Chapter 16
C HAPTER 16
W HEN HER FATHER TOOK HIS LAST brEATH, THERE WAS NO ONE TO see, not even Mima. He died alone, on a windy night in May, when Mima had gone home to get some rest, the night nurse making her rounds when the alarm sounded. They had all expected it, but when the time arrived, it was still a shock. The finality of it simply rocked Mary’s world, and she sobbed into her pillow at night, putting on a good face for Tiger’s sake during the day.
As was the custom, Abner and Malinda’s farm was swarmed with community members who cleaned barns and sheds and the house, preparing for funeral services. Mima and the eleven children, their spouses, and many grandchildren sat together in the house for two days, dressed in black. Meals were prepared and served by volunteers as the children wrote the obituary and arranged the funeral services. It was all done like a well-oiled machine, everyone seeing to his or her duty, working together in the way they had been taught.
In her grief, Mary left a message for Steve. She didn’t have the energy to wrestle with whether it was right or wrong to do so, and she needed a friend.
T HE DAY OF the funeral was a beautiful spring day in New York. A breeze ruffled new green leaves, sent blossoms on fruit trees drifting to earth, covering the ground in a soft white layer. The sun seemed to add a touch of benevolence, a heralding of things to come, leaving that which was behind, the cold and the fury of winter.
Mary sat with her family, her red hair brought into subjection, her covering large and made according to New York requirements.
Hundreds of friends and relatives crowded into the large equipment shed, most of whom Mary didn’t know. How precious, though, the arrival of Aunt Lizzie and her girls, the husbands so neat, so cleaned up. She felt a sense of embarrassment at her own appearance, but Lizzie gathered her warmly into an embrace of loving kindness, followed in turn by each of the girls.
The tears flowed for Mary, and wise Aunt Lizzie recognized their tears for what they were, though most did not. Everyone in Pinedale commented on Mary’s grief, how hard it was for her to lose her beloved father, and it was such a good thing she had him to point her in the right direction. The prodigals were always grateful to their benefactor. It had been proved over and over.
As the funeral service was conducted, Mary wept silently, but constantly. Memories of childhood, so many years of confusion and pain, the endless effort to win his approval, the overwhelming responsibility of Tiger, even the fact that Steve hadn’t left her a message in return . . . it all swirled together into a tangle of overwhelming emotion.
Her father was gone now. Who would tell her if she got off track? She wasn’t especially weeping out of love for him, but he was a necessity, in a roundabout way. Yes, he had ruined her relationships, and yes, he’d created an anger unlike any other, but he was her father, and he had always been her compass, pointing her toward obedience—even when she hadn’t wanted him to.
Now she was alone in the world—except for Tiger, who wasn’t really hers at all. Her father would be laid to rest beside the remains of her mother, and on the day Jesus returned, their souls would rise up to meet Him with joy.
The long funeral procession wound through the hills and valleys, across gurgling streams and new lambs frolicking in fresh pastureland. The solemn darkness of the gray and black buggies was a stark reminder that frail mankind must return to dust.
On the windswept hilltop, the black-clad group bowed their heads and watched as the plain wooden coffin was lowered, able young men shoveling the clods of wet earth on top. Children wept for Doddy, but her siblings remained stone-faced, controlled. Mary lifted swollen eyes to find Aunt Lizzie smiling at her. A great longing to throw her arms around her, to be hugged and loved and understood, came over her like a warm breeze.
At the funeral dinner, she made small talk with eager relatives, found her father’s brothers were nothing like him, Aunt Lizzie the center of their attention. It was indeed an eye-opener, this new understanding of her own traits so unlike her siblings. They sat with Mima after the funeral, when only the workers remained, setting everything right, washing floors and windows, putting away leftover food.
Mary thought Malinda’s house was likely cleaner than it had ever been, but would return to its normal chaos in days. And on the sidelines, women would talk. They would cast meaningful glances, lower their voices, and say what everyone was thinking. Malinda was no housekeeper.
“Oh my, no. Did you smell her bathroom? That diaper bucket? Did she even know what a toilet brush was? Siss yuscht hesslich .”
“Her mother wasn’t like that. Oh, but her sister Suvilla is no better. Ya vell .” Mouths snapped shut with indignation, consciences awakened, they quickly made excuses. Shouldn’t talk like that, but each went home and poured a liberal amount of Comet into their own toilet bowls and swabbed with a vengeance.
M ARY RETURNED TO her own home. Mima stayed on in the grandfather house, but made plans to return to the home of her childhood, in the beloved area between two mountains. She had done the will of God, had been a good companion to Amos Glick, had cared for the grandchildren when the need arose, but now she would return to her family. She had many good memories of Pinedale, indeed, but some not so good.
Did anyone truly understand the man they married? She had set out to change him, indeed she had, but in the end, she was the one who had come under subjection. His power remained a mystery, but she had good hope for his soul, and yes, she had loved him, had cared for him when the need arose.
CPS came for Tiger. Finding the mother had been no easy feat. She had fled from the violent acts of her husband and tried her best to disappear so he couldn’t find her. But she was waiting for Tiger now, with his grandparents.
Mary hugged him, her heart filled with the caring she’d developed since he’d been in her home. She would always remember the softness of his T-shirt, the silkiness of his hair, the sweet little-boy scent of him. As tears rose to the surface, he kissed her cheek, drew back with large serious eyes, and told her he’d be back with his mom for a visit.
She watched him go with the woman from CPS and climb into her car. Mary stood in a haze of overpowering emotion. She wept for her father, for the fact she might never have children of her own, and for the long, dull weeks and months ahead of her. She realized now how badly she wanted a child of her own, an opportunity that might never present itself in her lifetime. No, she didn’t want a dozen children and a husband who ruled with an iron fist, but she did ache for the experience of being a mother. With her father gone, would she be able to have a relationship with a young man of her choosing?
Her sister had nudged her side at the funeral service when the minister had spoken of a parent’s teaching remaining with you till death, and now when life had fled from her father, his words would ring louder than ever.
But he wasn’t here. The question burning in her conscience was to decipher between her own desires and God’s leading.
Yes, she was attracted to Steve, wanted him badly. Was God in that feeling, or was it merely the lust of the eyes and the flesh? And now, it felt like God had sent Tiger, the little lost boy, just to tease her, to remind her of what she was missing out on in life. Was it possible that, because of her disobedience in her younger years, she had missed out on God’s blessing forever?
M AY TURNED INTO June, the pea blossoms dropping off as the tender pods developed on sturdy green stalks, upheld by the chicken wire strung between two wooden posts pounded into the ground at each end. Mary’s mother always yearned for a setup like this for her garden, but she never had one, her father saying it wasn’t necessary, that the peas were just fine without a support for their vines. Every year, when the pea pods were rounded and Mam had pronounced them ripe, the children had been ushered into the wet, slimy pea patch, the vines tangled like family arguments. They hoisted dishpans and buckets, lifting vines and grasping wet peas. Skirts and aprons received the dripping pea pods, and before half the morning was gone, they were thoroughly soaked, the sun already hot on their shoulders. Mary’s sisters bent their backs and worked hard without complaint, while Mary fumed her unspoken rebellion, split pea pods and ate them raw, threw empty pods at twittering sparrows, and dreamed of telling Dat to get a bucket and come see how miserable pea picking was.
Now, Mary loved to be in her very own garden on a fine summer day. If she put up chicken wire, it was no one’s business but her own. It was a joy, picking handfuls of peas, watching the nuthatches and juncos come to the feeder by the garden, everything bathed in morning light. She felt a sense of renewal, where possibilities awaited her, the sun warming her shoulders.
Two five-gallon buckets full later, her back hurt, her legs ached, and her shoes were soaked with mud and dew from the vines, but she could look forward to sitting in a clean chair on the back porch to shell them. She washed her hands, dried her feet, and donned a clean apron before settling herself on the comfortable chair she’d chosen for the job.
All around her, God’s beauty became alive. The deep green of the surrounding forest, the brown, black, and gray of sculpted tree trunks, the lawn freshly mowed with a border of shrubs and flowers. She’d dug her borders the way Aunt Lizzie had taught her, and planted many things she had bought at the local greenhouse. She would never tell her sisters how much she had paid for the boxwoods and yews, the arborvitae and icy spruces, the daisies and phlox and lavender.
As she split pea pods with her thumb, raked them out in one swift, fluid motion, listened to the peas hit the bottom of a stainless glass bowl, her thoughts were taken to her childhood home. As children, they’d sat on the broken porch floor, the gray paint peeling like dead tree bark, sitting on folding chairs her father had salvaged from the dump. Scattered around them were plastic calf starter buckets and beat-up bowls, wooden bushel baskets for the empty hulls. There were a few straggly pink petunias planted too close to the porch, the long grass growing haphazardly around them. They had never dug borders, and certainly never spent a penny on expensive shrubbery.
As a child, these sparse surroundings were all she knew. Really, it wasn’t until she went to Lancaster that she’d seen another way of life and realized how primitive her own was.
Her father had told her that the lust of the eyes was from the spirit of the world. The devil had shown her earth’s luxuries, which were not for the Christians on the narrow road to Heaven. And for a while, she had turned a deaf ear, gone on her own way and carried a sense of disdain for his idealistic views. But now, seated on a cushioned wicker chair, a cement urn of geraniums by the doorway, the knowledge of having spent four hundred and twenty-nine dollars for the chair and close to a hundred on the urn, could she justify the purchases?
Yes, she had a changed heart, changed clothing, but oh how she still loved things of this world. She did. She loved nice things, decor for the porch and the lawn and the interior of her house, and now her father was not here to judge her decisions.
“Hello? Yoo-hoo! Bischt da-home ?”
Mary jumped, got up quickly, scattering pea pods.
“I’m here. On the porch,” Mary called out.
Mima’s rounded face appeared at the back screen door, her black bonnet framing the wide welcoming smile. Dressed in the widow’s black, she looked particularly austere, but her expression was warm and friendly.
“Well, Mima, it is certainly good to see you. I was just pitying myself a bit. Pea-shelling always makes me reminisce.”
Her hand was caught in a firm grip, then covered with the remaining one, Mima’s eyes alive with love.
“I’m so glad, Mary. I’ve thought of you so much since the funeral, then told myself perhaps there was a reason you were on my mind so much. Mary is lonely, I thought, so I came and sure enough, your peas are ready. Give me a bowl.”
“I certainly will. And coffee. Have you already had your coffee this morning?”
“Of course, but I’m ready for another cup,” Mima said, beaming.
It was so good to sit in the warmth of the golden sunlight, discussing her father’s death, the funeral, the relatives, and the great diversity of Amish folk from all over the states. Peas were split, raked out with thumbs, as words flowed easily from one to the other.
“So, tell me, Mary, are you handling the grief okay?” Mima asked, searching Mary’s face.
“I don’t know if it is grief,” Mary said honestly.
“But you loved your father.”
“Perhaps.”
Mima said nothing, unsure how to respond as she took in the beauty of the backyard.
Mary eyed her with a piercing gaze. “Did you?”
“Did I what?”
“Did you love him?”
“Yes. Yes, I did. Certainly at first.”
Realizing the courage it took to announce this, Mary prodded her on, but Mima shook her head, saying he was a good man, and it was wrong to discuss the shortcomings of one deceased.
Mary dumped a small bowl of shelled peas into the larger half-full one, sat back down, and reached for a handful of pea pods. She sighed, letting her breath out in a long, slow whoosh.
“Is it wrong, Mima? Or are we just trying to avoid the truth?”
“What is truth?” Mima countered.
Mary was completely caught off guard, was rendered speechless by Mima’s honesty.
“I mean,” she went on. “After living with him these few short years, my view of God seems to have been distorted. Not that it’s wrong, necessarily. But well, it’s difficult to talk about this without dishonoring his good name. He was a good man, if a bit . . .”
Mary leaned forward, her willingness to share evident in the brilliance of her green eyes.
“Go on. I will understand.”
“It’s just that—and I have gone over this a hundred times in my mind—it’s almost as if I lost sight of aspects of God. Over time, I was blinded by the sight he used, as if I was consumed by his way of interpreting the Scripture, his narrow-minded way of using it to judge everything and everybody. He was a powerful man, one well versed in Scripture. He read it constantly. He lived a life of self-denial, there is no doubt.”
Mary nodded. “That power still rules my thinking.”
Mima said softly, “You, too? I often wondered.”
“There is simply so much I don’t quite understand, and I was growing spiritually, just coming to the point where I wanted and needed him to explain things so I could be more fully obedient to him and obtain the blessing he so often told me I lacked.”
Mima pursed her lips and squinted her eyes.
“I mean, I’ll never be perfect, but I have to try. He admonished me about the color of the blinds in my house, and I haven’t changed them yet. But when I do, I believe I’ll be closer.”
“Closer to what?” Mima asked, her voice taking on a sharp tone.
“I’m not sure. To obedience? To God’s blessing?”
“And you really believe the Lord’s blessing will be upon you after you change the color of your blinds?” Mima burst out.
“No. Not really. But maybe? Yes, it might, because I’d be one step closer to following the ordnung .”
“Mary.”
The kindness in her voice brought quick tears to Mary’s eyes.
“You don’t know what you believe, do you?”
“Sometimes I do.”
“Do you still get those panicked spells? That sour stomach?”
“No. Well, sometimes. Not as often as I did when I lived in Lancaster. That was why I moved back. They kept getting worse.”
Mima said her husband was dead and gone now, and she did not want to dishonor his name, Lord knows, but the man had taken her for a loop. Now that she was alone again, she had a little more perspective again.
“He kept a tight rein on his own will, was an expert at self-denial, but not in some areas. He had a terrible temper.”
“I know. As a child, I knew.”
“So here it is in a nutshell. He ruled through fear. We were—are— afraid of wrongdoing, afraid of being caught out by him, and afraid of God. His God is fierce, demanding. But the Bible tells us we’re all sinners and it’s only through Jesus’s sacrifice that we’re saved.”
Mima threw caution to the wind, her voice picking up strength.
“Yes, by all outward appearances, we are the perfect family. You, the last prodigal, returned to the fold. But are we? Mary, the bickering in this family is out of control. You have no idea. Especially the daughters-in-law, who fairly hissed at the sight of him. I don’t know how long Malinda could have taken it.”
She paused. “But I’ve said too much.”
Mary eyes opened wide. Her mouth dropped open. She shook her head in disbelief. Finally, she found her voice.
“Was that why no one else cried at the funeral?”
Mima shrugged her shoulders. “That’s not for me to say. Your father despised emotion, in public or private. He had an iron hold on his own, except when it came to anger, so he expected it of others. Tell me, Mary, why did you weep?”
“It’s . . . it’s hard to live life without him. Who will guide me?”
Mima was shocked. “Who, indeed? Mary, Mary.”
After having been held captive for too long, subject to the voice of judgment and condemnation, Mima was coming back to the faith of her childhood. Faith in a God who loved her—a sinner—enough to die for her.
Mary lifted perplexed eyes. “Who, Mima?”
“Why, Mary. God, and Jesus, and the Holy Spirit. The Comforter is come, and he will show us all things.”
“Now you sound like my old friend Chester Nolt, and he sure wasn’t all that great.”
Mima chuckled. “Stop looking for answers in imperfect men.”
“I can’t find God, Mima,” she burst out. “The Bible scares me. God is silent and distant and points His finger at me every single day. I live in fear of His return, knowing I am not ready. I try, I try so hard to do what is right, but with every change I make, there is always something else I need to do. I’m not good at self-denial. I like nice things.”
She slapped the arm of the chair she was sitting on.
“I saw this at Lowe’s. I had to have it. It’s lust. I finally get victory over my fancy clothes, then I buy this chair for way too much money. And I’m afraid I’ll never manage to get to Heaven.”
She was breathing hard now, her chest rising and falling.
“My brothers and sisters would never spend money for a chair like this. They’d take one look and recognize it for what it is. A temptation.”
“Mary, it’s a chair. A very nice comfortable chair for you to enjoy. Do you feel guilty in front of God? Is it forbidden by the church?”
“Yes. No, I’m not sure. I don’t know. God would want me to take the chair back to Lowe’s and give the money to the poor.”
Mima slapped the arm of her chair, her eyes crinkling with delight.
“ Ach my. I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. One of my stepdaughters. You seem like my own child. And I wish so much I could help you to see, but I think you must find it yourself. There is no one in a better position than one who seeks the truth, but you must adjust your eyesight to the One above.”
She lifted a crooked forefinger, jabbed at the porch ceiling.
“You were raised in fear, rebelled against it, hated your father then, and finally found your way back. But fear is still your master. You are brought into subjection by it, but it will never fulfill you.
“Oh, I know full well. He had me convinced of it. I was like a disciple to his harsh views. Mary, I helped run off the young man in your life at that time. When I dared go up against your father, it did not go well with me. So I gave up, the way a good housewife is expected to do.”
Mary nodded, averting her eyes.
“Well,” Mary sighed. “I’m old now. I must try to give my own will up for God’s and forget about a husband or children.”
“You never know what God has in store.” Mima placed a hand on Mary’s arm. “But first, you need peace in that soul of yours. Your father was a God-fearing man, but he wasn’t perfect, and he was never going to bring you peace. You’ll have to look straight to God for that. I will pray for you every day of my life.”
“I wish you’d stay here.”
“No, you won’t find peace with me either. You need to put your trust in an invisible God. Not me. Or anyone else. Every human being will eventually disappoint you. You know what you should do?”
Mary looked up.
“You should travel somewhere, go away for a spell.”
“I have often thought of doing just that, but I don’t have the nerve. Where would I go?”
She nodded then, answered her own question.
“Actually, I have dreamed of . . . well, I read this book, where a young woman went on a long hike alone. It was life-changing for her. But it would take planning, and money. And I’m not exactly in great shape, either.”
“Why would it take money?”
“The gear. The time off work. The food. I don’t know. I probably won’t do it. Would the church even allow it? Do you think it would be safe?”
“Probably. Depends on where you’d go.” Mima shrugged.
“Well, it’s just a daydream.”
But she’d owned and operated a successful bakery. She had dreamed of that, and actually done it. Then again, that had only ended in the worst panic attack of her life, causing her to make the decision to come here to New York.
She could not always run when things went sideways, could she?
Mima watched as emotion displayed itself across her face, the shelled peas in the bowl worried with restless fingers. Her plight was serious, and there was a long battle ahead of her. To be raised without faith was one thing, but to be raised with a substitute for faith quite another. Sticky tentacles encircled her questioning mind, her eyes half closed with the dread of an angry God who disapproved of her every move, coupled with a strong will and a liberal view of so many things, traits handed down by genetics, perhaps. A mixture of circumstances, who knew?
But if Mary were to find a suitable young man, there was no doubt in Mima’s mind, the relationship would be bound to fail unless Mary was more settled in her own mind.
But she’d said enough already. So she shelled more peas, brought up the subject of Abner sie Malinda being in the family way again, and how was the poor woman ever expected to keep her head above water.