Chapter 22
C HAPTER 22
M ARY STOOD ON THE BACK porch, her hands ON HER hips, SIZ ing up the chair, taking note of the woven brown resin, the beige cushions with a button in the center, the sheer beauty and elegance of the design. She weighed the love of the chair against the good works she would be able to accomplish with the money she could still get for it. The price of self-denial. This chair was a test, and she was determined to pass with flying colors.
She would advertise it in next week’s paper. Jessie told her she’d put it on Facebook, but Mary said absolutely not, she wanted nothing to do with the internet. She felt completely justified in her scorn of that brain child of the devil, and closed her mouth in a tight line when Jessie told her she was weird. Weird and old-fashioned, plus, she was getting sick of answering the door every time she needed to use the phone, so she may as well get her own.
Mary said fine, she would, and didn’t talk to her for weeks, feeling huffy every time she looked up the hill toward her house.
She looked at the green roll-down blinds and waited to feel the peace she’d written to Steve about, realizing these things took time, and then sent the ad to the local paper. When Steve didn’t show up the evening she expected him, didn’t answer her letter or anything at all, she went into a tailspin of anxiety, resulting in debilitating nausea, canceling a few days of cleaning and lying on the couch with the worst migraine headache of her life.
The paper would not print her ad without a phone number, and since she was too miffed at Jessie to ask about hers, she let the chair sit where it was, telling herself she’d use it till summer’s end, then get rid of it. As long as she intended to do what was right, it was the same as actually doing it.
Wasn’t it?
Her brother Ezra and his wife Becky came for a visit, their six children seated on the couch, dressed in their Sunday best, until Becky told them they could go play. Mary told them there was a croquet game in the barn, and they walked quietly out the door without a word.
Her own childhood came to mind, the way they dressed, the expectation of quiet behavior, the fear of wrongdoing going undetected until they were home, where the voice of their father explained their sins, after which they went meekly to the woodshed for the administering of the stick, a punishment fully deserved.
How well she still remembered the Thanksgiving dinner at Uncle Henry’s. She must have been ten or twelve years old and looked up to find her father’s frown directed at her as she reached for the second slice of chocolate layer cake. She had a hand extended in midair, couldn’t pull it back with the others noticing, so she went ahead and forked it onto her plate and ate it with the cornstarch pudding.
He explained to her, later, the sin of gluttony, and whipped her with the buggy whip, the lashes biting through the thin fabric of her dress. She cried, brokenhearted, and was shoved out of the woodshed by a hand on her shoulder. She went crying into the house to her mother, who told her to hush, go sit down, but sitting was far too painful. No one seemed to notice, or hear her strangled sobs, and she felt then that she was truly alone.
Her brother was saying something about going to the singing, but she had barely heard a word of his quiet monologue.
“What?” she asked, embarrassed.
“I was just saying, you don’t seem to be present at the singings on Sunday evenings anymore.”
“No, I have no way of going, and besides, don’t you think I’ve settled into the role of ‘single woman’ at this point?” she asked lightly.
“That’s up to you, of course.”
The silence was a bit awkward, then, until Mary offered to make supper, which was eagerly accepted, especially by Becky.
When Ezra was out of earshot, she said she was hesslich glad to be here for supper, getting so tired of her own cooking. Mary smiled, set yeast to rise in warm water, mixed flour and oil for homemade pizza crust, and asked Becky to peel potatoes for french fries.
“What a treat, Mary!” Becky beamed.
They kept up a lively conversation as they prepared supper, with Ezra and the children praising her pizza-making ability, dipping the fries in ketchup with delight. There was ice cream and the leftover peach cobbler for dessert, and the children went outside to finish the game, as Ezra and Becky’s mood expanded, good food warming their outlook.
“My, Mary, it does seem like a shame for you to be single,” Becky commented.
Ezra harrumphed agreement, sounding so much like her father.
“Why is it everyone’s goal to have everyone married off?” she asked, thinking how an older unmarried girl was treated like a wart, or a two-headed calf.
“I don’t know the answer to that,” Ezra said, in a truly humble tone.
“Well, I don’t either. I have no plans of getting married, so you’ll just have to get used to the idea of an old maid in the family.”
Becky laughed softly.
“I love the old maids. They are the spice of life. I have two maiden aunts named Ruth and Bertha, and they enjoy life to the fullest. They work in their gardens and clean houses. They travel in the fall, go to Missouri and Indiana. Free as birds.”
And Mary saw herself sitting in a bus, or a train, stout, matronly, alone in the world, still working, providing for herself, childless. And the crippling thought entered her mind: Without Steve.
She might never see him again.
She felt a sadness as thick as ink, followed by the realization of this being her destiny.
Would it really be so?
But when they left, she felt a kinship, a certain warmth toward Ezra, the quiet one, aware of his lack of self-righteousness. He lived a life of peaceful days, farming like his father before him, milking cows and doing what he felt was right and good. She had never heard him or his wife say a bad word about anyone, which was as refreshing as a cool drink of water.
She swept the floor, put away the dishes, then set about getting ready for a shower. She was ready to close the bathroom door when she found a horse and buggy coming up the drive.
Hoping it wasn’t another load of visitors at this late hour, she slowly drew the door shut and stepped into the living room to watch as the buggy passed the sidewalk and went to the barn. A tall form climbed out, a man wearing a navy blue shirt, black vest and trousers, a wide brimmed hat, but she did not recognize him at all. A minister come to see her about hiking? Her heart beat crazily. She steadied herself, then saw he came to the back porch, instead of the front. She thought of the sinful chair, hoped he wouldn’t notice.
She was at the screen door when he tapped on it.
“Hello.”
“Good evening.”
“Are you Mary Glick?”
“I am.”
A deep, pleasant voice, kind hazel eyes, dark hair. A long, thin beard, silver at the sides.
She stepped aside. “Come in.”
“No, it’s pleasant here on the porch. Do you mind joining me?”
“Not at all.”
He extended a hand. She took it. His hands were dry and hard with callouses, but it was a pleasant handshake, not the hard pumping kind or the limp, lifeless one, either.
“Good to meet you, Mary. My name is Bennie Lapp from way down the line. Have you heard of me?”
She shook her head.
“You may sit down if you want.” She motioned to a chair.
The chair.
“Nice chair,” he said in an offhand manner.
She said nothing.
“Well, this visit would be easier if you had heard of me.”
Mary raised her eyebrows.
“You see, my wife passed away about a year ago. I have eight children, ages from fifteen to two. I had no address and thought I would see if I can find your house. I know about where it is.”
Eight. Eight motherless children. Eight of them.
“I’m sorry, Mary. I can see this is unexpected, and I don’t mean to be bold. I simply wanted to see you, talk to you, and had no intention of telling you all that so soon, but as you can see, I need someone.”
All manner of answers shot through her head.
Eight is a lot. You don’t even know me. There’s another man. No, no, and no.
“I wish you’d say something,” he said quietly.
“I . . .”
She swallowed, gripped one hand with the other until the knuckles whitened.
“I hardly know what to say.”
“Of course you don’t, and I understand that. I realize this must come as a shock to you. Eight children is a load to consider.”
“No, no. I mean, it’s not a fault of the children. This is just so unexpected.”
“I imagine so. Let me introduce myself further. My wife’s name was Anna. She died of heart failure before we knew there was anything wrong. She just fell over in the living room. A terrible blow. She meant the world to me.”
Mary nodded assent, fastened pitying eyes on his face as the shadow of remembered pain passed over it. He had truly loved her.
“I’m so sorry,” she managed.
“I’m not a farmer—I own a cabinet shop. We built a new home about five years ago. So you wouldn’t have to worry about milking cows or anything like that.”
He gave a short, embarrassed laugh.
“Guess I shouldn’t say these things, so soon, but I’m in desperate need, with Sarah only fifteen and too much on her shoulders.”
“I can imagine.”
“Would you like to come for a visit next Saturday evening? Meet the children? See the place?”
His eyes were kind, pleading. He had nice hands. His shoes were clean black lace-ups. Plain Sunday shoes. No doubt he was well respected in the church, garnering sympathy everywhere he went, half the single ladies wondering if they’d be the chosen one.
His face was not unpleasant, a certain handsomeness to it, actually. What should she say? To send this kind man on his way was too cruel, so there was no harm in going to see where he lived, meeting the eight children.
“Well, I suppose I could take a tour. Although it will be that. Only a tour. It’s far too soon to make decisions, isn’t it?”
“Of course. I don’t expect you to.”
“I appreciate it.”
Then, when the air between them was thick with unanswered questions, the conversation stalled.
“Would you like a glass of meadow tea?” she asked, when it seemed as if she would choke on the awkward silence.
“I would appreciate it.”
She felt terribly self-conscious getting out of her chair, knowing he’d watch her, his eyes taking stock of what he was hoping to obtain. She saw herself hanging out a mile of socks and trousers and dresses and underwear. She hoped he had a wheel line. Did stepmothers ever truly love children who weren’t birthed by them? What if they were rude and talked about her behind her back? She’d done it to Jemima.
By the time she returned with two glasses of meadow tea, her mind was overwrought with anxiety, overthinking the smallest detail. Her hand shook as she gave him the tea.
“It’s a lonely life,” he began. “In spite of the children, there’s a void that was occupied by Fannie. She was the best wife any man could hope for, and sometimes it’s still hard to understand why she was taken, and I’m left alone. But God makes no mistakes, so it’s up to us to give in to His will.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’re not seeing anyone?”
“No. Well, yes, in a way, but we’re not dating. He’s a friend from Lancaster.”
“I don’t want to make trouble.”
“You’re not.”
“Alright then. I’ll send a driver for six o’clock on Saturday evening. I’m looking forward to it.”
“Yes. Me, too.”
He stood up, looked into her eyes with the kindness in his heart.
“Goodbye till then,” he said softly.
“I’ll go with you to water your horse.”
He smiled. “I feel like Isaac, when Rebecca watered his camels.”
“Is that in the Bible?”
They walked together, and she did draw cold water for his tired horse, as they made small talk about the weather, the distance, what she did for a living. And then he was off, the sturdy Standardbred horse seemingly eager to draw the buggy back the sixteen miles they had come.
She walked slowly through the dark, her head bent, her thoughts cavorting like drunken sailors. There was no rhyme or reason for this.
It seemed as if God had played a cruel trick on her, taking Steve and supplying Bennie Lapp and his load of eight children.
She couldn’t stand the name Bennie. Why not straight-up Ben? I’m not going to marry a man named Bennie. Neither will I like his load of eight children . Why in the world would God give them eight children and then cause her to die? Maybe it wasn’t right to think like that. Where was Steve when she needed him?
At one thirty-one, she still had not slept a wink, but had wailed aloud, begging for help, although she figured God wouldn’t supply it, the way He always had it in for her.
There were a thousand reasons to say no. One reason to say yes: They needed her. But she was not a sweet or unselfish person, neither was she cut out to be a mother of someone else’s children. She would never love them the way they should be loved. She remembered Tiger then, and realized that perhaps she had loved him, though it wasn’t quite what she’d imagined being a mother would feel like.
Did a single girl ever refuse a widower in need and truly receive a blessing? Well, what did it matter? She was still waiting for her blessing after changing the green blinds, and now her path had become a series of difficult decisions, again.
She clapped her hands over her eyes and wailed again.
Saturday night arrived, in spite of Mary thinking the end of the world might come first. Wearing her dark green Sunday dress, she was whisked the sixteen miles by a competent driver named Bill Dander, at her service, who kept glancing slightly sideways, no doubt assessing her to see if she was worthy of his friend Bennie Lapp.
The home itself was attractive enough, if plain, the white siding a testimony to his conservative thinking. A two story, with porches, trimmed hedges, and a neatly mowed lawn. A maple tree in the front yard. A fair-sized barn. Gravel drive. A barking dog.
He met her on the porch, flanked by eight pairs of curious eyes. Sarah was as tall as she was, and pretty, followed by Jessie, John, Amos, Betty, Annie, Reuben, and the baby, Leah. Clean children, well mannered, the house presentable, if not as clean as some.
Bennie held Leah, spoke kindly to the little ones, took her on a tour of the woodworking facility. “Beautiful cabinets,” she said.
Jessie and John beamed approval.
Sarah showed her through the house, her quiet voice directing her to the kesslehaus , a fairly new wringer washer powered by air, a pleasant well-lit place to do laundry, a sink and more cabinets.
Bennie watched with kind, pleading eyes.
The oilcloth-covered tablecloth was smudged. Their mother’s obituary was placed on the hutch, with a copy of poetry someone had written about her death, and a dried white rose behind glass.
She stood in the kitchen and gazed through the double windows, the view containing the opposite ridge covered in green trees with leaves showing occasional color, and imagined herself here with these children, twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week, never a moment to herself.
Bennie was affable, eager to please, but most of all, kind and soft-spoken to the children. It was, indeed, one of the most pleasant places she could ever hope to inhabit, and she thought about it quite rationally, the longer she stayed.
She could do much worse.
She took a long look at Bennie himself, and decided she liked what she saw, and yes, in time, she could learn to love him. Wasn’t that more than she could reasonably hope for?
Sarah had baked cupcakes for the occasion, and there was store-bought iced tea. They sat around the table, all the children watching as she helped herself to a cupcake, took a bite, and complimented Sarah, who blushed attractively. Bennie smiled and smiled.
He walked her to the car when the driver showed up, and presented her with a timeline. He’d give her a month to think it over, after which they’d start seeing each other on the weekends if she agreed.
She looked into his kind eyes and did not look away, but absorbed the kindness, the goodness of him. No, he did not repulse her, and when he stepped close and touched her opposite shoulder as they shook hands, she wanted to be closer still.
Back home, her own little house greeted her warmly, and she opened the door, thanked Mr. Bill Dander, and walked slowly up the stone walkway, darkness enveloping her softly. The harried thoughts and tough decisions would come later. For just this evening, she’d love her little house, be thankful, find patience, and stay calm.
When a dark figure rose from the porch rocker, she jumped, both hands flying to her mouth, a stifled shriek escaping through her fingers.
“Mary, I’m so sorry. I was afraid I’d scare you.”
Limp with relief, she whispered hoarsely, “Steve. Oh, Steve.”
After which she burst into heaving sobs, and he gathered her tenderly into his arms and simply held her quietly as she wept.
He’d find out the cause later, but for now, it was enough, standing here in front of her little house on the stone walkway, surrounded by the scent of a late summer night, complete with the katydids’ symphony and the fading green leaves turning into the glorious colors of the Artist’s palette.
T HE E ND