CHAPTER 17
C HAPTER 17
S TILL HERE , M ARGARET THOUGHT . S TILL AT THE SAME OLD MARKET . I am so sick of this job. My back hurts. My feet are buzzing with fatigue. Twelve and a half hours is too long in the middle of summer. I have to talk to my parents about being allowed another job.
Everything irked her today. Everything. Especially the coworker who did only the jobs she liked to do, took long breaks, and was never reprimanded for it.
Muttering to herself, with hardly a cheerful thought in her head, she looked up to find the next customer in the endless line.
“Next!”
Too loud, rife with irritation.
“Yeah. Hey, how are you?”
She looked straight into two very blue eyes, a tanned face, and a shock of too-long brown hair.
“Oh.”
She gathered herself together, felt the dreaded blush. “Mike. You’re the driver.”
“Yeah. Heard about you. I’m so glad you’re okay. What a crazy accident. I remember getting the call that someone else was taking the horses back.”
“Horse.”
“Only one?”
“Had to put one down.”
“Move along, buddy. You wanna talk to the girl, take her out.”
Mike looked over his shoulder. “Sorry.”
“Your order?” Margaret asked.
“Bacon, egg, and cheese on rye toast. Mayo, lettuce, tomatoes. You have a phone number?”
“Seven-fifty. For the sandwich.”
“Oh, right.”
He paid, told her he’d be back.
Irritation fled. She hummed, rang up customers, smiled. How did he know where she worked? Coincidence? When Jolaine said she was going on yet another break, Margaret said okay, but take the garbage, knowing she’d head past the dumpster on her way to her car for a cigarette break.
When Jolaine returned with a message that she’d run into a guy outside who wanted to meet Margaret at four that afternoon, Margaret felt her face on fire. When the time came, she asked Elmer for a fifteen-minute break and then turned to see Mike standing at the counter holding a cup from Starbucks.
“One vanilla chai latte, with sweet cream foam and brown sugar syrup,” he announced, handing it to her.
“What? How did you know?” she asked.
“I remember your order.”
They found an empty table and sat down. He merely looked into her eyes for a long moment before asking if she was willing to talk about the accident.
And she did tell him in detail, becoming emotional about the man named Gary, the rising river water, the way she felt about dying.
“You knew you weren’t ready?”
“I knew. And yet I wasn’t afraid. Almost as if . . . I don’t know. I’m not exactly an authority on matters of spirituality.”
“Tell me. I really want to know.”
And she believed he did, so she continued telling him about her thoughts. How she’d begged God for help, even while realizing she hardly knew Him. How now she knew without a doubt that God had answered her and had a plan for her life.
“Man, that gives me cold chills. It sure does. Amazing.”
For a moment, they simply looked into each other’s eyes, experiencing a moment of mutual awe for God’s mysterious ways. And then Margaret remembered the time. Surely they’d already talked for more than fifteen minutes. “Hey, I probably need to get back to work.”
“Okay, so, could we exchange phone numbers?”
“I suppose we could. Although I won’t call you first. That’s not common etiquette among our people. Tradition, you know.”
They both laughed, then exchanged numbers. He got up to leave, said thanks, smiled, and was gone.
A WATCHED POT never boils, her mother said. The same rule must apply to the phone.
Margaret was peeling neck pumpkins, standing at the sink, grimacing as she drew the paring knife through the thick outer shell. Next she and her mom would cut them into chunks, add water, and put the pots on the stove to boil. Finally, the chunks of pumpkin flesh would be mashed, spooned into jars and cold packed, and carried down cellar, where they’d be placed among the rows of colorful jars on the wooden shelves.
She wiped the sweat off her forehead with the crook of her arm without releasing the paring knife, and blew a snort of air from her mouth to get rid of the annoying strands of hair.
“Why do you put yourself through this?” Margaret asked, leaning on the counter with one elbow.
“I can’t even tell you the difference between these home-canned pumpkins and store-bought canned ones,” Mary answered tersely. “And you, lady, put that phone away. You know only half your attention is on what we’re doing. He’s not going to call.”
“He might, and if he does, I don’t want to miss it.”
“Well at least set it aside so you don’t get pumpkin strings all over it.”
Margaret heaved herself away from the counter and put the phone on the stairway.
“Oh my, what would my father say? We should not allow you that device of the devil.”
“Stop it, Mom. Don’t be scary. Cell phones are here and they probably won’t go away anytime soon, Mother dear.”
“Oh, but it pains my conservative heart,” Mary answered.
“You’re not as strict as you think you should be,” Margaret quipped.
“How does that even make sense?”
“You know exactly what I mean. Children see straight through their parents. You know, you’re the one who told me that.”
Margaret gripped a paring knife, grabbed a large pumpkin, and cut it into sections, her eyebrows drawn down as she concentrated.
“This is impossible,” she whined, as Rebecca came in to join them.
With Rebecca’s help, they had twenty-two quarts of pumpkin bubbling in their hot water bath by the time Steve arrived home from work. Mary was crowing about the accomplishment, saying everything from the garden was finally canned, frozen, or dried. All except the grape juice, and she had a notion to let that go this year, seeing there were still twenty or twenty-five jars in the basement.
“I didn’t think the grapes were anything to write home about this year,” Steve said, without taking his eyes off the intricate work of spreading peanut butter on every available surface of his stalk of celery.
“I agree. We can just drink orange juice,” Mary said.
“We’re going to have to clean up the garden tonight, so everyone get in the mood,” said Steve. “Lyons said there’s a hurricane on the eastern shore, and we could get up to five inches of rain.”
“That’s exciting,” Logan buzzed. He lived to hear of floods, thunderstorms, blizzards, but most of all, the infrequently announced tornado watches.
They lugged enormous pumpkin vines, tomato stalks, and brown, brittle rows of lima beans. They chopped dry cornstalks, tilled the soil, and sowed tillage radishes, a ground cover serving to loosen and nurture the soil all winter long.
Everyone was worn out by the time twilight settled in. Margaret wiped her face with the hem of her skirt and announced she was not planning on having a garden, ever.
Christopher took this very seriously, saying Amish people all had gardens and what would her family eat in winter? Logan said she probably wouldn’t have a family, seeing how husbands were derived from boyfriends, which she didn’t have. Margaret replied that she would have a boyfriend if Mom and Dat weren’t so strict about her phone, and that half the time she couldn’t hear it when it rang. Logan, who was a bit big for his britches, said that if a guy ever called or texted, surely she could see if they did or not.
Margaret said, “Maybe, maybe not,” in a teasing manner, which infuriated him. He threw a small pumpkin at her, which she caught like a football and the chase was on, Christopher goading him on.
“Go, go, go! Go, Logan!”
Steve laughed so hard he had to lean his elbow on a tree, and Mary set down the wheelbarrow she was pushing to catch her breath. Mary whispered a prayer of gratitude, thanking God that Margaret had healed so quickly from her accident. She could be paralyzed, or worse, and here she was, running after her little brother.
The horses in the pasture were only a dark silhouette and the mourning doves heralded the oncoming night as they all made their way to the house. Now let the rains come , Mary thought. The garden was put to bed for the winter and she was glad, ready to rest her weary bones in the winter months, quilting, baking, or simply enjoying a good book. She’d get around to sewing Steve’s pants once the snow flew.
Bedtime snacks were in order. The boys decided on Oreos with milk, Rebecca peeled a tangerine, Steve spread a graham cracker with peanut butter, and Margaret was about to eat a spoonful of peanut butter straight from the jar when she held up a finger and cocked her head.
“Shh! Listen! Yep, my phone,” and she raced to the stairway. Oh my word , she breathed, and raced up the stairs to answer.
“Hi.”
“Yes, hello.”
“It’s me, Mike.”
“How are you?”
Margaret thought she might still die young of heart failure, and all that after her rescue in Bedford County.
Oh, she couldn’t do this. It was too soon after Ivan. So, she said the right things, answered the proper questions, but was absolutely frozen on the inside. Here she was again, all excited, fairly bursting at the seams with eagerness to have another boyfriend, and what if it went south like her relationship with Ivan did?
“Is something wrong?” he asked, catching her off guard.
“Uh, no. Well, yes. I’m just sitting here in my room beating myself up, thinking ‘here I go again.’ My last relationship left me feeling pretty sour, so I guess I’m a little wary of starting something new.”
“I haven’t asked you out yet.”
“Yeah, but you’re going to.”
The line was quiet, for a long moment, before muffled laughter was heard. “You are different. Someone told me you were.”
“Good. I am. I have no interest in trying to be like anyone else.”
“So, what if I tell you I don’t want to ask you out?”
“Then I’ll wait until you do, I suppose.”
“You want me to?”
“Of course.”
He grimaced, smiled to himself. This girl was as refreshing as a cool rain shower on a hot summer day, no doubt. She most definitely wasn’t like other girls, and he liked that. She had an air of confidence, yet it seemed to be laced with mystery. He had never imagined the phone conversation going like this.
He hated the way most girls gave mixed messages and kept the boys guessing. You could never tell if the girl actually wanted you and just wouldn’t let on, or if she really had no interest. Or maybe she wanted another guy, but would spend time with you just to make him jealous. It was all so frustrating and silly.
And here was Margaret, simply shooting straight with him.
“Well then, Margaret, will you go out to dinner with me?”
“Yes. Yes, I will.”
“You’re not just messing with me?”
“Why would I? I said yes and I meant it. I’ve been waiting for you to call ever since you were at market. That’s the truth.”
When he hung up, he let his phone drop on the rug, put his elbows on his knees, and lowered his face, a smile spreading as far as possible. All he could think of was, Wow.
He listened to the night sounds around him, the swish of dry oak leaves outside the window, his mother’s cough in the living room below. He was the youngest of a family of four, and his father had passed when he was twelve years old. He had lived with his widowed mother for four years, alone, and she had been fighting weak lungs since COVID-19 almost killed her.
There had been plenty of talk about the way that youngest boy drove around with that horse trailer and wide pickup truck, showing no respect for his poor mother, all alone and suffering with congestion. The small painted bungalow with one big dormer in the roof and a deep front porch was all they could afford. She quilted, went to market a day or so, but everyone guessed that Mike handed over a portion of his paycheck, which was the truth, though he never talked about it. He didn’t care much what people said about him.
Neighborhoods were rife with talk, folks minding one another’s business far too much. His mother knew he would never hurt her feelings, and no one had to know the times they spent in conversation, the loneliness he eased, the love he had for his mother. She had a feeling the real reason he stayed single was on her account.
But Mike went through his days with no ill feelings toward anyone. He was unabashedly who he was, and that was that. In that way (although he was not aware of this) he was a lot like Margaret.
He went downstairs, his mother putting down her book as he approached, doubling down a corner of the page.
“Mom?”
“Hm?”
He looked at her small, thin frame encased in the oversized house coat, the gray and white hair tucked into her white dichly , and suddenly he felt selfish, ashamed to take this important step.
“I asked a girl to dinner, and she said yes.”
“Why Michael, that’s wonderful. Congratulations. May I ask who this lucky girl is?”
“No one you know. Steve Riehl’s Margaret.”
“Oh, Susie Belier told me about her. An unusual name. She dated Amos Stoltzfus’s Ivan a while back. Amos is my second cousin. They say his wife Barbie has never made his life easy, but I guess there are people like that. Always will be. So, tell me, how old is Margaret? I can’t wait to meet her.”
Mike smiled at her. “That’s great, Mam. Thank you. It’s just . . . you know, if this develops into something, it means I might get my own place, and you’d be alone here.”
She shook a misshapen arthritic finger at him.
“You know that isn’t a problem at all. The girls have it all figured out, have for a long time.”
“I imagine they have.”
“Yes. So, you enjoy your date with Margaret and don’t worry about me. They talked to me about moving into someplace where I can get more care, and that will be just fine. Mike, I know this house isn’t much, but it’s yours.”
“Thank you, Mam.” He wrapped one arm around her and, for a moment, rested his head on her shoulder.
M ARY GOT OUT the trusty Fisher book, an Amish publication with page after page of families listed alphabetically. It was a guide to look up distant relatives and a who’s who for the curious. It was especially helpful at times like this, when a veritable stranger asked your daughter for a date, and you kind of knew about where his mother lived but had no real idea of her family tree.
Genealogy was an important part of Amish life, and Mary felt strong ties to tradition. She hoped the young man in question would prove to be worthy of her daughter.
“King. Abner King, deceased. Five children.”
Hmm. Interesting. She wondered what had happened to him. She turned pages to look up the daughters, and to see to whom they were married. Here was a connection. One of them was married to a Mark Stoltzfus. His father’s name was Jonas of Honeybrook. She wondered if it was the Jonas Stoltzfus who was a bishop in that district.
When she heard Margaret’s footsteps on the stairs, she closed the book, quickly, and was sliding it into the bookcase as she appeared.
“Caught you, Mom. The Fisher book,” she announced.
“Guilty as charged,” Mary answered sheepishly.
“You’re so old-fashioned.”
“Maybe, but I prefer to think of it as caring.”
“Mom, I need a new dress. Can we go to the fabric store?”
A S THEY DROVE along country roads, Mary felt the cool breeze coming through the window and noticed the colorful array of leaves carpeting green lawns, an occasional bare branch emerging through the thick foliage. White barns dotted the countryside, with plodding mules drawing equipment as the heavy stalks of corn were cut, bundled, and stacked.
All the neighbors gathering from one farm to another to fill silos, putting the cumbersome bundles through the cutter, blowing the pieces of dried cornstalk, the ears of corn with husks intact chopped along with it. Silage for hungry cows, fueling their bodies with wholesome nutrition, enabling them to produce gallons of rich, creamy milk with a good butterfat content.
Fresh silage smelled like fermentation, a strong, acidic odor that took her straight back to the old barns in New York, where the life of the Amish was so very different. And here she was, traveling along to help her own daughter choose a fancy new dress to go out with a young man showing no signs of belonging to their plain sect. The uncomfortable wave of guilt accompanying these memories was her own thorn in the flesh, the curse she bore.
What would her father say? She visibly bowed her head as the dishonor boiled up and over, wrecking her own peaceful, meandering thoughts. Like a quiet, deep river, the speedboat of guilt roared against the current, creating giant ripples, waves of remorse.
I’m sorry, Dat, please forgive me my lossheit (uncaring).
“Watch where you’re going. Mom! Geez,” Margaret yelled. Drawing on the left rein, Mary corrected her course and grinned sheepishly before shaking her head, then turning into the parking lot of the dry goods store. A few cars were parked in front, with a black horse hitched to a gray buggy at the rail, and a small brown pony beside it. Expertly, she steered her own horse beside the black one, then climbed down and retrieved the neck rope, before noticing Margaret’s slow descent on the opposite side.
“Ow. Ouch,” she grimaced, her voice hoarse in her throat.
“My, Margaret. Is it that bad?”
“Sometimes, like today, everything hurts.”
They exchanged a look that could only be interpreted as understanding and Mary breathed a prayer of thanks for her precious daughter, that her life had been spared.
She looped an arm around her shoulder and drew her close.
“I love you, Margaret.”
“Mom! Not in public.”
She shrugged her shoulders to rid herself of the display of affection, and Mary laughed out loud. A thread of joy like a dust whirl made the yellow chrysanthemums blend with the orange pumpkins on the steps, creating a golden scene on this wonderful afternoon.
A young mother with a baby on her hip, two toddlers in tow, carrying a heavy plastic bag nudged the door open, held it till the children came through, then let them down the steps before her.
They stood aside to let her pass, said hello before going into the store. It was quiet, the lines of shelves packed with bolts of fabric, sectioned into parts labeled by the name of the cloth itself. Amish women had their preference, some choosing plain, dark colors, others choosing stretchy fabric crisscrossed with a pebbled design in brilliant colors.
Mary allowed Margaret to wander off on her own, determined to avoid the usual power struggle and stick to her own list of thread, fine-toothed combs, and trouser buttons.
She rounded a corner to find her next-door neighbor, Annie, poring over the small bags of snaps.
“Hey there, Mary,” she said over her shoulder.
Mary grinned at her. “What’s up?”
“Boy, aren’t you looking young and fresh as a teenager today?”
Mary shrugged. “You know what they say. The company we keep rubs off on us.”
“You’re here with Margaret?” Annie asked, smiling.
“Who else? What are you doing, plucking a bag of snaps off there? Do you still use snaps?”
“Of course I do. I’m not sewing my dresses down the front in this new style. I can’t imagine the acrobatics getting out of the thing. Twisting and turning with your arms straight up trying to tug your dress off.”
Mary laughed good naturedly. “You’d love it.”
“I brush my teeth, then I comb my hair, then I get dressed. I can’t imagine sticking my head in that tiny neckline, then combing my hair with my dress on. My whole back would be covered in hair, the way yours probably is. Turn around, let me see.”
“ Ach , Annie. There are no hairs on my back. They blow off during the day.”
They laughed together, each one comfortable with the other’s preference, although Mary shook her head, saying she couldn’t imagine applying those old snap buttons.
“Well, if you ever see me walking up your drive, stuck in my dress, you’ll know I tried,” Annie said, throwing a few packets of snap buttons into her basket dangling on one arm.
Mary gave her the thumbs up, and they parted, smiling, but she couldn’t help thinking of her dresses growing up in New York, closed down the front with straight pins, the very conservative way still used years later.
And here she was, joking with her neighbor about something so far out of the most important aspect of her father’s life, ordnung .