Chapter 4
C HAPTER 4
T HE PHONE MESSAGE WAS CLEAR AND PRECISE.
“You must come home, Mary. As soon as possible. Our father fell from the house roof. His condition is grave.”
Mary took a deep breath to steady herself and replaced the receiver. She breathed reluctance. It oozed out of her pores. Her whole being resisted.
No, God. Not now. Don’t require this of me now.
The rest of the evening at the youth gathering had been surprisingly good, and Mary had come home feeling more hopeful than she had in ages. She replayed the scene in her mind. She’d been sitting quietly along the wall, watching as Anna filled a paper plate with tortilla chips and salsa, a few chocolate chip cookies, balancing two glasses of sweet tea.
“Hello, again.”
Turning her head, her breathing stopped when she saw it was him. No words formed, so she nodded, the beginning of a smile formed.
“You’re very good at volleyball.”
“Thank you, but I was a bit rusty.”
“Same here. What’s your name?”
“Mary Glick.”
“Glad to meet you, Mary.”
He tilted sideways, extended a hand. Mary took it. A strong grip, and then her hand was let go.
“I’m Steve. Steve Riehl.”
She nodded.
“Are you from around here?”
“I live with my aunt along 340. Just out of Intercourse.”
“So, you’re not from the Lancaster area?”
Thankfully, Anna appeared, handing Mary a cup of sweet tea. Mary took a sip, welcoming the moisture in her dry mouth.
“What are you up to, Steve?”
“Talking to your friend Mary.”
Anna gave him a look bordering on secrecy, or conspiracy, she couldn’t be sure. Whatever it was, it wasn’t meant for her.
“Mary’s from a settlement in New York. A place called Pinedale.”
At these words, Mary shrank back against the wall, feeling herself becoming small and smaller until she was a pinhead, wishing she could evaporate into thin air.
“Never heard of it.”
She breathed again.
Lots of small talk ensued, and Mary had time to take in Steve’s features. She took note of his large, tanned hands with clean nails, a face lined with more years than the average teenager at these gatherings, long blond hair, and small, twinkling eyes too dark to be blue, but too blue to be green or brown. He was husky, with a restless energy and a quick mind.
He loved the wilderness and hunting, felt a bit stifled in Lancaster, but here was where he worked, so he stayed.
“Mary owns a bakery in Lancaster,” Anna replied.
“You do? I’ll have to come check it out.”
Jones inserted his presence and that was the last of the conversation. There had been no goodbyes, no promises to see you later, just a steady moving away through the throng of teenagers.
Mary was quiet on the way home, acutely aware of her own shameful attraction. Again. Why was she setting herself up for disappointment? Any romantic feelings she had experienced in the past were like the first purple crocus of spring, poking up from half-warmed soil, eager, hopeful, so delicate, only to be trampled underfoot by fate. There was no reason to think things would ever be different.
And now the untimely summons to her father’s bedside.
She groaned. She paced. She lifted her hands in the air, palms up, and asked God why. Why now?
But she shared the news with her aunt, packed her bags, gave the girls at the bakery instructions, hired a driver, and left.
After a while the congested areas thinned and the mountains came into view, a distant blue haze, and then they were moving on up into the Adirondacks. She asked if she could open her window a bit, then caught the scent of mountain laurel. A purple haze along another ridge revealed the bursting buds of the small misshapen Judas trees, as her mother had called them.
In spite of having to face this catastrophe at a time she least wanted to go, she consoled herself with the thought of being in New York in spring, the sights and scents an explosion of beauty. She reasoned that perhaps God was sparing her another letdown, another disappointment, and the life-sucking heartache of having failed again.
They crossed bridges above rivers and creeks, wound through mountains and ridges with waterfalls splashing in sunlight, and she caught glimpses of flocks of geese flying in Vs, birds flying in synchronized flight patterns across azure skies.
But as they neared New York, her heart plummeted, her stomach churned. Nausea rose in her throat. She took deep cleansing breaths to steady herself, but had to ask the driver for a restroom stop before depositing her lunch.
Outwardly calm, her insides raged. She sipped a Coke, tears forming unbidden. She did not want to return. It was so simple.
She felt an aversion to the idea of her father, lying in sark , that state of having to be attended to. She had no idea in what shape she would find Jemima, and who would expect what from her.
But no matter her thoughts, no matter the sacrifice, she knew this was her duty. The family would expect her to do as she was told, and that was that.
As the van wound down the curving road leading to their home, Mary closed her eyes and prayed for strength. Her parents lived on Abner’s farm now, with Jonas taking over the home place, such as it was, facing a mountain, tucked into steep ridges with rocky soil washing away easily. Amos Glick had squeezed a scant livelihood out of the depleted hillside, raising his eleven children on the bare minimum and God’s tightfisted grace. Amos and Jemima had built a small white house on Abner’s property, a daudy house, the house every aging person was eventually kept in near a relative’s home. Sometimes the house was attached to the spacious farmhouse, called living double, or s’ anna ent , “the other side.” In this case, their home was just cross the yard from Abner’s house.
A MOS’S FAITH WAS entrenched in deep personal sacrifice, the hoisting of a heavy cross, and obedience to the ordnung . Any doctrine smacking of liberalism was whacked down with austere measures. But for all of that, his intentions were honorable, his faith sincere, and he had done well for his children, he thought.
Except Mary . He couldn’t escape this thought. Mary was the thorn in his flesh, the cross he must bear. And lying in pain, he figured the Hand of God had moved a significant chess piece in his favor, bringing Mary to the bekentniss der vohrheit , that area of seeing the truth. Yes. He would enjoy the fruits of his prayers before he died.
With broken ribs, a jammed knee, bruises everywhere, and two toes all but ripped away when his foot hit the cement, he was in significant discomfort. Jemima was too old to tend to his needs adequately, and the rest of the children had their own families to care for. They were needed at home, so there was no reason Mary could not do her share.
Amos closed his eyes, opening them frequently to check the clock, calculating the time she should be arriving.
M ARY CRANED HER neck, her eyes hungrily taking in the astounding changes made on the farm. So many childhood memories, so many pleasant times, in spite of the exhausting rules.
Redbud trees, dogwoods, cherry all bloomed in opulent profusion, the lawns covered with windblown petals. Tulips waved in the ever-blowing wind like hula dancers, daffodils crumpling at brown edges, their dance over, their energy going back into the bulb.
Along the creek in the pasture, the watercress grew and multiplied, with mallard ducks paddling among it, grabbing tender mouthfuls.
Mary paid the driver after the tires crunched across gravel and stopped. She thanked them, wished them a safe trip home, and said yes, she’d be sure to call when she was ready to return. Hopefully it would be very soon.
She lifted the packs out of the back and made her way up the cement walk. Abner’s farm had barely changed, the old siding turning from white to gray on the house, the peeling paint on the barn becoming only occasional, laughable shreds.
But the fences were in good repair, the cows were well managed, and the mules fed, so that was something. And the daudy house looked sturdy and fresh compared to the other buildings.
Straw-hatted boys stopped their play to stare open mouthed, and little girls sitting on downturned plastic buckets hid their faces behind doll blankets. She was ashamed to realize she had no idea what their names were. Benuel? Sarah? She had lost track.
She knocked softly. The door opened immediately.
Jemima peered through the screen.
“Mary.”
It was a statement, certainly not an exclamation.
“Hello, Mima.”
“Can’t you call me ‘Mam’?”
“Yes. I can, of course.”
“Then I wish you would.”
She looked in and saw a hospital bed, a thin, sallow face against white sheets, the long strings of gray white hair pasted to her father’s skull, his eyes sunken, the dentureless mouth a misshapen hole in his loose jowls.
Mary repressed a shudder and made herself walk to his bedside.
“How are you, Dat?” she asked softly.
In answer, he closed his eyes and rocked his head from side to side. Mary looked at Mima, who clasped her hands on her stomach and shook her head.
“Why isn’t he in the hospital?”
“We felt we could take care of him here.”
Mary felt the impatience well up. “You mean you thought I could take care of him here.”
“Now don’t start. It’s time you took your responsibility seriously. We need you.”
All the resentment she’d managed to stuff into the past came roaring back, crowding out any affection she may have had.
Pushing past Jemima, she asked where she was supposed to sleep.
“We have a very small guest room, but it is a room, so you’ll have that, at least.”
Mary failed to hear the apology in her voice as she opened the door to find a double bed, a row of hooks, and a small antique dresser. A calendar was hung above the bed, a glossy photograph of a gray kitten with pink roses. The walls were painted a high-gloss sky blue, with braided rugs on the floor in shades of purple and black. The quilt was an old Sunshine and Shadow pattern, in every brilliant color, the quilting done in tiny black stitches.
Everything was immaculate, but the scent of mothballs was stifling.
“May I open windows?” Mary asked, touching the forest green window blind.
“Certainly. Just keep the door closed so he doesn’t get a draft.”
Mary hung her dresses on hangers, hooked them at the provided space, then put the rest of her things in the small dresser. She took a look around, sighed, and held very still. The sweet-smelling breeze brought indistinct, melancholy childhood memories with it.
She turned back to the living room, fighting an ever-deepening sense of despair. With her whole heart, she did not want to be here, but she knew there was no escape.
“Mima,” came the weak, plaintive cry from the bed.
Mima scuttled over, her small feet soundless as she moved.
“ Voss vitt, Dat ?”
There was a long drawn-out groan, followed by a hideous sound of anguish. Mary’s heart sank, but Mima was accustomed to his wails, so she stood patiently.
He groaned.
“What time was your last medicine?”
His voice became very strong, articulate. “That’s your job.”
Immediately flustered, Mima looked at the clock and counted painfully on arthritic fingers. Looking at Mary, she shook her head, saying, “I don’t know.”
“Oh, just give him a couple of whatever he takes. It’s not going to kill him,” Mary said, the howl still circling around her head, trailing anger as it moved.
So Mima brought two white pills and a glass of water with a bendable straw, hovered nervously as he swallowed, tucked the blanket around his shoulders, and bent to make sure his feet were properly covered.
Mary observed the formerly strong, feisty woman who had become father’s second wife. She had been reduced to this hovering simpleton, and a shot of irritation swept through Mary. He’d done it to her mother, all his children, and now Mima. He ruled with absolute and total authority, reducing those around him to mindless, cowering servants without them even realizing it was happening. He rained threats, wielded Bible verses like they were a two-edged sword crafted to hurt (and never to encourage or build up), coerced and cajoled and meted out punishment, until eventually they all bowed before him in subjugation to his will.
No longer a gullible child, or a frightened teenaged girl, all this came to Mary in a flash of insight. She squared her shoulders, rolled up her sleeves, and determined she would not be another of her father’s victims.
The one single joy of her days was Mima’s cooking. Steeped in the old way, she cooked with lard and plenty of homemade yellow butter salted to perfection. She fried scrapple and homefries for breakfast, with eggs from the henhouse and thick oatmeal loaded with brown sugar and maple syrup. She flavored her coffee with the top cream from the glass gallon jar of milk from the Jersey cow in the barn and added a dollop of vanilla and maple syrup. No fake creamers for her. She bought citrus fruit by the case from Amos Stoltzfus and hand-squeezed grapefruit, lemon, and navel oranges, mixed them all together, and sugared it.
“Vitamin C, straight from the source,” she said in her funny hoarse voice, and Mary remembered why she had liked her at one time.
A S SURELY as the sun rises and sets, Amos’s badgering began and didn’t cease. First, he tried to gain her sympathy with pitiful moans of suffering, and when that failed to bring her into subjection, he asked dozens of questions she often could not answer. When he started in on how her life choices were depriving her of any meaningful blessings (especially a husband), she walked out the door and went to find the garden hoe.
She carried it to the edge of the large garden and lifted her eyes to the hills surrounding her. The beauty of New York provided a certain fullness in an empty spot she hadn’t been aware of.
She closed her eyes and breathed deeply, felt the worn handle of the garden hoe, and allowed gratitude to wash over her. The mountains were astounding, with hidden valleys along the sides, a sprinkling of purple Judas trees, a dash of wild cherry blossoms among thousands of green leafed trees in different budding stages. A long eagle soared on powerful wings, and distant birds flew on frenzied wings as they gathered materials for nests.
The wonders of the great outdoors awakened her senses to the beauty she hadn’t known she needed. Here was where she’d been born, where she spent countless hours as a child, content to accept the ways of her parents.
But the beauty was marred by reality.
Here in this mecca of God-given wonders was the law. Here she was expected to adhere to a strict, austere way of life she could never fully embrace. And there was the poverty, the lack of funds to live in the way she’d become accustomed to now that she ran her own successful business in the city. She enjoyed her comfortable room in her aunt’s house, the freedom to hire a driver anytime, the ability to eat out when she chose, the days of shopping, free of guilt.
Her thoughts spun as she bent to her task, chopping at soil between rows of new pea plants, tiny spring onions sprouting long waxy stems, busy little radish tops and red beets scattered in barely visible rows. She appreciated the straight borders, knowing Mima came from generations of good gardeners.
She stopped to rest her back and spied a pair of bluebirds by the birdhouse nailed to a fence post, singing their hearts out. Sparrows twittered in the Rose of Sharon bush before bursting out in a whirring frenzy as a barn cat walked by.
Abner’s farm was not what her home growing up had been. The fields fell away from the outbuildings, fertile soil in the valley between mountains, already plowed and harrowed, ready for the corn planter. There was fresh gravel spread on the muddy driveway, the lawn mowed and garden seeds sprouting.
The two small boys in torn straw hats and patched trousers came out of the house, stood on the front porch, and eyed her warily. They spoke to each other, nodded their heads, and walked toward her, their faces like somber little men.
“Hello,” Mary said.
They stared at her, as if seeing an apparition, some strange creature they hadn’t known existed.
“What are your names?” she asked, trying again.
Still no answer.
“You’re big boys already. You’ve grown a lot.”
More staring, but she noticed the smallest blink.
“Did you know I’m your Aunt Mary?”
A slight nod from the tallest one.
“I’m Benuel. He’s Amos.”
“Hello, Benuel and Amos.”
“Dat says you’re English, but you wear fancy Amish clothes.”
“Really? Your dat said that?”
“Yes.”
“Hm. Interesting. I’m Amish, though. Like you.”
“We have kitties.”
“You do?”
“Yes. In the barn.”
“Will you show them to me?”
Eyes sparkling now, they nodded in unison, then turned on their heels. Mary laid down the hoe and followed them. The smell of silage, fresh hay, and cow manure provoked childhood memories, causing her to take in a deep breath. She took in the clean, lined walkway between cow stanchions, the freshly cleaned gutters, and felt a certain pride in her brother.
“Here. Come back here,” Benuel said.
On a loose pile of hay, a gray barn cat lay on her side with a furry, multi-colored cluster of kittens around her, gazing up at them with trusting eyes. The boys reached down to take up one black kitten and held it out to her, wordlessly.
Mary cupped the small ball of fur in her hands, then brought it to her chin, savoring the silkiness of new kitten fur. The kitten purred immediately, and she held it away from her face to view the color of its eyes.
“Aw, this one is so cute. Black with blue eyes.”
“They’re all cute. Look at this one.”
“Oh, my word. It’s gray and has three white feet!” Mary said, putting down one to pick up the other.
Benuel and Amos were like proud parents, producing one little ball of fur after another, and Mary fussed and praised accordingly.
“We think we know where there’s another nest, but we haven’t found it yet. We have to be careful, as Dat says there are too many cats, so we hide them as long as we can.”
“Too many? What happens if you don’t hide them?”
Benuel’s eyes fell, and he shrugged. Amos looked at Mary with the guileless eyes of the very young, but a quick shadow passed over his features.
“He drowns them,” he said matter-of-factly.
Mary nodded, a vise clamping on her heart. She held the gray kitten to her face, the beginning of a dark memory forming in her head . . .
She could almost see the shafts of sunlight through the tobacco shed, dust motes swirling in the air. The smell of tobacco dust and an earthen floor. The dark interior was a place of refuge for her kittens. Then, the doorway darkened by the tall thin form of her father. His footsteps deliberate as he closed the distance between them, his long, thin fingers around her arm as he pulled her to her feet. Resisting fiercely, she kicked and squirmed, a scream forming in her throat, but never set free.
The familiar “paddling” ensued, but she never gave him the satisfaction of hearing her cry. She scrabbled wildly back at the kittens, flung herself over them, strangely silent as he pulled her off. He had to pry one kitten out of her crossed arms, and still she tried to get it away from him.
She never saw those kittens again.
She told her mother, hoping for an ally, but was told in a distracted tone, they were yuscht kattsa . But to Mary, they had not been “just cats.” They had been her little friends, precious creatures she loved with all her heart.
A part of her always loved kittens, but as she grew, she no longer searched for the newborn ones, knowing it would end in heartache. Occasionally, when the good mousers died out, there were half-grown ones at the milk dish in the cow stable, but she never loved them too much, knowing it might end badly.
She approached her brother that evening, when she found him in the barnyard, looking after a lame cow. He had not aged, still had the youthful face of their mother, the wide, broken brim of his straw hat hiding most of his hair and all of his forehead. He straightened his back at the sight of her, a thin smile on his full lips.
“Mary.”
“Yes, Abner.” She cut right to the point, determined to stand up for those children in the way her mother never had. “I . . . the boys showed me the nest of kittens. I’m hoping you’ll let them live. For the boys’ sake. I remember Dat destroying mine, and well, you know. . . . It’s not a good memory, and I’m asking you to spare them this.”
He held her gaze, then cleared his throat, so much like her father.
“Mary, Mary,” he said sadly.
She said nothing.
“You are still the same victim you’ve always been, pitying yourself if you were brought under authority. It was the will of our father those kittens were taken, and you couldn’t give up to that. You still can’t give up. It is the stumbling block of your existence. Straight and wide is the way for those who seek to live for the flesh, which is the road of pleasure you are on. You still don’t see it.”
A roaring began in her ears.
She fumbled for words.
“It may seem cruel to you, but it was an act of righteousness. To teach a child what authority means is an act of purest love, the spiritual kind. Someday, children will grow up to thank their parents for that.”
She found the voice.
“No, Abner, you are wrong. Wrong! When you cruelly destroy an innocent creature that a child loves, a part of her dies inside and a rebellion is born.”
“Perhaps for some. For the ungehorsam .”
“No, for those with feelings of compassion and sorrow, normal emotions that are vital to healthy adults.”
He stopped her with these words. “If you are here, Mary, you must learn to respect those who are in authority.”