CHAPTER 15
C HAPTER 15
I VAN PACED THE FLOOR OF HIS ROOM . H E LIFTED THE WINDOW blind to stare through the heavily shadowed night, his thoughts tormented by Margaret, a frequent event. It was the way she talked, the way she went through life speaking the truth about everything and everybody. There was no glossing over anything, and hardly anything was fine, which seemed to upset all he had ever known.
One simply didn’t talk about the things she found perfectly okay to talk about. How mad she was at her mom, what a putz her dad was getting to be. A few weeks ago, she’d told him his family was so proper they were as cuddly as a cement block, then laughed at the cleverness of her own joke. He’d winced at the truth.
And she asked impossible questions. How did he feel when his mom irked him? Didn’t he mind if she was being a real pain? How could he respect her, the way she acted?
He would shrug and avoid a direct answer.
She had latched on to this respect thing. She’d even asked if Ivan respected her, Margaret. Sometimes he felt as if he didn’t know what respect was. She was beautiful, he desired her, what more did she want? Their sessions in the Mustang showed her how much he loved her, didn’t they?
Lately, he’d felt her drawing away, an unconscious act of no longer being there one hundred percent. He panicked at the thought of losing her, couldn’t bear to think of her with someone else.
His mother did not approve of Margaret, however, and never hesitated to make it known, which really messed with his mind.
Was it fair to Margaret? To him? His mother was a powerful force, one who could trouble him endlessly. Did she sense something in Margaret?
“Ivan, she’s not as healthy mentally as she should be. I heard they didn’t detect it in Mary till after she was married, so think about it. A mental wife. Think what you’d go through, especially when children are involved.”
But Ivan loved Margaret. The way she walked, talked, smiled.
She had even told him she’d probably be a bit chubby like her mother once she started having babies, an announcement that left him totally baffled. Where did she find the courage to say such things?
B Y N OVEMBER , I VAN and Margaret were an item, the best-looking couple at his friend Omar’s wedding, turning heads and fully aware of it. Other couples sat at the wedding tables, deep in conversation, or exchanging smiles of recognition, clearly enjoying each other’s company, while Margaret and Ivan sat, bored and stone-faced, their view of each other’s faults multiplying as weeks passed.
Margaret had told him flat out he did not respect her, and he flew over the truth as efficiently as an airliner thousands of feet above the earth.
But despite their misgivings, their lives became more and more enmeshed. His friends became her friends, his family was inserted into every get-together, and they spent nearly all their free time together. She still believed her love would see them through.
When Christmas arrived, she bought him many expensive gifts, while she received a poinsettia in colorful foil. Ashamed of it, she set it in the garage till it froze, and told her mother her boss had given it to her and she’d forgotten it.
Wisely, Mary hadn’t asked about the absent present from her boyfriend. She talked it over with Steve, and let it go.
M ARGARET, HOWEVER, CONFIDED in Rebecca, who listened quietly and came up with a wise solution—taking a break for a while.
“I can’t,” Margaret groaned, her head in her hands, her soiled bib apron from market reeking of grease and mayonnaise.
“I can’t let someone else have him.”
“That’s not a whole lot of foundation to go on,” Rebecca quipped.
But that same Sunday evening, Ivan broke up with Margaret, citing their differences. He hadn’t meant to mention his mother’s concerns about Margaret being mental like her mom, but when Margaret responded with a burst of anger, then tears, he got flustered and defensive. “This is what I’m talking about,” he said hastily. “You’re nothing like me. You’re so emotional, and outspoken, and you fly off the handle. I’m just not sure I can be with someone who struggles . . . you know, mentally.”
“Mentally?” she said, truly shocked. “So, you think I’m crazy? Is that what this is about?”
“That’s not what I meant.”
She told him with a wobbling mouth, red eyes, and a Kleenex held to her nose that he was married to his mother and until he started thinking for himself, he’d never be ready for a real relationship. She said she hoped he’d find someone who would live up to her standards, some straitlaced, quiet, “sane” iceberg to love. Then she slammed the door of the Mustang and stalked off through the wild winds of January.
The bitter cold of winter blew straight through the walls of their house and into her heart as she nursed her heartache, self-pity pooling inside the frosty demeanor she presented to the world.
She went to market, cleaned houses, performed chores at home, and tried to forget Ivan. Rebecca wrote Ivan off as a handsome loser, which bolstered Margaret’s spirits. Margaret had never appreciated her little sister so much.
In March, when mounds of gray snow lay beside slushy country roads and horses shied at hissing tires throwing wet snow, Margaret pulled back on the reins of her horse and turned toward Rebecca.
“I’m going to quit running around,” she announced. “I can’t face one more boring volleyball game or stupid supper or singing. Not one.”
“Oh, come on, poor sport. I’ll be there for you.”
Rebecca dug in her heels and the tough little Morgan horse dug his hooves into the field and took off. Margaret chased after her on a horse simply named Pony, a white horse with gray spots.
They were both panting by the time they reached the barn, the wet March air turning their faces crimson, their scarves pushed off their heads.
“I meant what I said back there,” Margaret emphasized, unmounting in one swift move.
“I forget what you said.”
They both laughed, then turned to unsaddle their mounts.
“We can just spend every weekend in the barn.”
“Or we can go away somewhere. Get an Airbnb, just the two of us.”
“I know!”
Without words, each one understood what the other was thinking. They’d find an Airbnb with a shed for the horses, truck them there, and go trail riding. They made phone calls and found a place only a hundred miles away along the Juniata River, with miles of trails through state game lands.
“Let’s ask Kathy to go,” Rebecca suggested.
“Kathy who?”
“You know. My best friend.”
“Then what would I do?”
Margaret could not think about trail riding by herself, the loss of Ivan still sharp in her heart. She encountered him from time to time, always experiencing the same deep sense of bewilderment, followed by days of self-loathing, which Rebecca dispelled eventually.
“You couldn’t change who you are,” Rebecca kept insisting. “There were too many strikes against you. His mother, the way they’re raised, the way we are. Forget it, Marge. Do you want to walk around as stiff as a poker the rest of your life?”
They found a driver with a pickup and a horse trailer, who said he’d be there on Friday morning the twenty-eighth of April.
Margaret did agree to go to one more supper gathering before they left, only because it was held at her friend Rachel’s house.
“And I’m not staying late,” she told Rebecca.
She did stay for the singing, sitting beside Rachel to sing the first song, unaware of the tall youth in the back row who kept glancing her way.
Her boss, Elmer Lapp, was not thrilled at the prospect of finding a substitute, but grudgingly gave his consent, which Margaret felt was unfair, venting to her mother as she packed the Igloo with food.
“Well,” Mary said, shaking her head knowingly, “that tells me you are a very valuable worker, or he’d be more lenient with you.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
“Thanks, Mom. That’s a huge compliment.”
“I meant it as that.”
By Friday, their favorite horses were groomed, the tack polished and oiled, and provisions and clothes packed, and they were waiting eagerly on the back porch. Mary admitted for the first time in her life that she was appreciative of the fact she’d be able to get ahold of them. She didn’t use the words “cell phone,” which sounded much too worldly, but both girls winked at each other and smiled.
The black pickup truck whined up the drive hauling a white horse trailer detailed in black and gray.
Rebecca whistled, her eyes shone. “Traveling in style,” she quipped.
The driver leaped out of his truck, all business in dark glasses, a bill cap pulled low, without bothering to introduce himself. He talked briskly about the horses, got the address for the GPS, and waited impatiently while they said goodbye.
The day was overcast, so Margaret kept glancing at the dark glasses, hoping he had good vision through them.
Finally, she said, “What did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t say.”
“Oh, pardon me.”
“I know who you are.”
Margaret blinked, turned to give him a sharp look.
“I have no idea . . . A market customer? I don’t know.”
In one swift move he removed his glasses, then his hat. When he looked at her, she had a glimpse of blue eyes, a shock of longish brown hair.
She felt confused, sure she had never seen him in her life.
“You’re Margaret Riehl.”
“Yes. I am.”
“I’m Amish. Well, my mother is. I’m not yet.”
“Who are you? Should I know you?”
“Probably not. Although I’ve seen you around. Came to your group a couple times.”
“How about a name?”
“Mike. Mike King. Quarryville.”
Margaret shook her head.
“Anyway, now you know. And I’m pleased to meet you. When you called, I knew immediately who you were. And Rebecca back there, good to meet you, too.”
He looked in his rearview mirror and smiled.
“Yup. You too. And my name is Rebecca Back There.”
He laughed, an infectious sound rumbling up from his stomach, then turned to look at his left mirror before pulling onto Route 340.
“You two don’t look much like sisters.”
“We are. Same parents, same bloodline,” Margaret quipped.
After a while, they stopped for a Starbucks, pulling up to the drive-through window. Rebecca ordered a hot chocolate and Margaret got a vanilla chai latte with sweet cream foam and brown sugar syrup.
“Fancy,” Mike teased Margaret in a friendly way, before ordering a black coffee.
“We’re on vacation,” Margaret defended herself. “And at least I’m not boring. Black coffee? What’s even the point without cream and sugar?”
“Caffeine. Caffeine is the point.”
They all laughed.
The drive went quickly as they talked easily, mostly about horses, his life’s occupation and his father’s before him.
“I’m actually being grosfeelich (prideful), driving this expensive rig around. I’m pretty Amish at heart, just haven’t decided to join. Don’t see any hurry.”
“You must not be very old school.”
“Not really.”
“Well, you know. Some people would list you as walking the perimeter of perdition.”
He looked at her sharply. “You mean you’re beautiful and smart?”
Flustered, Margaret had no reply.
“I don’t mean to offend you or anything, of course. I’m just saying it how it is.”
Her thoughts reeled through her head like an old movie. Ivan had never told her she was beautiful, or even remotely mentioned her appearance. He seemed attracted to her when they were alone together, but he never said so. She recognized it now as a form of control, keeping her guessing if she was good enough for him, for his family.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
He swallowed, looked straight ahead as they moved onto Route 30 on their way to Harrisburg, merging into traffic.
From the back seat, “What kind of horses do you have?”
“A bit of everything.”
“As nice as your rig?”
“Nicer, I think. I love horses. That’s why it won’t be hard for me to be Amish.”
“We’re not really that Amish anymore,” Margaret said. “My mom comes from a place in New York where they’re like, Amish a hundred years ago. They dress plain, for real, and have to obey the rules like you wouldn’t believe. I have eleven aunts and uncles from there, Pinedale Valley. Terribly strict and sober. But loving. They don’t condemn my mom the way they used to.”
Margaret realized the ease with which she’d been conversing as the miles evaporated behind them. She couldn’t believe how soon they came upon a charming green chalet by the swollen river. All around them, trees stood like tall, brown soldiers, their branches showing the green mist of buds that would provide a thick canopy of leaves later in the season. The small house was built into an incline, and the barn-like shed looked like it was from the Swiss Alps. There were window boxes everywhere, and tulips pushing through borders along picket fences. The river moved along in its springtime fullness, hurrying to join forces with the Susquehanna before emptying into the Chesapeake Bay.
“This is great!” Rebecca shouted.
Margaret shared her enthusiasm, although not quite as loudly. She was smiling as they led the horses off the trailer, and then unloaded the hay and grain. The combination worked on the lock, and they stepped inside to find a life-sized dollhouse, complete with tiny rooms, plump beds, a quaint table and chairs.
“I could stay here with you,” Mike suggested, grinning.
“You don’t have a horse,” Rebecca said quickly.
Margaret said nothing, unsure how to handle this very different young man. Ivan would never have admitted to wanting to stay. Instead, he would have made her feel as if he thought she didn’t want him to stay, and therefore he would leave. She was never sure how he truly felt, the way every situation was tied up in knots.
She must stop comparing, thinking of Ivan.
“True.” Mike smiled. “And besides, I’ve got things to do. If you need anything, here’s my number. Be careful. Two girls alone. Things happen. See ya.”
They saw him to the door, watched him leave, then unpacked food into the fridge and tiny cabinets. They hung their dresses in closets and placed their toiletries in the bathroom, chattering the entire time.
“We do need to come here with the rest of the family,” said Rebecca. “The boys would love it. Dad, too.”
“What about Mom?”
“As long as she has something to eat, she’ll be happy.”
They both laughed fondly.
As they were on the way to the barn to saddle the horses, the clouds lowered even more and the first sprinkles hit their heads.
“Shoot,” Rebecca offered. “Rain.”
“Looks like it.”
“Which means we’ll have to rough it. It will be just miserable watching television and eating microwave popcorn.” Rebecca gave a sideways smile.
“Absolutely no pleasure in it,” laughed Margaret, running for the house.
Having no access to television at home, this was a rare treat. They were overwhelmed by the barrage of channels, but finally settled on a Discovery Channel show about Alaska.
They made a pot of popcorn and smothered it in melted butter, plunked on the deep couch, drew cozy crocheted afghans over their laps, adjusted pillows, and were transported to the mountains and lakes of Alaska as the rain fell dreamily on the little green house by the river.
I N THE EARLY morning, they were awakened by a series of yipping sounds, followed by long drawn-out howls. Rebecca leapt from her bed, but Margaret stretched and yawned, told her it was just coyotes, rolled over, and went back to sleep until the light of the sun breaking through clouds woke her.
They made pancakes and scrambled eggs for breakfast, then fed and watered the horses. The new grass sparkled with raindrops and the wind was picking up in the treetops.
They rode out mid-forenoon, the wind tugging at their light scarves and sweaters, the horses dancing, their ears pricked forward, taking in the unusual surroundings, shying away from boulders and undulating mountain laurel.
“Rocky,” Rebecca observed.
The trail wound away from the river, across the top of a ridge, and down a steep incline to a marsh complete with bulrushes and velvety skunk cabbage. The high, shrill trilling of tree frogs was deafening. A black snake sunned himself on top of a flat boulder, and snapping turtles raised their prehistoric visages, slowly blinking odd eyes. The air was heavy with moisture, the rich scent of moss and lichens. The horses’ hooves made a wet, sucking sound as the trail went even lower.
They stopped their horses, allowed them to nibble at new growth, sat relaxed on their saddles, and watched the swaying of trees far above them, the raw spring wind only a soft breeze in the marsh.
“Look, Rebecca. Check out that spider web.”
Margaret gazed at the intricate design still glistening with dew suspended between two branches. It was magical. Margaret was not well-versed in things of the Spirit, but the beauty of the woven cobweb spoke to her heart. She experienced a deep inner longing, as if her heart expanded to include the beauty around her.
A red-winged blackbird set up its plaintive call, and she spotted the red and yellow on the coal black bird. A hawk spread its wings as it soared overhead.
They started moving again and the narrow trail widened, turned uphill. As far as they could see, through the half-bare branches of trees, it wound up a steep and seemingly unending hill.
“Up we go!” shouted Rebecca, goading her horse.
Margaret whooped and gave chase, the horses lunging in great, powerful strides, the girls leaning forward to keep their balance.
Iron horseshoes clanged on loose stones, but the horses wanted to run, so the girls loosened the reins till the horses’ breath came quick and fast, nostrils flaring. When they reached the top, they were surprised to find a grassy clearing, the trail turning left, away from the river.
“Cool. Let’s rest them.”
They both climbed down, stretched their legs, and listened to the birdsong as the wind played with the branches of trees, shivered undergrowth, and played along clumps of grass. Overhead, clouds like cotton balls were pushed along by the gale.
“So, how far do we go?” asked Rebecca.
“According to the map, we can tun left, double back, or go right and end up at the river again. Which one?” Margaret asked.
“The horses are doing okay. Why don’t we go right?”
“Fine with me.”
They mounted and rode off, relishing the creak of leather and the scent of horse sweat. With trees everywhere, it was hard to see what was ahead, but they knew their elevation was high above the river. They’d be turning downhill soon, they supposed, but no matter, they had all the time in the world, two good horses, a cute Airbnb, and the whole weekend to themselves.
They paused at the brown signpost with white words engraved in it:
Danger. Trail close to overhang. Keep left.
Hmm , thought Margaret. No guardrails?