Chapter 11
C HAPTER 11
S NOW CONTINUED TO DRIFT AGAINST THE HOUSE BY THE FORCE OF the strong winter winds. Mary still sang as she browsed through cookbooks and used new mixing bowls and spoons, made cupcakes, and piped vanilla frosting on them the way they’d done at the bakery. Occasionally, she wandered into the living room to stand unseeing across the distant mountains covered in beautiful shades of white, gray, or blue. She pictured Steve, his tender eyes alight with his feelings, and wondered why he hadn’t preached at her the way Chester had. She knew he hadn’t agreed with her decision to go, but he’d been kind about it, and in the end, he really seemed to mean it when he held her in his arms, congratulated her on the new home, and said he hoped everything would work out exactly as it should.
A sense of well-being pervaded her cozy house, and she began to feel content in a way she hadn’t thought possible. Now she had listened to her conscience, had pleased her father and Mima, and had created happiness in the family by returning to the fold. She had finally given herself up, and righteousness rested on her doorstep.
She laughed out loud at this, thinking how the doorstep was covered in about three feet of snow.
She loved everything about New York winters.
She made friends with her nearest neighbor, an aging woman named Jessie Byers and her husband Art. Jessie was the boss, a tall, thin stick of a woman matched by a tall, fat husband who wore his hair in a graying ponytail and owned three motorcycles. They were devout Christians who clasped hands at every meal to thank their Heavenly Father for His bounty, they put Mary to shame, the way she often found herself eating alone at her kitchen island without praying.
Jessie took Mary to town in her rattling white Jeep, slipped and slid up the driveway, turning the wheel furiously from left to right and back again, laughing uproariously as Mary hung on.
She found cleaning jobs for her, five- and six-hour jobs that made up to thirty dollars an hour, which made Mary feel better about the state of her bank account. She put a quilt in frame, receiving a dollar a yard from a quilt shop in Shermandale, Missouri. Her sisters made new coverings for her, which she flat out refused, saying she’d wear bigger ones but this was unnecessary. They had a good laugh about it, and Mary put on her larger covering, looked in the mirror, and told them she appeared to be very matronly.
But she loved her sisters, and it felt right to please them, so she sat down on her new glider rocker with the beige cushions and waited for her blessing.
Jessie came over on snowshoes and thumped and yelled on the front porch, giving Mary an awful jolt. Her heart beat so fast she began to suspect a panic attack. Please God, no. Don’t let it happen.
Jessie wore a backpack containing a loaf of raisin bread and a jar of apple butter Art had made in the fall. Mary made a pot of coffee and ate four slices with apple butter and sharp cheese, listening to Jessie’s stories of the exploits of her sons stationed in North Carolina, doing something for the military.
Mary listened halfheartedly, until Jessie began telling her about the pack of coyotes circling barns, slaughtering any animal they could get ahold of. The winter was exceptionally harsh, and they were ravenous, so she’d have to be cautious, going to feed her horse. Mary’s thoughts flashed back to the wild dogs that had attacked her and she felt a shiver run through her body.
She visited her sisters, the brown mare taking her surefooted time over hills and through low places, whistling lightly under her breath as she absorbed the perfect beauty surrounding her. Her sister Lydia’s house was depressing though, painted a sickly glossy green with torn plastic window blinds sagging across fingerprinted windows, African violets in every stage of life and death, potted in Bush’s pork and bean tin cans without bothering to remove the wrapper. Dead stink bugs went belly up between them, and a confetti of black mouse droppings took up much of the shelf space as well. A faint odor of urine permeated the entire house, due to a plastic bucket of soiled cloth diapers soaking in water.
It was simply their way of life, Mary reasoned, tentatively washing her hands at the sink before joining her sisters at the kitchen table covered in faded oilcloth.
They drank a cheap brand of instant coffee laced with raw milk, the sugar bowl set in the middle, a plate of sugar cookies and one of peanut butter cookies, which had been pressed down with a potato masher the way their mother had always done. Mary couldn’t help comparing the lavish brunches they enjoyed at Susan’s house, or Ruthie’s, but that was in a different world, a different time.
As conversation flowed, Mary followed the comings and goings of the community, largely unchanged from what she remembered of years ago. She couldn’t bring herself to agree with their narrow-mindedness, at all, but she did a great job concealing her disapproval. She was heartened by the shared sense of humor, felt a great and homey belonging, and wondered if this was the promised blessing.
The sisters told her she was the talk of the community. Pinedale was alive with stories of her past, the ways in which she had rebelled, going so far that she even traveled in Amish boys’ cars.
Mary’s face flamed and her eyes stayed on the tabletop as waves of shame and regret washed over her. If only they knew everything. No, they couldn’t absorb the awful truth without casting her out. At which point was she actually forgiven? When did the erasing of sin begin? She was here now, was doing all she could to be perfectly free of pride and fancy clothes, and she had finally pleased her father. Surely she had earned forgiveness.
Sometimes when she looked in the mirror, she could barely comprehend that this matronly person wearing a large covering and a dark-colored dress with a belt apron pinned around her waist was actually her. No bib apron, no pretty colors, and certainly no colorful sneakers. Her legs were covered in black stockings, with plain black shoes.
She couldn’t say that she liked the image that she saw reflected back at her, but she did love her new home. And she truly loved New York, the way she always had.
Her sister Miriam looked her up and down.
“You’re ashamed, gel Mary?” in a tone both kind and condescending.
“Yes,” she answered meekly.
“Oh, course you are. Shame brings repentance, Mary, and that will not go unrewarded. We’re just so glad you came to your senses.”
“Yes,” Lydia chimed in. “And all you need now is a chappie.”
Mary smiled, but the smile was merely a drawing away of her lips from her teeth. No, she thought. No, I can’t go as far as that. Do I have to? She could be content staying single, but she could not imagine submitting to a man who expected her to birth and raise a slew of children and stand by meekly as he beat them and drowned their kittens. She could not, would not do it.
The old familiar nausea rose, her heart pounded. She toyed with her coffee cup to distract herself. I have done so much, I have been obedient. I have the blessing. She repeated the words in her mind over and over, willing away the waves of nausea that continued to rise in her throat.
“Yes, Mary. You are at the age where no single young man of marrying age would ask you likely, so we’re thinking along the line of widowers. What a blessing to ease the loneliness of a widower and take on his children. The poor lost little sheep. Yes indeed, God is calling you loudly to such a role.”
They all nodded to one another meaningfully, while Mary’s face turned pale and sickly. She reached over to lift a little niece to her lap and reached across the table for someone’s used handkerchief—never napkins, paper towels, or Kleenex—to wipe the thick, drying mucus from the little girl’s nose. A cold sensation spread across her lap, and she realized the child was soaked through her cloth diaper.
“She’s wet, Annie,” Mary said quietly.
“My bag’s beside the couch. The one on the right.”
Mary lifted the child and went to change the diaper, finding the bag and the graying, torn pre-folded diaper tucked inside. She felt pure revulsion. Couldn’t they wash their diapers properly at least? Well, perhaps Annie did her best, taking after their weary mother, who barely managed to keep her head above water.
Why was she herself so different? Or would she simply not be able to give herself up to the lifestyle expected of her? She swallowed her panic by sheer force of will. Regaining her composure, she finished changing the child, then returned to the table.
“She’s already being broken in,” Annie laughed, which resulted in broad grins and knowing looks. Mary smiled, but it was a smile edged with sadness, an insecurity clouding her eyes.
Rachel watched the shadows chasing one another across her eyes, then sat up straight, thumped her marbled black coffee cup on the tabletop, and said they needed to stop teasing Mary. All eyes went to the sister who had the nerve to call all that attention to herself.
“Perhaps Mary has no longing to raise a brood of children for some needy man who doesn’t care about her except as a help in raising his family and keeping his bed warm.”
There were horrified gasps, then. A faint, “Rachel.”
“I mean it. Mary should not be pushed into a situation in which too much is required of her.”
Mary felt the lump in her throat, her nostrils burning as she struggled to retain tears of relief.
Approaching frightening uncharted territory, a silence hung thick and suffocating, all of them unwilling to tread on dangerous ground.
“Well, no matter,” Lydia said brightly, steering the course away from the unspeakable. “Annie, did you bring those patterns?”
A hand in the air, slapped down on a substantial knee.
“ Ach , I forgot. Should have written it on the back of my hand.”
And the day was saved.
Driving home, Mary was lost in thought, the steady slap of the britchment coming down on the rounded haunches of the dependable brown mare relaxing her, erasing the nausea and moment of erratic heartbeat. She supposed it would take a while to settle into a substantial blessing, but at least she’d been able to keep from a full-blown panic attack. Was the nausea created by her own unwillingness to go where she didn’t want to? Was her heart still too stubborn?
She needed to get her mind into a healthier state, but she had no idea how to go about it. She missed her mother on days like this, but had no idea what she would have told her, having lived her whole life on the perimeter of her mother’s heart. Had she ever truly been close to her? Had any of the siblings?
A deep sense of sorrow settled across her shoulders, for the missed opportunities of having been close to her, to share her feelings, her disappointments at losing her friends to her father’s disapproval.
Her mother had never known Mary’s rage, had never seen the cold resentment mushrooming into rebellion, had stood by quietly and supported her husband’s decisions. He had spoken and she had obeyed. It all boiled down to obedience, no matter the state of the heart.
She brought the reins down lightly and chirruped to the small brown mare as the winter sun slid lower in the afternoon sky. Shafts of light appeared between heaps of gray clouds, turning a forested ridge into an ethereal sight, the fir trees laden with golden snow. An eagle glided low above the trees, its wingspan of amazing proportions. She caught a glimpse of its snow-white head and yellow beak.
The wild creatures were hungry, the white-tailed deer reaching for soft bark, pawing the snow for a taste of frozen vegetation, the occasional cache of acorns. She thought of Jessie’s warning about coyotes.
She’d have to purchase a gun, much as she disliked the idea. She’d ask her father the next time she visited. He’d know what kind of a sensible rifle or shotgun she might need.
As she turned up the snowy drive, the sight of her small brown house filled her with joy. She loved it. It was as amazing now as it had been when she signed the sheaf of papers at the settlement office.
The purchase of this house would not have been possible without the profit she made from the building she’d sold in Lancaster.
Guilt sometimes pervaded her days, cropping up like a swarm of hornets. Was it okay to make over a hundred thousand by purchasing and selling? Did God think her dishonest?
She stopped the horse by the small barn, stepped down, and flipped the reins out of the window, brought them together and slipped them through the silver ring, made a knot, and went to unfasten the britchment snap from the shaft. The mare lifted her head, her ears pricked forward. Mary sensed the movement behind the line of trees without actually seeing it. A bolt of fear shot through her.
Quickly, she went to the other side, loosened the harness from the shafts, and led her into the small barn. Skittish now, the horse had to be held firmly in check as she quickly loosened buckles and snaps, pulled the harness off her back and onto the steady hook provided for it. She’d need a cha-shank , the closet made for a harness, with doors and a latch, but it could wait till one of her brothers had time to build one. They’d done so much already.
“There you go, Honey Do,” she said, putting a rounded scoop of horse feed in her trough. “I have to come up with a better name for you.”
She brought a square of hay, placed it in the deeper part of the trough, then pushed aside the black forelock and smoothed the white star beneath it with her fingers.
“You are a honey, so Honey you will be,” she said, smiling.
What a good thing, she thought. Self-sufficient. Stabling her own horse, pushing the buggy into its own area, closing the swinging door and latching it. She pushed away the fear of whatever wild animal she might have heard with was ecstatic with thoughts of her own accomplishments.
Not very many Amish girls my age have acquired what I have.
Her father’s words rumbled in her mind and her pleasure melted away.
Hoffart . Hochmut . Selbscht lob . Every German word pertaining to pride and the love of material things slammed into her conscience.
She hung her head as she picked her way along the shoveled walkway. Her brown house seemed to reach out with open arms to envelop her into its embrace. As she stepped up on the wide front porch, she reached for the straw broom propped in the corner and swept away the accumulation of windblown snow. Movement caught her eye. A chill went up her spine. A thin graying dog, then another, stood at the line of trees, watching her.
A silent shriek tore at her throat. Suspended in time, she tried to move swiftly, but her feet seemed to be encased in cement.
She was literally unable to move as wave after wave of terror swept over her.
Another dog appeared, then another. The largest one took a step forward, its large ears like triangles. The key. Under the mat. She had to get the key. The problem was, she couldn’t move. In her mind, she relived the horror of the feral dogs’ attack, years ago. Torn and bleeding, she’d been hospitalized, the experience still vivid as she stood, trembling.
I must get the key. I must do it.
The leader of the pack took another step, then lowered its head and sniffed the ground before lifting its nose, testing the many scents in the crisp afternoon air.
With a hoarse cry, Mary flung herself to her knees and scrabbled wildly for the key. She located it with ice cold fingers, stiffened and clumsy. Her head spun. She reeled as she almost lost her balance, clinging to the doorknob as she searched for the keyhole.
Please, please.
It wouldn’t fit. She glanced wildly over her shoulder. No, no. There were more than four. A pack. They were moving, closing in, so close they moved as one animal. The key was upside down. She turned it over. It seemed to stick, so she jiggled it, and was rewarded with the satisfying click of making contact with the necessary lock. She turned the key, felt it give way, and wrenched the doorknob. She fell through to the rug inside the door and swung it shut behind her, leaning against it as her teeth rattled in her jaw. Slowly, she went to the window and peered around the frame.
They’d reached the walkway, all six of them. Long-legged, lean, with hairy coats covering empty stomachs, their fur in matted bunches of brown and gray, their yellow eyes containing a desperation.
They snuffled close to the ground, lifted noses to inhale the foreign scents of leather and horse, then turned and loped down the drive, as if they had an appointment elsewhere.
Mary began to breathe normally, but the trembling stayed for a while longer. She hung up her coat, put her bonnet on the closet shelf. She needed some form of protection. She thought longingly of her telephone at Aunt Lizzie’s. How nice it would be to call someone now, to tell them about her fright and hear a comforting voice on the other end.
Had they been wolves or coyotes? They seemed smaller than wolves but bigger than coyotes. She wished she could pull up pictures on the internet to compare.
Perhaps she should get a dog. This idea circled around her mind as she made a pot of soup, browning ground beef, cutting carrots and tomatoes, slicing cabbage. A dog would warn her of lurking predators and help scare them away. A big dog, an imposing presence when it was needed. But to have a real companion, she’d have to start with a puppy.
Puppies were trouble. They needed to be housebroken, they chewed furniture, they destroyed things, they whined and cried. Oh, she wasn’t sure. And they shed. They smelled. She was a meticulous housekeeper, couldn’t stand dirt and dust and hovering dog hair.
Amish people were not given to canine affection, especially not large dogs. No one kept big dogs in their homes, letting them snuggle in bed or curl up on the couch like another member of the family. English people loved their pets, treated them like children, but that wasn’t the Amish way—at least, not in Pinedale.
Could she do it? What would her father say? He’d think it very odd, think her a spendthrift. Too English. “Keep the dog outside,” he’d grumble. “He’ll get used to the cold.” But as much as she loved a tidy house, she also knew she couldn’t let any animal suffer outside in the cold. Domestic dogs weren’t bred to withstand the elements in the same way that wild dogs could.
As she threw in a handful of chopped tomatoes and stirred the contents of the pot, she breathed in the appetizing scent of simmering meat and vegetables, shivering involuntarily at the close call.
She really did need a good watchdog. Maybe in spring.
As she sat alone at her table with a steaming bowl of soup with saltine crackers, a small dish of applesauce, and two red beet eggs, she couldn’t help but bow her head with an overwhelming gratitude.
God was indeed looking out for her, but she also needed a commonsense plan for the remainder of the winter months. She had to feed her horse, now christened Honey, and walk to the mailbox. The mail. She’d forgotten about the mail.
She could not go now, in the gathering dusk, with those creatures hanging out in the area. Wolves, coyotes, dogs, whatever.
She thought of a potential weapon. The broom? A rake? A bread knife?
Suddenly, she wished she could talk to Steve. He’d know what to do. Perhaps she needed a husband instead of a dog.
But no, she was here now. She was no longer a fancy young Lancaster girl with dreams of marrying someone like Steve. He would think her dowdy, old and large and plain, her thick wavy hair brought into stern rolls, flattened and tightened, her covering hiding most of its beauty.
For an unsettled moment, the question taunted her. Was this who she truly was? Deep inside, was she fulfilling her destiny by pleasing her family, giving up the hopes and dreams she would not allow herself to cherish?
She was glad she had never encouraged a dating relationship with Steve, so there would be no heartache this time, no bitter resentment against her father. Steve would find someone else, they always did.
But as the evening wore on, she became increasingly restless, and found herself pacing the living room, stopping occasionally to stare unseeingly out of the long windows into the dark night, thinking of sturdy walls and the roaming animals somewhere out there in the snow.
She almost felt sorry for them, their stomachs aching with hunger, their eyes desperate with it.
She searched the bookshelves, but could not find anything at all that stoked her interest. She picked up her Bible, thumbed the pages without actually reading anything, knowing she’d find no solace if she tried.
Bible reading was mostly for the Chester Nolts of this world, men with high IQs who could understood what it all meant. She’d be ashamed to tell anyone how she really felt, although Steve had been the one she’d been most honest with. He had not made fun of her, but simply didn’t see things the same way.
She took a long, hot shower, fixed the fire for the night by adding a few heavy chunks of wood, turned out the light, and went to bed, shivering between the flannel sheets before warming slowly. The weight of the thick comforter felt wonderful, and she was becoming drowsy when she remembered to pray, sincerely thankful for the sturdy house, the safety of its four walls, and the little barn housing the horse, Honey.
S OMETIME AFTER SHE’D fallen asleep, the wind picked up, sending twigs and pinecones skittering across the frozen snow, bending the tips of fir trees like synchronized dancers. Smoke from the chimney rose and was hurled across the night sky. Across ridges and mountains, the deer curled tightly beneath giant oaks in patches of brush and beside fallen logs, the deep snow serving as walls of protection. The pack of coyotes roamed the hills till they fell in pockets of deep snow in ravines and hollows, put their noses below their hind legs, their thin tails wrapped around lean, hungry bodies, and tried to sleep.
In the morning, Mary, armed with the garden rake, her pale face and frightened eyes darting from right to left, slipped and slid on her way to the barn, returned safely, and made herself go to the mailbox, arriving there completely out of breath and absolutely terrified. She grabbed the few envelopes and, using her rake as a hiking pole, she moved as fast as possible up the slippery drive, her skirts whipping around her legs, her face numb as she approached the welcoming porch.
Thank you, Lord, for this , she thought.
A statement from the bank. A plea for money from St. Jude’s Hospital. And an ordinary-looking white envelope with neat, block writing and no return address.
Her heart leaped? Could it be? Would he have written?
She went to the kitchen drawer for a paring knife, slit the top of the envelope, pulled out the pages, and quickly found the signature.
Aunt Lizzie. She sighed, steadied herself, and began to read, the disappointment sagging into a kitchen chair along with her.