Chapter 8
C HAPTER 8
M ARY GAZED IN DISBELIEF. “BUT . . . I THOUGHT.”
“It doesn’t matter what you thought. We’re going home.”
“But. I was hoping to experience more of Maine. I . . .”
“Yes. I’m sure you were. And I apologize, but now my finances have taken a setback. For now.”
“Of course.”
She strained to absorb every moment of scenery, every glimpse of open water through fir trees, the sky as pristine and cloudless as a robin’s egg. She caught glimpses of islands, boats, and always the gulls soaring on drafts of air only they recognized. She longed to experience the scent of saltwater again, the sea heaving its power against gravelly beaches and jutting rock. She wanted to turn the vehicle into the opposite direction and continue north, across the water to Canada, on into amazing lands of wilderness, where no one would ever find her. Where not one single person knew of her existence.
And the dream was born.
S HE TILTED HER seat back and closed her eyes as the last rays of sun disappeared across the land. Soft music came from the dash, the sound of fast-moving tires on macadam relaxing her. She glanced at Chester, his pleasing profile in sharp relief against the evening light.
She felt a pang of sympathy for how poorly the meeting had gone, but recognized the way in which he dealt with adversity might be a prediction of things to come.
There were memories of her father, the way he’d criticize her mother’s cooking when the handle on the plow broke or a sick cow would need a veterinarian’s care. How he kicked at the barn cats, sending them mewling into the air. He never gave up his own will alone, but instead devised ways of making those around him suffer as well.
“Are you asleep, Mary?”
It was a soft, gentle voice now.
“No. Not yet.”
She turned her head to open her eyes and smile at him. He smiled back, then reached over and placed a hand on her knee. She quickly removed it, pressed the lever to straighten her seat, and slid her legs as far away as possible.
He chuckled. “Mary, Mary.”
So this was the course she had to keep. No smile, no unintentional invitation, just a strict, caustic demeanor giving him no hope.
“Yes, Mary. I know. We are getting to know one another, and this I respect. Someday, perhaps, after you have searched the Scripture, you will be able to decipher God’s will for your life. Being of considerable age for a young woman, has it ever occurred to you that there may not be a husband for you among the Amish, but that God will open new doors for you as time goes on?”
She had no answer, so she kept silent.
“I do admire your strength, Mary, but I know you will not have the courage to forge new trails by yourself. My role as your friend will be to help you see the way Jesus has for you. I know you are bound by chains of your own devising, the fear of sin and the lack of redemption, but here is where you will come to appreciate what I have to offer.”
He flicked his turn signals on, then turned the wheel.
Mary watched as the vehicle bounced into a pothole on a gravel drive, past a rusted sign swinging from a green iron pole and up to a brown, single story building with grimy windows and broken, slatted blinds.
“Aunt Bertha’s Eatery,” Mary pronounced.
“These places are cheap, but I’ll bet it has good food.”
Mary smiled. The Silver Dollar, McDonald’s, Burger King, and now Bertha’s. She was beginning to wonder if he owned this vehicle at all.
A buzzer sounded when the door was pulled open, an insistent, blatting sound sending every diner’s eyes in their direction. Mary inhaled and steadied herself as she was checked out from head to toe, grateful to be seated in a booth along the back wall.
The old formica top was worn to a colorless white where plates and elbows had been placed for years. A greasy plastic squirt bottle of ketchup was pushed against the wall next to a tower of jelly packets, salt and pepper shakers, the tops rusted and stained.
Mary felt the torn vinyl seat pinch the back of her thigh, shifted her weight to relieve it.
He pushed aside the roll of utensils in a napkin, clasped his hands together on the tabletop, then looked around for a waitress.
He cleared his throat.
“What’s wrong, Mary?”
Her eyes went to his. “Why do you say that?”
He shrugged. “I thought you didn’t look very happy. Just a thought.”
“I’m fine.”
“Do you like this place?”
She smiled. “We haven’t eaten yet.”
He drummed the tabletop with his fingertips.
“I’m going to miss you when we get home.”
She raised her eyebrows.
The waitress arrived, a portly woman of considerable age, skin like leather, gray hair pulled into a limp ponytail, her white T-shirt stained with the day’s work.
“What can I getcha?”
“We need menus,” Chester said evenly.
Without a word, she pointed to the graying sign above the counter where sandwiches, soups, and fries were listed in navy blue letters. A splattering of white cardboard add-ons like chicken and waffles, hot roast beef sandwiches with fries, were taped everywhere.
Mary swallowed, could have eaten it all.
“Can we have a few minutes?” he asked.
She nodded and walked away, her backside swaying, the vast proportions moving up and down. Chester watched after her, his mouth giving away the disgust.
“She could have asked us about drinks.”
Mary chose the fish sandwich and fries, added a bowl of chili and coffee. Chester ordered chicken and waffles, asking if there were free refills for drinks.
“Nope,” the waitress growled.
He looked at Mary, shook his head. “See, they shouldn’t have help like that. She shouldn’t be allowed to work here.”
“We can’t be too quick to judge. We have no idea what her life is like.”
She brought Mary’s coffee, a Coke for Chester, then moved off with her lumbering steps, stopping to check the diner’s progress at another table.
Mary wanted to remind Chester about his own choice to eat at this questionable establishment, but said nothing.
“So, tell me, Mary. What did you think of Maine?”
“I loved it, really, but I wasn’t able to see much of it.”
“Yes, of course not, as our time was cut short. But I’m sure you understand about my business matters calling me back home. You see, Mary, your life will always have moments of sorrow and disappointment. God has ordained it so, to make us better people, and He is testing us on how we react to these things.”
Mary nodded.
Trials indeed. He had no idea the trials she’d been through. Did he understand what deep disappointment was?
“You see, we are the branches, and He is the vine, so if we stay rooted in Him, we won’t grow wrong. Sometimes, though, he has to prune the vines, so that we can bear fruit.”
When the waitress appeared carrying a huge tray of food, he stopped and scowled at the chipped white plate piled with an overcooked waffle and two limp pieces of breaded chicken that appeared rather soggy.
“What is this? It looks terrible.”
She brought Mary’s bowl of chili to a standstill, then placed both hands on the table, her face very near to Chester’s, and growled. “Whaddaya expect for seven bucks?”
“I don’t want this,” he said, too loudly. “Take it back.”
“Alright. But you ain’t gittin’ nothin’ else.”
“Fine. Come on, Mary. We’re leaving.”
Mary looked at Chester, then down at her food. She was hungry. Her food looked fine.
“I want to stay,” she said quietly.
“Sorry. We’re going.”
The waitress stood as immovable as a stump, her eyes calm and willing to wait, her hands positioned on her stomach.
“May I have this to go?” Mary asked.
“Yep.”
When she returned with containers, Chester stood up and started walking to the door. Mary gathered up her food, laid a twenty-dollar bill on the tabletop, and apologized to the waitress, telling her to keep the change.
The waitress watched Chester’s retreating figure, shook her head, and said, “Thanks, hon.”
Mary followed him out the door, winced as the buzzer erupted, then breathed deeply, glad to be outside, away from the humiliation.
They said nothing as they pulled away.
Ashamed of being the only one eating, Mary felt every ounce of her substantial figure. But her appetite took over and she opened the box and broke off a piece of fish, which proved to be quite good.
Chester snorted. “How can you eat that? That place was low class, disgusting.”
“The rusted sign might’ve been a clue it wasn’t a fine dining establishment.” Mary didn’t try to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.
“You can’t read a book by its cover.”
Mary opened her mouth, closed it again. What was the use?
“Will you share your fries?” he asked suddenly.
A stab of annoyance, but she said nothing, handed them over, and watched his large hands take half of them and stuff them into his mouth.
Mary wiped her mouth with a napkin and sighed a deep sigh, suddenly very tired and grateful to be going home. Chester was so proficient in all Bible matters, so well versed in spirituality, which left her feeling completely thrown off course by his actions. At her bakery she’d come across all kinds of customers with good and bad manners. But never, not once, had anyone displayed such boorish behavior. Sure, the waitress was a little rude, and his food didn’t look great, but was that an excuse to be a jerk?
“Are you going to eat all that?” he asked, glancing in her direction and then back to the road.
“Yes, actually, I am. I’m hungry and it’s good. If you want food, feel free to stop somewhere else.”
After he’d shot his surprised look, he pulled off at the next exit and went through a Wendy’s drive-through. He piled the console with his chicken sandwich, large fries, and Frosty, eating while he drove without offering anything to her. The food revived his spirits, and he became quite affable, entertaining her with stories of his childhood, his cousins, the countryside surrounding them. He urged her to speak of her own childhood, but she offered very little, knowing she’d already shared too much. She felt a calm clarity settling in as the hours of driving passed.
Yes, she had been lifted to new heights by the sound of singing that was alive with the Spirit, but the people were still just people, clothed in humanity, like Chester. If she left the Amish church and accepted excommunication, would the move be worth the heartache? Or would she just be immersed in a different group of broken, messed-up people? Yes, the grass shimmering in iridescent splendor just beyond the fence surrounding her was a beckoning scene, one tempting her daily. But what if, in all her starry-eyed expectation, it turned out to be just grass, the same dull shade of green growing on this side?
She listened half-heartedly as Chester explained the fall of man, the redemption for all humanity through the Blood of Christ. His voice droned on as he drove and her eyelids grew heavy. Everything he was saying she’d heard hundreds of times in church, from her father, from books, and Aunt Lizzie’s Christian magazines. She knew all about the story of Jesus, but could she really help it if none of it stirred her heart?
Yes, she believed, but that wasn’t enough. She had to be a good person before grace would touch her. It was all too hard, so she’d just live, doing her best, taking one day at a time.
She frightened Aunt Lizzie, unlocking the door so late at night, but after she’d clutched her housecoat to her chest, her heart slowed its pounding. She hugged her and told her how relieved she was, how happy to see her. She confessed she’d been a little afraid Mary would run off with Chester and not return. They both went to bed grateful, both rested deeply, and Mary woke to morning light.
It was Saturday and the girls could keep the bakery going till twelve and do the cleanup and lock up.
They did the Samschdag eyavot , that end of the week cleaning so prevalent in Amish homes everywhere. Mary swept and dusted her room before deciding to change the furniture from one spot to another, rearrange the wall art, sort and organize her books.
She threw out a pile of paperbacks, lugging garbage bags of them to the dumpster without guilt. They’d all been read and reread, torn and dogeared with brittle, yellowing pages, so she’d be fortunate to receive a quarter a piece for all of them. To pay a driver to take them to Goodwill was definitely stupid, she told herself.
A restlessness took her outside then, a need to do hard physical labor, to think about her ill-fated trip to Maine and its surprising limits where Chester was concerned. There had been no choices for her, only his, coupled with the questionable advances. She’d truly thought herself a liberal in so many ways, but traveling with Chester had brought out the conservative ways she hadn’t known she still valued. And for all his spiritual talk, his actions didn’t point to him being more Christ-like than anyone in her Amish circles. More and more, she was becoming convinced that leaving the Amish would not solve any of her problems.
She puttered in flowerbeds, dead-headed geraniums, pulled a few small weeds, but she felt boxed in and limited to a world where her lungs could not expand.
She sat in a patio chair, mopped her face with the hem of her apron, and decided something had to be done. She was unhappy, fenced in, watched, dissected, discussed, too old to be accountable to her widowed aunt, and it was time for a change.
But what? Where?
And there was Steve Riehl. Likely, she’d scared him away by mentioning the possibility of leaving the Amish. Well, too late now. She couldn’t undo what she’d said. She watched the neighbor’s fat yellow barn cat rub himself against the white fence, stretch, and yawn before walking through the bean rows. A sparrow twittered excitedly from the Rose of Sharon bush, watching out for the tender fledglings only a leap away from the feline killing machine.
She felt like doing something, anything. Maybe Lizzie would accompany her to the Tastee-Freez in Smoketown. She’d love a tall frosty root beer float, with that long-handled red spoon to scoop out the creamy vanilla ice cream. Or maybe she’d simply get a shower and lounge on the back porch with a bottle of Diet Pepsi poured over ice.
Yes, she’d do just that.
Fresh from her shower, her hair in a thick ponytail, she brought her drink to the low cast iron table and made herself comfortable on the padded lounge chair. Traffic rumbled by, but it was muted by the house between them, and she could barely hear the different sounds of ongoing traffic and cars.
She sipped her Pepsi, began one of the books she’d found on the lowest shelf, read a few pages, and stopped, looked at the cover, then turned to the inside flap and peered at the author.
She laid it aside, took up one of Lizzie’s Good Housekeeping magazines, and flipped through it, mostly interested in the recipes, before flinging it aside.
It was too hot to enjoy anything, so she laid back, closed her eyes, and thought of leaving this place. She revisited the urge to keep going north from Maine. She felt so alive, just thinking about it.
Would it be wrong in the eyes of God to do some research, get into shape, and find some wilderness to hike through? Growing up, she’d always enjoyed hiking in the mountains surrounding the farm. She’d never gone much more than two miles, but that was something, wasn’t it? It wasn’t easy terrain, going straight up the mountain, through layers of leaves, sometimes the hillside so steep she had to pull herself up by grabbing saplings or tree branches. Sometimes her brother accompanied her, and sometimes Lydia or Becky.
Or she could go to Switzerland. Germany. Austria. She could go on a ship. The Queen Elizabeth . But not fly. Never fly. That was the rule. Flying was a modern form of transportation, one strictly forbidden.
She felt herself sinking into the place between sleep and consciousness, dreaming of places she could go.
“Hello. Hello?”
Her eyes flew open and she turned her head, then sat up too quickly. Self-conscious, her hands went to her dress, smoothing the skirt over her rounded stomach.
“I apologize, Mary.”
Steve Riehl, in a short-sleeve shirt in a grayish hue, his sneakers matching, his hair disheveled by the evening breeze. Behind him, the sun had gone down, or had slid behind the small barn, leaving a golden glow across the small property.
She blinked, laughed gently.
“Nothing to worry about. I must have dozed off.”
She looked around, pointed to a chair. “Sit down.”
“How are you, Mary? How was your trip?”
“I’m doing great. My trip, not so much.”
“And why was that?”
“His business meeting didn’t go well. I don’t really know the details, but he was concerned about finances and we came home after one night.”
“That’s too bad. I’m sorry to hear it.”
“Don’t be. I got to see some really nice scenery. The New England coast is quite something. Amazing, really.”
“Good. Glad you got to see it.”
Mary nodded.
“I wasn’t doing anything this evening, and since you told me where you live, I thought I’d take a chance and swing by. I didn’t really expect you to be home. But since I’m here, would you like to go out for ice cream?”
“I’m not dressed. And you don’t have your buggy.”
“Tied at the quilt shop.”
“Oh. If you’ll wait.”
“Sure. Take your time.”
She returned, her hair up and her covering pinned into place, a black apron tied around her waist. He looked at her, giving her a small smile, and they walked out the short drive and along the highway to his team.
The horse was the first thing she noticed. A black Friesian so big he filled the shafts and dwarfed the gray and black buggy.
His head was held high, his full mane rippling with the classic wavy hair of the breed.
“Wow,” she breathed.
“Impressive, isn’t he?”
“Oh my.”
“His name’s Knight. He’s not mine. I train horses for others, and this one’s not quite three years old. A stallion. He’s probably worth thirty or forty thousand. Maybe more.”
“How do you dare take him on the road?”
“He’s insured.”
“Huh.”
He was loosening the reins as he spoke. He nodded at the buggy.
“If you don’t mind, maybe I’ll let you get in first and I’ll hand the reins to you before I get in, okay?”
She nodded.
“You sure it’s okay? If you’re afraid, we can stable him and call a driver.”
“No, if you think he’s safe, I’m fine with it.”
He pulled on both reins just beneath the horse’s mouth, saying “Back, back. Come on, buddy. Back up.”
For a long moment, Mary felt panic rising as the horse shook his head, trying to rid himself of the pressure below his bit, but Steve kept patiently working at the reverse he needed.
Finally, there was room to turn the wheels, allowing Steve a moment to hand her the reins, which she clasped quickly, and he followed up with a rapid hook of the neck rein, a few hurried steps, and a leap into the buggy, his body falling on hers as the horse went straight up, then righted himself and took a running jump forward. Mary stifled a scream of terror as they approached traffic, but Steve hauled back the reins and got him stopped at the very edge.
Of course, a line of cars awaited them, but evidently some training had taken place, the horse pawing the ground with his forefoot, quivering, his haunches lowered, preparing to leap the minute he felt the loosening of his reins.
Mary braced herself, her shoulder stiff with fear, her lower lip caught in her teeth, her eyes wide. Would they ever be able to pull out? On they came, a steady stream of Saturday night traffic. The horse hopped from one foot to another. His rump bounced up and down. He shook his head, jingling the snaps.
“Okay your way?” Steve asked.
“Yes, if we go now.”
“Hang on,” he shouted.