Chapter 14
C HAPTER 14
T HEY FRIED SCRAPPLE, MADE PANCAKES AND EGGS, TOASTED HOME- made bread, and ate together at the kitchen table, the sun hidden by a thick cover of clouds. There was no wind, just a frosty stillness broken by the occasional call of a bird.
“Do you want to have devotions, Mary?” he asked when the meal was finished.
“You mean read the Bible together? Chester did devotions when we went to Maine, but I didn’t think Amish people did that.”
“You’re serious?”
“Well, of course I’m serious. My father never did any of that. He read the German evening prayer and that was that. We didn’t read our Bible, especially not in English. Go ahead if you want, but I don’t think I’ll join you.” She thought of how Chester had tried to explain the Bible to her that morning in Maine, and then considered how wrong it had been to take that trip at all. It made her feel a little ill.
He said nothing. Devotions had been a morning ritual for Steve, always. Bible reading, taking turns around the table to read verses, then singing a few hymns, sometimes in English, other times in German. Although he had known there was great diversity among his people, it was hard to accept the lack of taught morning devotions.
They cleared the table and washed dishes while the gray clouds turned to churning white ones, and then the sun broke through, creating brilliant light throughout the house. He sat on his bed in the guest room to read a chapter in Romans, then went to the living room to find Mary fast asleep on the recliner, her covering on the table beside it.
She didn’t wake up, so he lay on the couch and drifted off himself, alarmed to find it was past one when he awoke.
Less than twenty-four hours before he had to leave.
Mary said they had to stay inside, too many teams traveled past on a Sunday, and if she got caught, she’d likely have to confess in church. Steve was incredulous, shaking his head.
“It’s the way it is here,” she said, tight-lipped and defensive.
“But what about us, Mary? I know you say nothing will come of this, but what if I go home and the first thing I want to do is turn around and come straight back? I can guarantee you that’s how it will be.”
For a long moment, she said nothing. Finally, she sighed.
“Steve, I don’t know. I cannot go back to Lancaster, and you are never going to fit in here. One look at you and my father would run you off. There is no ‘us,’ as you call it. Isn’t there some special girl in Lancaster?”
“Is that what you want?”
“Yes.”
But later that evening, she said no, she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to pursue someone else. Then she said again they would always be friends, but not dating, not a dating couple.
He told her she wasn’t being fair, that she was giving mixed messages, but she insisted there was no way they could be anything but friends.
He went for a long walk. He needed to clear his thinking, he said— he promised he was not doing it to be rude or disrespectful. She watched him go and immediately felt a sense of loss.
When he returned, it seemed as if he had reached an agreement with himself. He’d been so sure of God’s leading, so sure of Him working this out somehow, but for now, he had to admit defeat.
He could see no way through.
This invoked a greediness in her, a longing to have her own fair share of happiness, and why shouldn’t she? “Sometimes,” she confessed, “I don’t know why I had to come here, why I sold the bakery.”
Bewildered, heartsick, no longer sure of his own answers, without the courage to cling to what he thought God had clearly shown him, he spent the evening in near silence, while she poured out her deepest fear: Being found unworthy when Christ returned.
“I’ll tell you what, Steve, and this is the truth. If it was only God, Jesus, whoever, and me, I could live happily and forever in Lancaster with you. But it’s that sickening sensation of living on the wrong side of the tracks, and the condemnation of being disobedient.
“Is my father’s sadness greater than the grace by which Jesus saves? Sometimes I feel as if I’ll go mad with never being able to find the whole answer.
“I live here now, dress ultra plain, and am pleasing to my family. This is truly living in self-denial. Do I have the blessing I long for? I honestly don’t know. I haven’t had a panic attack, so that’s something. Sometimes I’m even happy. I love my home. It feels good to have my father accept me.”
Then she went on to tell him about her glimpse of the faith of Abraham, how righteousness was allotted to him by believing what God told him, then obeying his belief.
“I don’t personally believe I have to dress like this to please God, but my father does, so . . . I don’t know. I get all mixed up. But for one space of time, a light shone through and I understood about faith, felt all lighthearted and sure of myself, sat down and wrote that letter. And then went straight back to worrying about what my father would think if you came.”
He nodded and told her he understood. Perhaps it was best that they parted ways. Maybe God had someone else in mind for each of them, or maybe He was calling them to singleness.
She nodded, agreeing. “We can do this, Steve. It’s not like we’re giggling teenagers with crushes and no idea what real love is.”
He nodded. “Yes, Mary. I believe you’re right. We’ll try it and see what happens.”
But on Monday morning, with the Uber driver waiting in the driveway, the parting was almost more than they could stand.
In the end, he crushed her to him, held her as if the thought of releasing her was unbearable. She sobbed on his chest, and his tears were mixed with hers in the universal language of love.
She watched him walk away, put his duffel in the back seat, climb in, lift a hand, and the vehicle moved away through a haze of tears. She flung herself on the couch and cried great gulping sobs of frustration and loneliness, then sighed, sat up, and wiped her eyes, telling herself it was the right thing to do.
She would be blessed beyond anything she could imagine. She’d given up the bakery, her home in Lancaster, and now Steve, so surely the riches of her blessing would be forthcoming.
T HE DAY STARTED off well enough, her wringer washer filled with hot water and detergent, the extra towels and washcloths on the line, the house dusted and swept. She had just dozed off when the insistent blare of a car horn awoke her. Irritated, she got off the chair to find Art in the Jeep, yelling about Jessie wanting to know if she wanted to ride along to the library.
“Why not?” she yelled back. “I’ll go.”
Why not indeed. She needed a few good books to fill her mind. She would fall in love with the characters, take a healthy interest in someone else’s life, and forget all the drama that had just taken place.
She put on a clean apron, fixed her hair and adjusted her covering, grabbed her purse, and rode to town with Jessie.
“Did I see a young man walking down the road? I would almost have taken him for Amish except he wasn’t wearing a hat. And I think he was wearing a Carhartt. Hooded.”
“Dunno,” Mary mumbled, suddenly interested in the scenery on the right.
“I don’t know, Mary. I’d be sure and lock my doors. I’m telling you, you need a dog.”
She chose a few books, one of them about a long hike a woman took alone, thinking that might hold her interest, the way she’d often wondered at someone like that. They certainly had courage, these lone hikers.
They stopped at the IGA for a few groceries, then went to the local Quick Mart for gas, with Jessie keeping up a lively chatter about local gossip, logging accidents, the price of a dozen eggs, and the stupidity of New York’s governor and the country in general. Mary nodded at the proper intervals, grunted approval or said “Seriously?” or “Really?” when an answer was expected, but her mind was mostly occupied with Steve.
His facial expressions, the way he ran his hand through his hair, his laugh. And that navy blue flannel shirt. Oh my.
What a married couple they were, she in her bathrobe, he sitting there drawing his socks over his feet. Oh my. And what would her father say? He would be outraged, then sullen, after which she’d receive the lecture of her life.
She opened the book about the hiker named Audrey, became so engrossed in the story she didn’t go to bed till past twelve, and that after a weekend of barely any sleep. So when Karen Baxter pulled up to the house and lay on the horn, it was all she could do to be civil, disliking the way her polished nails were far too long and slim and red on her fat fingers with the vast assortment of rings. No wonder she didn’t clean her house.
The house was small, but opulent, the Sub-Zero refrigerator in dire need of a good cleaning, so she spent an extra half hour, dragging herself from room to room. But, as always, at the end of the day, she felt a sense of accomplishment as she received a crisp roll of bills, and this time it included a twenty-dollar tip.
Unfadeend gelt instantly came to mind. Her father would call it “unearned money,” which was another sin. But she had earned it, the way those refrigerator shelves gleamed. Still, her father’s scowl lurked in the back of her mind.
Would she never be free?
S TEVE WENT BACK to Lancaster and told his mother she must have been right, and he would have done well to heed her advice.
He described Mary’s home in glowing terms, but ended his account by telling her how Mary wavered from one position to the next, and was still held in the grip of her father’s dictatorship.
“Then it’s best for you to forget her,” his mother said.
Every word was a dagger to his heart, the hurt making him actually wince. He knew his mother meant well, thought she was probably right, but the hurt was there, just the same.
Wisely, she saw the damage she’d inflicted, laid a hand on his arm, and said, “Steve, you know if it’s God’s will, neither of us can alter the course. So I’ll keep praying, and so shall you.”
Those words were like a drink of cold water to a man dying of heat and thirst, allowing him to whistle soft and low as he drove the horses, resuming life with a peaceful heart.
S PRING CAME IN late March, flirting deceptively, wearing yellow daffodils and purple crocus, batting her eyelashes with soft fragrant breezes, then moved away to allow cold winds to howl in from the north, bending the shivering flowers in its wake. Mary piled wood on the fire and grumbled to herself, thinking how long and how arduous these New York winters truly seemed to be.
Sometimes she felt as if she would have a permanent scent of Mr. Clean about her, emanating from beneath her fingernails and from the palms of her hands. But losing a few pounds here and there amounted to something, didn’t it?
Jessie brought the message one morning. She was needed at home. Her parents were both very ill, the family debating whether they should be taken to the emergency room.
So she shut the draft on the stove, fed Honey, packed a few clothes just in case, and bounced off with alarming speed with Art at the wheel of the Jeep.
She found her sister-in-law Emma hovering over her father, the house reeking of homemade tinctures, the windows streaming with high heat and humidity from the kettles of steaming water. Onions lay in slices on ceramic plates, glasses of warm grape juice with bent straws littered the counters. She joined Emma, alarmed to see the pronounced rise and fall of her father’s chest, the high wheezing of every breath.
In the bedroom, Mima lay quietly, her white sleep cap tied beneath her chin, a stained flannel nightgown clinging to the steamed onion poultice on her chest. Her round face appeared much younger, relaxed, as if the sickness was becoming.
Mary shuddered. This was not good.
“Emma, where’s Abner?”
“He was in about an hour ago.”
“They need help, both of them.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am. Dat is very sick. Is he even conscious?”
“He spoke earlier this morning.”
She found Abner in the house, eating graham crackers with peanut butter and with milk.
“Abner, I think it’s time our parents had medical help.”
He chewed and swallowed. “Who will pay for it?”
“He has some money laid by. That’s what we’ll use, of course.”
“I hate to see it go to waste. I believe it’s the flu.”
Mary counted to ten, calming herself before replying.
“Abner, they’re too weak to get in a vehicle. We need an ambulance.”
“Are you going to call for one?”
“No, you are. I’m staying here with Lydia.”
After what seemed like hours had passed, the howling of the ambulance siren sent chills up her spine.
As the flashing red lights sent pink shadows on the walls, she held the door for the two men dressed in navy blue, the red logo on their pockets bearing the name of the firehall where they originated.
They spoke quietly and went to her father, whose eyes opened wide with alarm, followed by a thrashing of his arms and legs, a twisting of his face, a resounding “No-o-o.” A hideous, rasping wail of denial.
“Mr. Glick, everything will be okay. You’ll be fine,” the man named Scott intoned in a soothing voice.
Again, the long drawn-out sound, a hollow refusal of medical care.
Abner stepped forward.
“I believe my father wants to refuse treatment, and we need to respect his wishes.”
Instantly, Mary stepped up. “No, he needs the help.”
Abner nodded. “Yes, Mary, if he wishes not to go to a hospital, we need to obey.”
“But he needs antibiotics. He needs a doctor’s care. Please!”
The EMTs stood, then went ahead with the required protocol, recording blood pressure, taking his temperature, inserting an IV, the life-giving solution he so badly needed.
Mima went willingly and was gently laid on the provided stretcher, which was almost more than Mary could take. She pleaded with Abner to allow them to take their father.
Undecided, Abner looked down at his father, who had apparently lost consciousness. Upon Mary’s insistence, he, too, was laid on a stretcher, his unbelievably thin frame heartbreaking in its helplessness.
Abner rode along, his face red with anger, resistance setting his face in stone.
And Mary stayed with Emma. Malinda joined them, her face drawn with a lack of sleep, the concern for her in-laws an act of love and caring.
“ Ach , Mary. I’m so glad you came.”
Mary smiled as she clasped her sister-in-law’s hand.
“I’m glad you sent a message. I’m just worried for both of them.”
“You think they’ll be okay?”
“I don’t know.”
If they regained their health, it was the will of God; if not, then that, too, was the will of God, so they would give themselves up.
Together, they cleaned, aired out the scent of boiling onion and homemade herbal tinctures. Small brown bottles of oils were put back on the bathroom shelves, bedding was washed and aired in the sweet scent of flowering trees.
Malinda brought the two toddlers, a five-year-old, and the baby, seated herself on her father’s rocker, and promptly began to nurse while the remaining three sat quietly on the couch with a stack of Mima’s Little Golden books. Mary listened as her wide cheeks accentuated the opening and closing of her mouth, words of praise for Mima, how long she’d cared for their father before falling ill herself.
Emma, thin as a rail with her hair plastered darkly to her head, nodded as she scoured the sink, countertop, and stove, her red, large-knuckled hands in constant motion.
“Yes, the day she became his wife, she did us all a favor. Can you imagine Dat without her? Someone would have their hands full.”
Mary stopped the rhythmic drawing of the broom, her mouth dropping open in surprise. She, in fact, knew exactly what it was like to care for him, but she never thought Emma would speak in such a way.
“Oh, but Emma, it is our duty to care for him.”
“Duty patootie. He’s a cranky old man, and I for one, would have a hard time of it. I never did one thing right for him.”
“Emma! I’m shocked.”
“Well, be shocked, then. I can’t help it. He never liked me.”
Mary stopped sweeping. A hysterical mixture of incredulity, of laughing and crying, welled up inside of her.
“You mean it’s not just me?”
“Of course not. It’s you and half the community.”
“But you are in the ordnung . I thought it was only me, on account of not obeying his words.”
“Of course I’m in the ordnung . We all are. We believe in the rules of the church. But that doesn’t mean he’s satisfied.”
After the floor was scrubbed on hands and knees, Mary emptied the bucket, rinsed it, replaced it beneath the sink, and hung the microfiber cloth over the side of the rinse tubs. A row of succulents in all stages of growth were potted in small plastic containers, all painted white, a testimony to Jemima’s eye for beauty and order, her own small corner of creativity. A wave of understanding nudged her to the narrow windowsill, where she reached out to touch the small containers. As she’d thought, they were single serve yogurt containers, spray painted, a thing of frugal prettiness.
Oh, Mima. I know, she thought. We’re squelched down, repressed, and yet we create and find beauty. She thought of her bedroom in Lancaster at Aunt Lizzie’s house, the disassembling of beauty, the disposing of forbidden wall art, cushions, and rugs. And yet she’d acquired more, pieces of tasteful furniture matching the cottage vibe of her small brown house, arranging things of beauty, a place where she was surrounded by things that made her happy. She’d decorated the white walls of the bakery with fine antiques, doubled her money on them when she sold it, and was still searching for items now.
Would this, too, be added to her father’s list of sins?
And now Emma’s disclosure. She vowed to get to the source of those painfully honest words.
She sniffed as she returned to the kitchen. Hungry, as usual, she found a pot of home-canned vegetable soup on the stove. Malinda opened a jar of canned hamburger meat. She grabbed an onion from the bin in the pantry and proceeded to chop in furious hacks with a paring knife.
Emma wiped the storm door window with crumpled newspaper, the old remedy for spotless windows. She used a bottle of vinegar water with a spray attachment and crumpled paper, costing only pennies and creating better cleaned windows than Windex and paper towels, or those horrendously expensive Norwex cloths that were all the rage in Lancaster.
Mary smiled, thinking of her own accumulation of Norwex cloths, all stacked neatly in a drawer, a lavish lifestyle well hidden from eyes that judged, eyes that sniffed with disdain.
The thought of God seeing those cloths, knowing her checkbook showed the alarming amount for only two of them, made her hope no one would ever have the privilege of snooping into her financial affairs.
Did God care about what you used to clean windows? He knew how much she spent, but would He hold it against her on the day of judgment?
Emma finished, pitched the ball of newspaper in the trashcan, then set the bottle of vinegar water on the turntable beneath the sink.
“Well, now they can come home to a clean house. Malinda, open that window by the sink. We need to air this place out. It’s a wonder they didn’t die just from all these onions.”
Mary stared at her.
“Don’t look at me like that, Mary. I’m just saying what I think.”
Mary sighed, sank into a chair.
“It’s just that I have never heard you talk like this.”
“Hm. Well, I have lived here in Pinedale with my father-in-law for many years, and I’ve decided it’s time to voice my grievances. I tell my husband as much, whether he wants to hear it or not.”
“But . . .” Mary shook her head.
“What?” Emma asked, stooping to pick up a few children’s books.
“I thought you were all one big, happy family. All pleasing to Dat, all complying to his wishes, all winning his hard-earned approval.”
Malinda nodded. “We are. I mean, we do.”
She reached behind her ample waistline to adjust a straight pin.
“Abner and I don’t have a problem. If you respect Dat, he treats you well.”
Emma drew her mouth in a straight line and didn’t answer. Mary looked from one to the other, feeling as if she could slice the tension like a freshly baked pie.
This was, in fact, extremely interesting. She would love to question Emma, knowing how she, Mary, had always felt like the sole black sheep, the outcast, and now it seemed as if there was one in the inner circle, one of the obedient members. Or was there?
Perhaps her father didn’t mean his words to be perceived the way Emma took them, knowing she was thin and brittle, perhaps a bit waspish, and her father’s severity chafed at her own views.
As if Emma had been mulling this reply for too long, she snapped suddenly. “Yes, Malinda. You can say that for yourself. But I choose to have a mind of my own. This thing of having large families should not be the father of the groom’s choice. And I’ll have you know, Malinda, on our wedding day, he told Jonas of his views on that matter, and I can’t forgive him for that.”
Malinda gasped audibly. “Why Emma, you must. If you can’t forgive him, you can’t be forgiven. It says so very plainly when you say the Lord’s prayer.”
“That area of marriage should be between man and wife, and he had no business meddling in our affairs.”
She set the pot of steaming vegetable soup on a cast iron trivet in the middle of the oilcloth-covered table, which promptly puckered up beneath the heat. No one seemed to care, so Mary let it go, watching as Malinda herded her group of children to the table, crumpling saltines in their dishes and ladling out the steaming soup.