abraham, Isaac, and Moses. You have been scattered by every wind of untruth, have clung to the fables, and are not ashamed by it.
She folded the letter and stared vacantly into space until her heartbeat slowed to a more reasonable pace. Reopening it, she read on, her molars grinding unknowingly.
Dannie and Salome welcomed their ninth son. They named him Amos. A good Amish name, and only one. These middle names should not be tolerated, and the high-minded mothers who want them should be brought to task.
Salome is the salt of the earth, submissive to Dannie in all her ways, her price above rubies, as Proverbs tells us.
Mary imagined Salome as a pillar of salt, like Lot’s wife, her head piled with rubies. Homely, skinny Salome, her nose like a beaker, grateful to have a husband, especially one as tall as her.
If only you could realize the peace and happiness you forego, living in the hub of liberals, enjoying the lusts of the eyes, the jewels the world has to offer. My sister Lizzie must answer for this someday.
Every paragraph was marinated, skewered, and grilled in bitterness. His wounded pride ate big chunks out of his love and happiness, his goodwill and forgiveness toward her and every person who lived without his idea of righteousness.
He had enjoyed the status of good parenting, every one of his children walking uprightly in the sight of God, and Mary had brought him low. She knew this, had always known it.
He ended his letter with another plea for her to come to the light so her deeds could be made manifest. Jemima had written a sheet in her small, cramped style, but there was only her health, her work, and the weather. Housebound, coughing, she was looking forward to spring.
And Mary experienced an unexpected longing for spring in New York. After the long winter, when snow crystals clung in white heaps like frosting, dotting the thick layer of rotting brown leaves, a brave green shoot of dandelion emerged from beneath, questioning the bit of warmth from the sun. When the creeks ran full, ice and snow sliding down sharp ravines, melting into waterways until they doubled in size, the earthy tang of flood waters would fill her nostrils and inflate her spirit. The whole earth expanded and breathed as the sun smiled down on winter-weary souls finally digging into warmed soil.
There was a certain longing, a faint sadness at no longer experiencing this. Perhaps, she never would, no matter where she lived. Perhaps you only felt the thrill of spring in your youth.
After she’d read the letter, she folded it slowly, put it back in the envelope, and laid it on the end table. She threw herself back on the cushions of her loveseat, crossed her arms, and pouted.
She was angry. Her whole being protested. She put a foot on the coffee table, sent it sliding across the floor. She curled her fists, ran her knuckles down the side of her face. She wanted to sleep and sleep and sleep, anything to escape the roaring of her mind.
How could he judge her in this harsh light? How could anyone judge another person at all? A thousand questions tumbled and spun.
Would she ever get away from him, or would his words follow her to her grave? She shivered.
She must pray. She pressed the palms of her hands together, closed her eyes, and thought her prayer to God. She begged Him to show her the way, to send her encouragement or to warn her if her father might be speaking the truth. Her faith was not strong enough to wave away her father’s voice. Smothered, belittled, she felt too weary to resume her struggle, so she settled into a no-man’s-land, in a way, where there was nothing, no faith of hope or love, no doubts or fears of destruction. There was just nothing at all.
She considered the changes he required, which included selling the bakery. Could she find it in her heart to do this?
Without being aware of it, she was doing what she always did, taking each sentence apart, examining the contents and putting them in specialized compartments for agonizing over in the coming months.
There was only darkness now, a cold unforgiving void she had to endure. She got up, went to the window, and watched the lines of cars rushing by, the stars barely visible in the manufactured lighting from below.
And her heart broke into streams of tears from her eyes. She stood and allowed them to flow without restraint. The night blurred in a watery mass of headlights, stars, snow, and night sky.
She pictured the sharp contrast of mountain and night sky in New York where only the clear, white stars were visible. Closer, and so beautiful. She loved it most when a crescent moon hung low in the sky, and all the earth was soft and still.
But when the sun rose on reality, there was torn linoleum in filthy houses, babies born in rapid succession, overflowing diaper pails, and runny-nosed children in torn Tingley boots, an exhausted mother cooking yet another pot of bean soup to save on grocery dollars, a husband smelling to high heaven of cow manure and sour milk slopped onto his cheap black polyester trousers, his hair unwashed, his appetite for his wife never flagging.
She could not live like that.
C HESTER NOLT BECAME a regular, and before she knew what was happening, she began to look forward to seeing his wide, friendly face. He was always the same, filled with a strange, bubbling happiness, a love of life and everyone around him. He always talked to Mary, but never mentioned the interview again, and for that, she was grateful.
One morning, however, he came up to the register and asked if she’d like to come to their spring recital at church.
“You mean, go with you and your wife?”
“No, I don’t have a wife. Just you. Go with me.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Wouldn’t that be strange?”
“Why would it be strange? We’re only friends. We’re both a bit older. I respect you being Amish. What’s wrong with it? I just think you would really enjoy it. You seem like the kind of person who would enjoy the poetry, the worship of God in spring.”
She felt flattered that he thought she might enjoy poetry. Did she seem a bit of an intellectual? She certainly wasn’t simple and had always thought it might be the reason she couldn’t live like her siblings.
“Let me think about it.”
She told the girls, who smirked and nodded, said they’d seen it coming. A guy didn’t come in three or four times a week without some motive other than doughnuts.
“No, it’s not like that. I’m Amish. He’s not. Nothing can come of it.”
“It could,” Karen said quickly.
Marianna nodded. “People leave for different reasons.”
“It’s only to enjoy the recital. He said so himself.”
Karen rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and the moon is made of green cheese. But you know, it could work. He’s not bad. Not bad at all. And neither are you. If you wore some foundation, a bit of powder, and darken your lashes with mascara, you could be a knockout.”
Mary stopped in her tracks.
“Now Karen, I know where to draw the line. I am not, as you put it, a ‘knockout.’”
Karen lifted her face and laughed, a flowing, uninhibited sound of glee that made Mary wish she could laugh like that more often.
S HE DRESSED IN a light spring green, sans the makeup, combed her hair with a careful eye, and sprayed a liberal amount of hairspray. She felt pretty. The evening was warm and mellow and beckoning. She told Lizzie she was going out with friends, and she nodded halfheartedly from her chair as she went out the door.
He drove a huge, cream-colored SUV, a vehicle unlike anything she’d ever ridden in. Who was this man? Withdrawn now, she sat as far away from him as possible and spoke only when he asked her a question.
She kept glancing surreptitiously in the half light from the dashboard and thought his profile rather neat, but of course, told herself it made no difference.
“You’re being unusually quiet this evening.”
“Well, your vehicle is scary.”
“What?” He turned to look at her. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. I know I’m Amish, but I know a 60,000-dollar vehicle when I see it. I don’t belong here.”
For a time, he said nothing, then he spoke quietly.
“See, Mary. I knew there was something different about you. Do you know how many girls would never be honest like that, but pretend to be someone they are not? Do you know how truly classy you are?”
She instinctively shook her head, denied the praise the way she’d always been brought up. Praise made people proud.
“At any rate, Mary, it’s refreshing. And since we’re not romantically involved, we can say whatever we want, right?”
“Right.”
The church was a sprawling red brick building with a lighted sign on a brick base with Hope Mennonite Church in black letters. The gravel parking lot was almost full, with families and young people standing around, waiting till it was time to enter the church.
He parked at the far side, turned off the engine, and waited.
“I’ll be the only Amish girl.”
“I doubt it. Lots of friends show up for this recital. It’s quite good.”
He watched her face, but she seemed to be scowling at some inner thought. He noticed she drew her purse to her lap and rummaged in it, then seemed to have found the necessary item.
“I cry easily, so I needed to check my Kleenex supply.”
“That’s alright. I think tears are a sign of a soft heart.”
“Huh.”
“What?”
“You don’t know me at all.”
“Why?”
“You just don’t.”
“Well, that’s true—this is the first time I’ve seen you outside of your bakery, so of course I don’t really know you yet. But we’re only friends, so I’m not worried about it. No rush, no pressure. Right?”
“That’s right.”
“And there’s no reason we can’t enjoy each other’s company at a church recital.”
“Right.”
When they noticed groups drifting toward the opened door of the church, he opened his door and came around to hers. He extended a hand, and she took it, stepping down easily. Immediately, he let go, and she was grateful.
She was greeted warmly, handed a program of the evening, then ushered into the church.
He told her they normally sat men on one side, women on the other, but at recitals or plays, they sat as a group. She nodded agreement to the back row, where they would not be noticed. Both knew tongues would wag, that everyone would assume they were dating.
A burst of joyous hymn opened up the recital, with a group of teenagers dressed in spring colors coming together in rapid succession, before facing the audience and continuing their praise. It was heart-stoppingly beautiful, and Mary felt her throat tighten. She blinked in desperation to stop the flow of tears, but knew it was futile. As quietly as possible she drew tissues from her purse and held them to her nose. He never turned his head.
When they launched into the old favorite, “Up from the Grave He Arose,” she was drawing ragged little breaths and shaking inwardly. The sheer beauty of it lifted her to new heights of she knew not what. She honestly didn’t know. She only knew her soul was stirred like never before.
When she wiped her eyes and dabbed at her nose, he did look over, but she didn’t realize.
He saw the trembling of her chin, her whole face revealing the inward stirring of emotion. After the singing, when a pretty young girl recited a poem she had written, Mary was leaning forward, her face rapt with wonder, her lips parted as she breathed in the words of the poem.
The hour came to an end too quickly. Mary felt a sense of loss, knowing she would never recapture this amazing spirit lifting again. She would have to contain it somehow, perhaps ask Chester how it could be accomplished.
But that might be too personal.
“They are serving cake and ice cream in the basement, Mary.”
She shook her head. “People will talk. Could we just get a cup of coffee somewhere?”
“Of course. Good idea.”
Again, he put her in the passenger seat, then went around to the driver’s side. She clicked the seat belt in place, sat back, and breathed deeply.
He backed the vehicle out before asking if she enjoyed the show. Mary told him she’d honestly never experienced anything like it.
“I’ve only attended German hymn singings in my life, which are beautiful in their own way, but common everyday singing. This music transcended my spirit, something I don’t understand. I think maybe the closest thing to this was standing on the mountain in Pinedale, New York, in spring, when the beauty around you is almost too much.”
“Is that your vacation spot?”
“You mean . . . New York? No. I was born and raised there.”
“An Amish settlement?”
“Mm-hm.”
“So what brought you here?”
“It’s complicated.”
He sensed her discomfort and changed the subject for the time being.
“Where would you like to get a cup of coffee?”
“Doesn’t matter. I’m not well acquainted with eating places.”
“Well, here’s Denny’s, but the clientele this time of the evening is questionable. Let’s try this little place called Jane’s.”
They both ordered coffee with cream, then sat together in a green upholstered booth. He seemed larger sitting across from her, and she saw how the cowlick in his hair created the absence of bangs.
He looked at her in the dim single shaded cone of light and thought he’d never seen hair quite that color. He wondered what it would look like, undone. But he was a man, and that kind of thinking was dangerous territory.
“So tell me, Mary, what brought you to Lancaster?” He tried again, gently.
“Um, my aunt needed surgery, so I was sent to help her.”
“That doesn’t sound complicated.”
“It wasn’t. Not that part.”
She took a sip of her coffee, then began pleating and unpleating her napkin, her eyes downcast, her brow furrowed.
“Well, you’ve clearly done well for yourself.”
“Yes. It appears so.”
An awkward silence ensued. He waited. Her hands were lightly sprinkled with freckles, the restless fingers worrying the napkin.
Suddenly, she looked at him and blurted, “My family in New York is ultra-conservative, and I am a child of disobedience unless I repent.”
Incredulous, he gaped at her. “What are you talking about?”
“That.”
She toyed with a napkin, drank coffee, pushed her mug around as if it would help to alter her tumbling thoughts.
She told him her story. Chester was a good listener, attentive, encouraging, so she talked on, holding a clean tissue to her nose or eyes, her closeted emotions bursting through the lock.
“You see, I am living a life that disappoints my father. And he says no blessing will ever rest on my soul. So I kick all that aside, like troublesome garbage, and forge ahead doing what I love most, which is the bakery. But always, his threats are there, unsettling, vicious, like chained dogs lunging at their ties.”
For a long time, Chester was silent. So long, in fact, Mary thought she might have angered him.
“You know, Mary, there’s this idea among many Christians that the Amish aren’t saved, which I have never believed personally. But no matter, your father reminds me of many people in all walks of life. What so many lack is the knowledge that every man’s conscience has different levels, different ways of directing the person.”
Mary looked troubled, perplexed.
“That confuses you, right?”
She nodded, her brow knitted with worry.
“Okay, is it truly wrong in your own conscience to own a bakery and live in Lancaster?”
“No. Well, yes. I don’t know.”
She was biting her lower lip now, twisting the napkin in restless fingers, her coffee forgotten.
“You don’t know, with your father’s words so deeply ingrained.”
“Yes. I mean, I’m never free. I am always chained to his voice. His letters.”
“He writes?”
She nodded. “As do my sisters and brothers.”
“So, you’re considered an outcast?”
“Of sorts. I’m not excommunicated, not in the way people are when they choose alternative churches. It’s just . . . well, I’m disobedient.”
He leaned back, watched her as one expression then another flickered over her face. The waitress brought the coffee pot, but they shook their heads.
Mary glanced at the round white clock above the door. Past ten.
She had an urge to leave, to get away from this man she really didn’t know, and who was firing uncomfortable questions. He had no right.
He watched the discomfort on her face, the way she kept glancing at the clock.
He sighed. “Well, Mary, it’s getting late. You have church tomorrow?”
She nodded, her eyes downcast.
“Then we’ll get you home.”
They did not speak on the return trip. As they neared her home, she became self-conscious, afraid she had said or done something wrong.
“Thank you for going with me. I appreciate it, and I enjoyed your company. I’ll be around at the bakery. It’s addictive.”
Mary smiled in the dim interior of the car. So she hadn’t really made a mistake, or was he only being polite?
“Thank you. I was thrilled to hear the singing. I have never heard anything quite like it.”
As he turned in the driveway, Mary felt a hot rush of shame. How stilted she was, how old-fashioned and formal. And all the painful aspects of her embarrassing life in New York. How had he managed to siphon them out of her?
She put her hand on the door latch, suddenly eager to be away from him, to gulp fresh air and have her feet on solid ground.
Her father’s words rang in her ears, the dire threats of being misled, the old familiar bile rising in her throat.
He came around to her side of the vehicle. Her stomach churning, she told him a hasty goodbye in a strangled voice, sounding strange to her own ears. She pushed past him and walked away.
In the safety of the kitchen, she realized she would be sick and rushed to the bathroom, the nausea overtaking her.
After wiping her mouth, she flushed the commode, then made her way to the sink, reaching for the Listerine. A tap on the door, Aunt Lizzie calling softly, “Mary?”
“I’m alright.”
“Can I come in?”
When there was no answer, she heard her aunt move away. Peering at her white face, Mary felt disgust—her red splotched cheeks, the unruly red hair, her whole life nothing but a huge mistake made up of bad choices.
Aunt Lizzie put the kettle on for a cup of tea, waiting till Mary appeared, shamefaced, the guilt wracking her features in the dreaded gripping anxiety she had come to fear. Questioning would do no good, so she turned her back to fiddle with the tea bags.
A sigh, a soft defeated sound as she lowered herself into a chair.
Lizzie stayed silent. Another sigh.
“You can go to bed,” Mary said hoarsely, clearing her throat. She coughed, blew her nose. The kettle began its high whistle.
Lizzie brought two cups of chamomile tea, placed one in front of Mary, then sat down opposite.
“Tell me, are you ill, Mary?”
It was the kindness in her voice smashing her defenses that made her lower her face and catch her lip as she struggled for control.
She shook her head, the emotion in her throat choking her voice.
Taking up her spoon, she worried the tea bag, not seeing or caring about the tea or the fact her aunt had provided it. For a long moment, there was only silence, the clock on the wall ticking steadily, the tea kettle pinging as it cooled.
Finally, Mary exhaled, a long whoosh of soft breath, before grabbing the mug with both hands and shaking her head.
“I don’t know,” she said hoarsely.
Lizzie gave her a penetrating look, but kept her peace.
“I just don’t know. I don’t know anything about anything.”
Lizzie shot her an anxious look. What had occurred during the night that caused this meltdown? Fear gripped her mind.