Chapter 5
C HAPTER 5
S HE LAY IN THE NARROW bed IN THE EVENING, THE BLIND LIFTED to reveal the undulating tops of the mountains, like an uneven black ribbon, the lighter night sky with its smattering of twinkling white stars, a half moon like the smile of God. The sound of tree frogs down by the pond was a melodious harmony, a high note of silvery sounds of her childhood. An owl screeched, then another, and she pictured the round yellow eyes, the perfect tufted ears.
The valley was a river of fulfillment for her senses, beauty of sight and sound like an outpouring of love from God. She loved New York, loved being here in the valley, if only it wasn’t tainted with the sordid philosophy, the conservative thumb squashing the life out of her as if she was an insect. Her arguments were as impotent as a worm up against a hungry bird. These people had an absolute assurance of righteousness, the confidence in their own perfection as stalwart and as unmoving as the stone walls of an old castle.
She was labeled by all as “worldly,” “liberal,” and looked upon with disgust and swift judgment.
Sometimes she wondered if there was some truth to Amos and Abner’s words. Was her disobedient heart the reason she could not find contentment, could not marry an upright young man and succumb to his wishes? Succumb. Yes, die daily to her own mind and heart.
She felt the old familiar panic, her mouth drying out as her breath came in gasps, her heart hammering crazily. She felt the first flush of heat, threw back the covers, and sat up, her feet hitting the floor, her head in her hands. The room spun. She lay back down quickly, clutched the pillow for stability, but there was none.
Was she on the wide road to perdition, as blind as a bat, unable to take up the cross Christ designed for her? She felt a desperate need, a hunger, for real truth. What was truth?
Her thoughts tumbled, her panic increased. She broke out in a cold sweat. There were no tears, no prayers. God wouldn’t hear her words if they never managed to get through the ceiling of her fear.
Alone, exhausted, she battled on, unable to control the anguish of her torment. Her father’s finger pointed, spelled out her doom. Yes, she was English, owning that bakery in Lancaster, walking around with her head held high, her speech with the right lilt, imitating the worldly people she was in contact with every single day. Yes, she was ungehorsam , doomed according to the law.
The weight of it smashed her down into the mattress, her body crushed beneath it. Her bones turned to jelly. The panic increased yet again, and she knew she would suffocate from sheer terror if she didn’t do something. She got to her feet, shakily, stuffed her feet into slippers, and groped for the door handle. She moved silently across the small kitchen, casting terrified glances at her father who was snoring open-mouthed, the pain medication giving him relief.
She drank a few swallows of water from the tap, then gripped the sink with both hands as her world spun counterclockwise.
The only clear thought in her head just then was the word “direction.” She needed direction, but dear God, from whom? Where could she go? Yes, to God Himself, but He wasn’t a reliable problem solver, really.
She sank into a chair and tried calming herself with slow breathing. A voice from the bed made her jump.
“Is that you, Mary?”
“Yes.”
“Why are you in the kitchen?”
“I was thirsty.”
“Would you put this blanket over my feet? It seems they’re always cold.”
“Yes. Of course.”
She unfolded the light blanket, spread it across his feet, and felt an unusual sense of compassion.
Lying so alone, so vulnerable in the light of the half moon, did God look down and love him, too? Did He really love both of them, each of them so different from the other, each broken in their own ways?
“ Denke , Mary.”
“ Gayun schoena .”
She was afraid to return to her small bedroom, afraid to go outside, trapped unreasonably by her own churning thoughts. She had to calm down, go to sleep and face another day, but that thought alone brought despair as thick and heavy as a submersion in oil. Since there was nothing else to do, she returned to her bed, curled into a fetal position, and tried to pray. The only prayer she could come up with was a weak plea for help.
T HE FOLLOWING MORNING, she slept later than usual, her mind gratifyingly blank. A thick fog enveloped her, and Mima finally accosted her in a harsh voice.
“Mary, didn’t you sleep at all last night?”
“Of course I slept,” she snapped back.
“We need gasoline for the washing machine before we can do the wash. You need to hitch up and go with the springwagon. I have to stay here.”
She nodded her head in her father’s direction.
“There’s oatmeal on the stove” was Mima’s way of saying late risers weren’t fussed over. Mary ignored the congealed, cooling oatmeal and went to the barn to find a suitable horse.
Abner was hitching up a team of four Belgians, a smile on his face as he greeted her.
“Need a horse, Mary?”
“I have to get gasoline.”
“We have gas. Just borrow some from us.”
“Great, thank you.”
“Is it for the washing machine?”
“Yes.”
“You look tired. Haven’t slept well?”
“Not really.”
“You should go have coffee with Arie. Baby kept her up most of the night,” he chuckled.
“What’s so funny about that?” She gave him a hard stare.
He raised his eyebrows. “Guess you wouldn’t know, still being single.”
She followed him around without speaking, took the red, plastic gas can, and left.
She poured a bit into the Honda motor, then went back inside to get the hampers of soiled clothes. Mima looked up from her work at the sink.
“Back already?”
“Abner said we could have some of theirs.”
“Oh. Alright then. But we can’t forget to give it back.”
Mary gathered the laundry, sorted it, filled the wringer washer with hot water, added laundry detergent and a small splash of Clorox before yanking on the rope of the motor. Rewarded with a quick purr, the washing machine was in gear and white sheets were thrown into the sudsy turbulence of the wringer washer.
She did enjoy this, washing the old way, dipping her hands into the hot water to lift the sheets and hold them up to the wringer, the rollers grabbing them and pushing them through, into the Downy-infused rinse water. Turning the wringer into position over the rinse water, she put them through again, into the clothes basket beneath, then to the clothesline after adding a second load into the swirling suds.
She thought of Aunt Lizzie’s electric washer, powered by solar panels on the roof, a smooth, energy-efficient device for the laundry and the person doing it. A great change for housewives, many of them adding dryers, a true wonder, and a huge help on rainy days.
It was progress, indeed, and like everyone else, you had to move along with the time. Or so they said.
Did it matter?
There was no answer, no booming voice from the sky, no one to tell her if one was wrong and the other right.
To her father, all electric or alternative power was from the devil. All of it. The only blessed way to wash was with a gas-powered washing machine or, for those who could afford it, compressed air from a tank.
It was still on her mind when she hung the last load, swept the wet cement floor, and hung up the apron. She was hungry, but not willing to let Mima know, so she decided to have coffee with Arie, as Abner had suggested.
It was another beautiful spring day, the farm buildings gleaming white, the green fields and trees a gorgeous backdrop, black and white Holsteins dotting an especially pretty hillside. Mary’s heart ached with the stunning view of this unspoiled land, so pure and so . . . there were no words to describe the emotion within her.
“Come in, Mary,” was the answer to her timid knock.
It was Arie, in all her plump glory, resplendent in a purple cotton dress, her black apron pinned around her waist, her large white covering hiding most of her dark hair.
“I was hoping you’d show up,” she said, smiling.
She looked deeply into Mary’s eyes, then clucked like a mother hen.
“You haven’t slept well.”
“No, not really.”
Her eyes went to the kitchen, the cluttered countertop, the baby on her stomach chewing on a toy. There was a variety of shoes, toys, food, and whatnot strewn across the floor. Mary tried not to show that she noticed the smudged windows, crooked blinds, a polyester cover sagging wearily from a worn-out couch.
She gave Arie a crooked smile, then sat gratefully as she put the kettle on. Her eyes traveled to the splattered kitchen window, the graying towel hanging crookedly across the door of the oven. She felt no judgment. Only the realization of how hard Arie’s life must be. It was a wonder that any woman could even keep so many children alive.
Malinda watched her face.
“Excuse the mess, Mary. My oh. I’m sure you think this place is always the same. Sometimes it’s half clean and in order for about five minutes after I do my Saturday cleaning,” she laughed.
Mary waved a hand.
“I don’t know how you do it.”
“Do what? Be a wife and mother?”
“Yes. All of it.”
“Why Mary, don’t you know it’s what God designed for us to be? It’s a high calling, indeed. Is it fun? No, not always, of course not.”
When the kettle whistled, she spooned two teaspoons of instant coffee into mugs with feed store labels printed on them and brought them to the table with a plastic pitcher of milk and the sugar bowl.
“Shoofly, Mary, we must have shoofly. Nothing to chase away the blues like a good shoofly.”
Arie brought over the crumb-topped pie and two plates, serving Mary a good-sized slice and the same for herself. She took a spoonful and dipped it in her coffee, the very best way to eat shoofly.
They talked then, really talked. Mary told her of Abner’s accusations, the kittens, her father, and her sleepless night. Malinda listened, her eyes narrowed at times, but mostly expressing compassion, or consternation.
Finally, she sighed.
“ Ach , Mary. I often feel sorry for you. I imagine your life is so unsettled. Shuffled back and forth between here and Lancaster, with Dat’s voice ringing in your ears. I just wish it wouldn’t be this way.”
“But it is.”
“You left the second time when they didn’t accept that John King, yes?”
“Yes. That wasn’t right. It still isn’t.”
“I agree. Dat is harsh. I often feel if he could only find a middle road with you, it wouldn’t have to be this way. With Abner, too. He is my husband, but between us, he’s far too much like his father. I try to help along at times, but it’s hard. You see, Mary, life isn’t perfect, and I feel a lot of your unrest comes from living outside the boundaries your parents set for you.”
“But the boundaries were unreasonable,” Mary burst out.
“Were they? Or were you ruled by rebellion?”
“Arie, I’m not like the rest of you. I’m not. I can’t stand to live with all these restrictions, all this clinging to trivial matters of the ordnung . I simply don’t see it like you all do.”
“You don’t have to,” Malinda said, quite unexpectedly.
“What?”
“We can’t help who we are, and it’s true, you obviously are quite different from the rest of us. If your heart isn’t rebellious and you’re simply being who God made you to be, why do you feel so unsettled?”
“It’s all Dat’s fault. He thinks I’m on the wrong path, makes up all these dire threats about hell and all the suffering and all kinds of heart-stopping fearful things that will happen to me if I don’t repent. Repent from what?”
Malinda said nothing, her gaze never leaving Mary’s tortured one. Finally, she raised both eyebrows, shook her head, and said, “I suppose that’s the question. From what? I often try to tell Abner that God gives each of us different convictions. Each of us should be allowed to live as God calls us to. It is our Christian right, and our freedom in Christ. If we truly are new creatures by the blood of Christ, the Spirit will guide us. But Mary, the Holy Spirit will never go against the Bible, and the Bible is clear about honoring your father and mother.”
Suspicious, Mary eyed her sharply.
“And therein lies the problem. To honor my father, I have to give up every ounce of the freedom you’re talking about. Does God really expect me to sell my business, move home permanently, and be at my father’s beck and call until some man—one Dat thinks is suitable, mind you—asks me to marry him, just so I can be my husband’s servant?”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
The baby rolled around on her back and began to tug at the couch cover and make short unhappy sounds. The front door opened and Benuel appeared, followed closely by Amos.
Mary smiled at the boys, asked how the kittens were doing this morning, and was met with bright smiles.
She watched Malinda scoop up the baby, open her dress, and fling a worn out yellowed cloth diaper over her shoulder as she fed her, rocking gently, her forehead furrowed in thought.
“Life doesn’t have to be complicated, Mary. We can have peace by giving our will to God’s will.”
Mary shook one shoulder and turned her head.
“It sure would be easier if I knew what God’s will for me was.”
H ER FATHER’S RECUPERATION was a slow painful process, but after three long weeks, Mima announced the good news. Mary could go home in a week, as long as he could get out of bed and walk on his own.
But getting out of bed proved to be no simple task for Amos. Ill-prepared for the scenes that followed, Mary lost her temper more than once, which did nothing to endear her to either parent.
Her father regularly told Mary she lacked virtue, especially when it came to patience. Mary noticed that Mima lacked patience too, though she clamped her tongue between her teeth to keep her frustration from escaping her lips. She couldn’t hide her sour looks and an upset stomach on most days, though. The Maalox bottle at her elbow, she ate cracker soup and poached eggs, no doubt thinking fondly of her days as a single maid.
And Mary’s father grunted and groaned, gasped and heaved as he inched himself closer to getting off the bed. Mary couldn’t help but feel like he was intentionally prolonging the process. Grown children followed by hordes of little ones came to visit, upsetting Mima with muddy shoe soles and spilled drinks, crumbs and crushed pretzels. Mary’s presence in the house was met with a mixture of suspicion, outright shunning, and occasionally a display of acceptance. A few went so far as to tell her how appreciated she was, helping out with Dat, saying if she hadn’t done this, where would they be?
A neighbor told her she’d received a message from her Aunt Lizzie at the neighborhood phone shanty. Mary told Mima she’d be back and left quickly, before her father started asking questions. Aunt Lizzie said the bakery was falling apart without her. One of the girls messed up the ingredient order and now they had too many eggs and no flour. They had to buy flour from the local grocery store, which was much more expensive, and there wasn’t enough room in the refrigerator for all the eggs. The main oven was having some issues and they couldn’t get in touch with a repair person. The customers kept saying the cinnamon rolls weren’t as good as usual. Could she please return as soon as humanly possible?
Walking back from the telephone shanty through a canopy of trees like a green lace curtain above her head, bluebells in the thick grass beside the road, the air clean and sharp and pure, the thought of the bakery suddenly filled Mary with dread. The cement sidewalks, the buildings stacked like Lego bricks, the constantly moving traffic and smelly exhaust. The never-ending round of hard work and dedication . . . to what, exactly?
The projected time of departure came and went, with her father refusing the walker or the wheelchair. Mima tried to gently prod him into making more of an effort, but she backed off when he gave her a stern look and then launched into a monologue about how much pain he was in and how it was Mima and Mary’s duty to bear with him as long as it took. It was Mary who decided enough was enough and told him flat out she was going home. If he wanted to get out of bed, he would. If not, he could stay there, but he’d have to figure out how to change his own bedpan.
He rained down Bible verses about Jezebel and every manner of wrongdoing pertaining to women who were not in subordination to men, and the spiritual harlotry they gave themselves to. Mary tried her best to ignore him and exchanged looks with Mima, a silent agreement forming between them. Mary stood by with the walker while Mima helped him get dressed. She watched as she gently guided his legs, then adjusted his feet, then pulled him to a standing position. His face turned white, then red as he bellowed his discomfort, blaming Mary for misleading Mima to stand against him.
But he grabbed the walker on either side, shuffled his long stockinged feet, and moved across the floor, alternately sighing and threatening that he would fall at any moment.
“If you fall, we’ll call 911,” Mary said calmly, which caused dollar signs to flash in from of his eyes and he stopped mentioning it.
Finally, at long last, he was somewhat mobile, and Mary could go home. But on the last evening, when the sun was setting behind the mountains, the lawn was freshly mowed, the garden a picture of perfection, and the air infused with the perfume from flowering fruit trees, she knew she would not return as the same driven person she had been before. She stood for a long moment by the front steps and listened to the cows ruminating sounds from the pasture, the swish of their tails, the soft, golden light filling her soul. She had to admit to herself that she did not want to return at all.
Her father sat in his reclining chair, his long greasy hair newly washed and combed, his face clean shaven, a somber look in his hooded eyes.
“Mary.”
“Yes?”
“Come sit by me before you leave.”
She was not afraid, neither was she comfortable, but she obeyed.
“I feel I have to make something right.”
She waited, saying nothing.
“It bothers my good conscience that I said those things about the fellow named John King. I’m afraid I went too far that time. He is now an upstanding young man in the church, married to Sol Zook’s Anna. I don’t think a day goes by that I don’t think of my mockery of him, and I know I must make this right. If you can forgive, I could rest in peace.”
Mary wrestled with the harsh words of resentment rising to the surface but managed a weak “I will accept your apology.”
“And you will forgive me?”
“I will.”
“Thank you, Mary. Now my nights will be peaceful, although I still have my concerns about your soul. You were always so stubborn, and I’m afraid I didn’t do enough to break that strong will.”
Mary reeled with the battle to contain bitter words.
“Someday you must reveal the fruits of the born again. While you were here, I searched with a fair amount of patience but have not been able to detect any semblance of fruits of the Spirit.”
“Dat, I’m sorry, but you are not God.”
He slid his eyes sideways, then back again. Mary thought of a bob-blehead with plastic eyes.
“I can’t get past that small head covering you wear.”
“This covering is perfectly acceptable where I live now, and there is no one offended by it. You must step out of the suffocating box you live in.”
“Daughter, no sooner are those words out of your mouth then I know why you don’t have a husband.”
“I don’t have a husband because you made sure I didn’t get one.”
“But you have forgiven me.”
She said nothing.
“Well, at any rate, if I die, I want to go in peace with my family and my fellowmen, as I believe I can.”
“Except for me.”
“No, that’s not really true. I have hope for your redemption.”
Those were words not easily spoken, but it was more than she could hope to receive, so she left the home in New York that day with a softer heart and a small measure of peace. A hug and a sizable check from Mima was a true miracle, and one tugging at her heart as she rode in the back of the bus.
Why then, did tears run down her cheeks as the bus rolled through the rain, the gigantic wipers like thin arms waving the rain away?
She let her tears run unchecked. Only an occasional discreet blowing of her nose gave her away, her face turned toward the sodden landscape as the tires hissed on the interstate, sending sheets of water from beneath them.
She didn’t know why she cried. She guessed it might be her father’s confession, but knew, too, she needed those tears to dissolve her anxiety, the deep and lurching fear of the unknown, the lack of assurance she was on the right track. She felt her shoulders sag and all the fight leave her body, folded up like an air mattress after the air is released. She reclined her seat and closed her eyes, the sound of the wipers and the hiss of the rain beneath the tires reassuring.
She had a blissful thought just before sleep overtook her. Perhaps God had a hand in every single event in her life. Perhaps her father had fallen from the roof to allow her to make peace with her past, to be pushed into familiar surroundings and realize how much she loved New York. Or, at least the beauty of it. Not so much the people. But now she was headed home, her Lancaster home, and she knew before they hit the Pennsylvania line that she would be selling her bakery to the first available buyer.