Chapter 13
C HAPTER 13
H E TOLD THE UBER DRIVER HE HAD THE ADDRESS, fumbled IN HIS wallet, and produced it with an apology. He’d kept him waiting, and perceived the impatience, but found him quite amiable once they were on their way.
The driver had moved here from Boston to be close to his girlfriend and her family, but hadn’t been prepared for the culture shock. It was like moving backward fifty years, he said. And these Amish people and their horses and buggies on every turn of these narrow country roads were nothing short of a traffic hazard.
“Like, man, I don’t even mean it as an insult, but Jeez.”
Steve grinned, nodded.
“It’s quite alright. I suppose for someone accustomed to city life, this is a change for you.”
“It’s a change, alright. What creeps me out most is how dark it gets. Like, it’s black, man. Black.”
“Even with the snow?”
“Snow doesn’t mean anything. It’s dark.”
The road gave way to a narrow pot-holed one, winding in and out of hollows and along snowy hillsides. Stop signs loomed unexpectedly at unforeseen curves, the road leading up steep hills and down again.
Ahead of them, Steve saw the familiar gray rectangle of an Amish buggy with the brilliant red-orange “slow moving vehicle” emblem in stark relief. When they passed on the left, Steve was surprised to see a sweat-stained horse lunging exhaustedly into his worn collar, his thin neck outstretched as his feet dutifully plodded along.
Steve slanted a look at the driver.
When they reached their destination, Steve felt his heart pounding. He could feel the color draining from his face. More courage was required of him than he’d thought possible. As they wound their way up the snowy drive, he was struck by the small brown house tucked beside a tree-covered ridge. Idyllic. It was the cutest thing. His heart raced, and he stammered when he tried to speak.
“Your friend at home? Better check,” the driver commented.
“I’ll be fine.”
He paid, got his duffle, and stood, sizing up his surroundings as the car moved off with a slight swaying motion as the tires slid on packed snow.
Board and batten siding, a deep front porch, tall front windows. Whoever had built this little house had certainly done well, the exterior blending into the forest.
Ah. Mary, Mary.
A great warmth enveloped him, an unexplainable happiness for her. Had she found a measure of peace?
Resolutely, he walked the short distance to the porch, noticed the flagstone on the floor, the heavy door, the concrete urns on each side.
He lifted his hand and knocked.
The door opened slowly, the bewildered face belonging to the one he had missed more than he knew.
“Mary.”
“Oh.”
Almost, she closed the door in his face, but she steadied herself, her eyes wide with the shock of seeing him.
“Oh. Oh my.”
A hand went to her mouth. Then, gathering her senses, she said, “Steve. Hello. Come in, please.”
And he stepped over the threshold into the cozy living room lit by the flow of the afternoon sun and the dancing of a million pieces of stardust. He thought he might never want to leave again.
When she turned to him, he extended a hand.
“Hello, Mary. How are you?”
She felt his strong grip but extricated her hand quickly.
She nodded. “I’m fine. Doing well, in fact.”
Self-conscious now, she touched her covering, smoothed her hair. A hand went to the belt of her plain gray apron.
He searched her face, surprised to see the healthy color in her cheeks, the golden glow with the smattering of freckles, her eyes barely concealing her self-awareness, the shame of her appearance.
“You look as if New York suits you,” he said, smiling.
She shook her head. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“Don’t say that.”
“But. . . . Ach , Steve. I’m not the Mary you knew in Lancaster. I . . . I look like your grandmother.”
“It’s okay, believe me. You’re still the same Mary to me.”
“But. . . .”
She shook her head, took in his Carhartt coat with a hood and zipper, the gray hiking boots, the yellow shirt and black vest.
His longish hair was tousled, and yes, he was hatless. A deep sense of loss took away the gladness she’d felt at the sight of him.
“Steve, I . . .”
He stepped forward, asked her to look at him. She refused.
“Well, I’m here till Monday morning, so do you have a place I can put my duffel? If you don’t, we’ll just set it here in the living room, and I’ll be quite comfortable on the couch.”
“But you can’t stay.” Panic edged her voice.
“Why not? Do you have plans?”
She shook her head. Her breath came in gasps.
“Will you have unexpected visitors?”
Again, she shook her head, mute.
“Look, Mary, you wrote that letter.”
“Yes, but I didn’t think it would bring you to my door. You can’t stay here. It would never be allowed by my father or by the rest of the community, really. I mean, I hardly know how else to say it. You can’t. I mean, you can’t sleep here.”
“I’m sorry, Mary. I should have written to ask before coming. I didn’t happen to see any hotels on the way here. Could I perhaps stay with a relative?”
“No!” The thought of him seeing the way her family lived was horrifying.
He was aware of her conscience being directed by the severity of the circle in which she moved. He felt like a fool, putting her in this difficult position. And yet, he really didn’t see any other option now that he was here. Unless . . .
“Shall I stay in the barn?” he asked without a hint of mockery.
“Don’t be silly,” she answered quickly. “There’s a small guest room, if you want to place your belongings there. On the right. My . . . uh . . . my bedroom is on the left.”
Dressed in a dark purple dress with a gray apron pinned around her waist, her large covering concealing most of those abundant red waves, he decided she was, in fact, dressed like his grandmother. But somehow, on her, it was charming.
“Coffee? Tea?” she asked.
“Coffee would be great.”
The kitchen was small, but so perfect, with quality oak cabinets, a hardwood floor, quietly and tastefully furnished. The back door looked out on another porch, the window above the sink spotless, adorned with small brown pots of ivy. He was relieved to see she owned a gas stove and a small gas refrigerator, which meant they allowed that much.
She had her back turned to fill the coffeepot, so he could not see her face, which was being heated by a furious, unwelcome blush of epic proportion. She took a deep breath and opened the refrigerator door to hide as much as possible. He had certainly caught her off guard, arriving unannounced, looking every inch the true Lancaster young man, dressed in expensive clothes, way out of the ordnung according to her father. He’d never pass inspection. He didn’t belong here. And what had possessed her to write that letter?
A moment of insanity, that’s what. She shuddered inwardly.
He simply was not allowed to be here.
When he returned, his coat and vest were missing, and he was in his stocking feet. Panic rose, a deepening despair coupled with the pounding of a heart bursting with raw fear. She sat heavily in a chair, her chest rising and falling as color drained from her face.
“Mary. Is something wrong?”
“No. I’m just going to step outside for a minute.”
Oh, the relief of cold air flooding her nostrils. She sucked in the frigid, moist air that gave her renewed life. Her hands shook as she tucked them beneath her arms.
She heard the door open. He stepped out on the porch.
“Are you okay?”
“Yes. Just give me a minute, please.”
When he turned to go inside, the knowledge of how unwell she really was hit him like a sledgehammer. He could see the whole picture in a flash of wisdom, reality slamming him. She was here, had brought herself into subjection, still blind and fumbling, still unaware of who she really was. Dear Lord, this is up to you , was his last thought before he sank into a chair, exhaustion seeping into his being, the task at hand a steep cliff he had no strength to scale.
He did not look up when she entered.
“I don’t know what to do, Steve. You shouldn’t have come.”
“I won’t stay long, Mary. I have a return ticket for Monday at nine forty-five.”
“You can’t go outside.”
“Why not?”
“Someone might see you. Neighbors. Word gets around.”
“Alright. I’ll stay inside.”
That statement seemed to relax her, give her enough confidence to resume the ordinary task of procuring cups and cream.
“I’m sure you’re hungry. It will soon be suppertime.”
He was, in fact, ravenous, but told her he didn’t want to be a bother.
The coffee was hot, strong, and thick with cream. She brought a plate of cookies, without speaking. An awkward silence hung between them.
Finally, he cleared his throat, took a deep breath, and began.
“Mary, can we merely be friends? Catch up on our lives?”
She looked up, hope rekindling the light in her eyes.
“We can, I believe.”
“Tell me about yours.”
“There’s not much to tell. I love my little house. My father is happy, says he can rest in peace when he dies, so that’s, you know, something. I mean, that’s what I wanted when I moved here. I clean houses now. For English people.”
“Do you enjoy that?”
“Yes. Well, for the most part. It pays my bills.”
“But are you happy?”
“Sometimes. Not always. But life isn’t all about our own happiness. If we can give ourselves up, happiness forms naturally.”
He nodded in agreement.
“You . . . must think I look ridiculous.”
“Of course not.”
By all outward appearances, they were ill matched as a couple, but he knew now more than ever, his life would somehow be dedicated to her. She was in every fiber of his being, although he did not fully understand it. She was here dressed in all the right clothes on the outside, and he suspected there was a roiling mass of pain and confusion on the inside. The craziness of humanity struck him, the hurts we inflict on one another with no awareness whatsoever, all while feeling satisfied and righteous.
And so he smiled, offered to help her with supper.
“If we were in Lancaster, I’d offer to order pizza.”
Instantly, her shoulders stiffened. “We can’t do that.”
“Of course. I was just saying . . .”
“I have some leftover chili. And I could make grilled cheese sandwiches?”
“Perfect.”
The sun slid toward the mountaintop as they sat down together. He went to the living room to stand by the windows, commenting on the gorgeous view, and she absorbed the sight of him standing in her living room.
I can’t have him , she thought wildly. I can’t. What came over me to think I could? It all started when Dat lovingly mentioned my fancy blinds. I was rebellious, and the devil had a foothold. I must have the power over my own desire. I must replace those blinds. Obedience is the way to truth.
He turned, his fair hair like a halo, his yellow shirt a beacon of light. She could not look.
“You’re one lucky girl, Mary. It’s really beautiful here. I can see why you love New York so much.”
“Right?”
“Oh, absolutely. I could easily live here myself. Is there carpentry work available?”
He watched her closely, and recorded the stiffening of her shoulders, the edge to her voice, her eyes clouded with fear.
“I . . . no, not that I know of.”
“You would not want me here?”
She told him, then, in a straightforward manner, there was no way he could live here in Pinedale. Not now, not ever. And when she wrote that letter, it was merely missing an old friend, and if she’d realized he’d come to visit, she’d never have written.
“I don’t believe you,” he said, as they sat on the couch together, a whole cushion length between them.
Shocked, she turned to face him, her eyes wide.
“But you have to. It’s the truth.”
“Is it, Mary?”
“Of course.”
“There was something between us. You know that. We both know.”
She shook her head. “All that was ever between us was the human desire and self will we need to conquer. We have to see that. We are not meant for each other at all. Look, I’m not going to talk about this. I have to feed my horse.”
She got up, moved to the clothes rack to take down the plain black coat and scarf, then let herself out the door without another word.
He walked back to the small guest room, put on his coat and shoes, opened the door, and followed the path in the deep snow outside. He remember her warning then, and glanced around to make sure no neighbors were in sight. The odor of fresh hay and horse feed greeted him, and he smiled when he noticed the absence of manure, only a clean scattering of wood shaving. The barn, like the house, was organized and spotless.
“What’s your horse’s name?” he asked quietly.
“This is Honey. A lovely little mare from my brother Abner.”
“He gave her to you?”
“I’m making payments, but it was very kind of him.”
“It certainly was.”
“You think so, right?”
“I would say so.”
She seemed glad of his approval, saying her brother was a good husband and father, a true man. Guilt and shame were stuffed away as she hid the troubling knowledge of drowned kittens and an exhausted wife bearing children every year. She must stay true to the path she had chosen, could not be misled to another road filled with confusion.
“I would enjoy meeting your family, seeing their homes, actually, the rest of the community. Do you have church tomorrow?”
“No. You couldn’t go. You don’t have your church clothes.”
“I brought them.”
“Well, you can’t go.”
Back outside, the moon had risen, the night sky filled with its pale yellow light, countless stars scattered across a vast area, the snow adding to the beauty of the night.
Without realizing, she closed the door and took up the garden rake.
“What? Why are you carrying a rake?”
“Oh. It’s . . . well, I guess I rake the snow when I’m bored.”
He laughed, a rich unrestrained sound that caused her to giggle.
The humor eased the tension, and a companionable silence settled between them. He asked if she wanted to go for a walk, which she considered, but told him about the warning of coyotes.
“You won’t be hurt by them. They’re extremely shy.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve been around.”
“Hmm.”
“Come on, let’s walk.”
She nodded and they set off, their breath coming in little white puffs in the freezing night atmosphere, the snow crunching beneath their feet.
“So many hills and valleys. Must be hard to farm here,” he noted.
“Some of the more well-to-do farmers paid more for land and own more level acreage along the river between these hills. My father, well, I told you all that. It was a hardscrabble kind of life, I guess. But they live in a nice grandfather house now. It’s different than it used to be. I mean, he’s different.”
Steve chose to stay quiet, wondering how true that was. She babbled on nervously. “I mean, Mima, my stepmother, really cleaned him up. He’s actually better looking. His hair is clean, and he seems more gracious or something. He approves of me now, which gives me lots of peace. And I try to understand his way of looking at . . . well, things.”
She hesitated, then continued.
“I mean. I do love him. I wore my shawl and bonnet to their house a few weeks ago, and it meant so much. To him, not so much to me. He said he can rest in peace now. But I did tell you that. So as long as I can please him by giving up my own will, I can live my life with a free conscience, knowing I am an honor to my parents. I mean, I try to be.”
She gave a small laugh.
“He did say something about the color of my blinds, but it was said out of love. I mean, he wants what is right for me.”
She sighed, before rambling on about green blinds and the forefathers requiring obedience.
“Let’s turn back, Mary. I’m getting cold,” he said suddenly.
“Fine with me.”
Once inside, she told him about the rake and the coyotes, how real her fear had been. Seemingly, honesty was winning, at least in a few areas.
They sat side by side then, and talked, really talked, far into the night. Eventually, Mary slid to the floor, and Steve sprawled on his stomach on the rug, cups of coffee between them.
Mary laughed and cried, admitting she was trying very hard to find her way, finally relaying in detail the fury when her father approached her about the blinds.
“If you change them, what will be next?” he said.
“Exactly!”
“Leave them,” he said forcefully.
“Steve, you stop. You are fer-fearish , pointing me straight down the road to perdition. You know that. We are Amish people, and a certain respect and obedience is expected of us.”
“But this is ridiculous.”
And they argued, in a healthy way, airing their views until Steve told her she was not being truthful, not being herself, and that she came very close to living a lie, which infuriated her.
He smiled into his forearms, his blond hair tousled over his forehead while she told him he had far too much nerve, acting like he knew anything about her, a perfect stranger. And he told her she was by no means a perfect stranger and never would be.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she snorted.
“I think you know.”
“I told you, we are the world’s most unlikely couple. I don’t even think of you as an attractive suitor.”
“Yes, you do.”
She challenged him by asking how he could think he knew her better than she knew herself, and he shrugged his shoulders and pretended to fall asleep.
Outside, the high yipping of coyotes sounded, followed by the eerie howls of primal animals.
“They sound close,” Steve remarked, opening his eyes, getting to his feet, and going to the window. She followed him. They waited in silence as the moon slid lower toward the mountain.
“There,” Steve said suddenly, pointing.
Down by the road, along a snowbank, first one, then two more shadows trotted by. Lean, long dogs, likely without sufficient food for too many days.
“Poor buggers,” he said soft and low.
“They kill deer. Why pity them?” Mary asked.
“Guess I just do. They’re God’s creatures, same as everything else.”
She nodded, thought of beaten dogs and drowning kittens, of faithful mules lacking nutrition, and cows with hammer marks on their hip bones. And obedience pounded into young lives.
He was standing too close, the way she caught the scent of his aftershave and the fabric softener in his shirt.
She stepped away. It was late at night, the devil’s hour, when he stalked around seeking whom he may devour, and she had come dangerously close to his skulking ways.
He chuckled.
“Why did you move?”
“Because I’m going to shower and go to bed. Goodnight.”
And that was precisely what she did. He was just drifting off when he heard a light tapping on his door.
“If you don’t have enough covers, there are more in the closet.”
“Thank you,” he said, smiling.
H E GOT UP early, expecting his usual early morning shower, surprised to find a light in the kitchen and Mary standing with her back turned, a cascade of wavy red hair caught in a loose ponytail on a white robe.
It was a heartbreaking sight, and one he had never expected to see.
He turned away, suppressing the urge to go to the kitchen, speak of his love.
He showered, donned clean clothes, a flannel shirt of navy blue and his black Sunday trousers, then went to the kitchen and sat on a chair, lifted one knee to strip a sock over the foot.
“Good morning, Mary. Did you sleep well?” he asked casually as he rolled the sock over his heel.
“No. But good morning.”
“Why didn’t you sleep?”
She shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe because it’s the first time I had a guest, I don’t know.”
They drank coffee together like a married couple, talked about Pinedale and its inhabitants, the neighbors and the ladies she cleaned for, the air between them cleared of falsehoods or guilt.
During the night, unseen forces had broken barriers, and Mary allowed herself a small reprieve. Reluctantly, she admitted to herself that for the first time in a long time, she felt like herself.