CHAPTER 19
C HAPTER 19
B Y THE END OF N OVEMBER, HE ’ D TAKEN HER TO SEE THE HOUSE , and by Christmas he’d presented her with the gift of silverware in a wooden chest, plus the pitcher and tumblers she would use on her wedding table, a sort of pre-engagement gift, both traditional, both absolutely stunning.
She was thrilled, of course, but Mary’s mouth was clamped shut like a vise, her eyebrows lowered with concern. She told Steve he was moving way too fast, and what good could ever come of it?
Steve patiently laid his newspaper aside and gave her his full attention, his eyes on her troubled ones before he cleared his throat.
“Mary, she’s eighteen. I’m sure they’ll wait another year. Many of our young women are married at nineteen.”
“But not Margaret. She’s so not ready for a husband. She knows what she wants, and she’ll go to all lengths to get it. She doesn’t give up. That’s no way to enter a marriage. How will she ever submit the way a wife must?”
Steve sighed, picked up his paper.
“They aren’t married yet, Mary.”
Mary went off to bed in a huff, tired of hearing Steve take her daughter’s part, always. They hardly knew Mike, but she knew he drove a truck and hadn’t joined church yet at, what was he? Twenty-four, five? With his mother gone, who would push him into being Amish? Oh, she could see it now. Margaret with her hair cut short, driving a car. Dear Lord, keep your hand over her, please.
She lay awake long after Steve came to bed, imagining her oldest daughter going English. Her legs ached, her back was itchy, her mind ran into overdrive. She tried calming herself with deep breathing, but it didn’t work. And so, she unloaded her heart to her Father in Heaven.
The following morning, groggy from lack of sleep, she steeled herself to have the necessary talk with Margaret. She got the boys off to school, then yelled up the stairs for Rebecca and Margaret. Even on their days off, she never allowed anyone to sleep past eight.
They stumbled into the kitchen, disheveled and sleepy, poured coffee, and sprawled on kitchen chairs.
“I guarantee, Mother, you are the only one who has this eight o’clock rule in her head. Marianne sleeps till noon on her day off.”
“Good for her,” Mary quipped.
Margaret opened a cabinet door to check on the type of coffee she was drinking. “I thought so. Why do you insist on buying Maxwell House coffee?”
Mary turned her back, chose to leave the question unanswered.
A few minutes in the kitchen and everything out of Margaret’s mouth was negative. That did not bode well for marriage. Did Mike have any idea what he was getting into?
“When I’m married, I’ll drink Starbucks.”
Rebecca sipped her coffee, blinked, and smiled sweetly in her sister’s direction. “Hope he has money.”
Mary buttered a slice of whole wheat toast, cut it in half, and sat at the table with her girls, listening to the talk about Mike’s job, the cute little house, what Margaret would do with the small yard.
“Well, I hope you’re not planning to get married this fall.”
“What?” Margaret leaned forward, defensiveness all over her face. “Why not?”
“You will barely be nineteen.”
“Mom, I’m not waiting for two more years. I already asked Mike if he’s joining church and whether he thinks we’ll be married in the fall. It’s not up to you. Amish parents don’t boss their grown kids around like that.”
“You asked him what?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide with alarm.
“What?”
“You did not ask your boyfriend that.”
“Of course I did. I have every right to know.”
“Margaret, listen,” said Mary. “You must listen to me. I know it seems heartless, but you really do need a few years to mature, to grow spiritually and emotionally. Marriage is hard at times. You know that joining the church means giving up driving, cell phones, music, and neither of you have much practice giving things up. That’s going to be a real stretch for you both, and it would be wise to give yourself some time to make those adjustments before throwing marriage challenges into the mix.”
She was trying to speak with a level, compassionate tone, but when Margaret rolled her eyes, Mary lost it.
She leaned back, slapped her palms on the table, and pierced Margaret with a no-nonsense look. “I mean it, young lady. There will be no wedding in the fall.”
Margaret eyed her mother in disbelief, absorbing the fact that she meant what she said, and that likely Steve would back her up. An impenetrable wall descended, and hopes were dashed. She would have to wait two long years before they could marry and move into that cute little house with the man of her dreams. None of this was fair, not remotely right. Why did her parents have to be so ridiculously strict?
She tried tears, threats, and silence, but her mother remained steadfast, like a boulder of considerable size.
She pouted, spending hours alone in her room, until one evening after the boys were in bed, both parents asked her to come sit with them in the living room. Rebecca sensed the advancing of the war’s front line and disappeared up the stairs.
Together, her parents laid down a solid line of resistance. Eighteen was simply too young. No matter how close she was to nineteen, she was only eighteen, and all her wails about Mike being in his mid-twenties did not change that fact.
Steve interjected, trying to keep the peace. “He hasn’t actually asked you to marry him yet. Maybe this whole argument is premature?”
“But I have my silverware and crystal pitcher set,” Margaret stated defiantly, her green eyes snapping.
“Which is a good thing, the way he must be thinking of marriage, but it still doesn’t increase your age.”
“We talked about marriage,” she snapped, then sat back and crossed her arms, pouting.
But there was no giving in, nothing to do but leave the room, walk heavily up the stairs, and slam the door to her room, giving herself the satisfaction of letting them both know she was upset.
Mary wanted to go upstairs, to reason with her, but Steve shook his head, said she’d get over it, and Mary let it go.
A NOTHER WEEKEND, ANOTHER date, a visit to his sister Lynn, and Margaret fell into Mike’s family with ease, charming them all with her beauty, her warm personality, and her straightforward way of speaking, with Mike glowing with approval beside her.
She told him her parents’ position in the timing of their marriage and then there was no more talk of marriage, no more dreaming of the little house, the years stretching ahead like an endless ribbon of roadway. It seemed like an eternity to wait until she was almost twenty-one, and by then Mike would be going on thirty, which seemed ancient.
Christmas came and went, but no clock appeared, the Amish version of an engagement ring. It could be a wall clock, a clock for the mantel, or a gorgeous, costly grandfather’s clock—it didn’t matter which, as long as it solidified their engagement.
She told him she was thrilled with the chair and the large rug for her room, her face a conflict of emotion.
“Something’s wrong, Margaret,” he said softly. “What is it?”
“Oh, nothing. I love it. They’re both beautiful. Thank you for your gift. I sure don’t deserve a recliner like this. It’s too much.” Before she thought, she blurted out, “A grandfather’s clock would go well with it.”
He looked at her, found her clear eyes on him, with no embarrassment evident.
“But I didn’t think . . .” He swallowed, shook his head.
“Oh, don’t worry. I didn’t mean it’s your fault or anything. I told you I’m not allowed to get married for two more years. And that little house is just going to sit there and become moldy and filled with mice.”
“What? But I live there,” he reminded her.
“You’re hardly ever there.”
He thought about this, then looked into her green, guileless eyes and knew. He just knew. Yes, she was stubborn, and wanted her own way. She was immature, headstrong, and sometimes rebellious. But she had no guile. She was not conniving, or mean, would never hurt a flea, had never heard her speak a vile word about anyone, was always truthful to a fault. No doubt their union would be imperfect, weren’t they always? Marriage was not a “lived happily ever after” deal, no matter how many young hearts were smitten with the stardust of romance. Real life would come after, when the checkbook wouldn’t balance, when carpeting was stained and there was no money to replace it, when the first wave of nausea hit after the pregnancy test, when he sold his truck and started driving a horse and buggy and had to call a driver to go to town. He had seen enough of his siblings’ and friends’ marriages to know that marriage wasn’t all easy.
All this ran through his head, and plenty more. He loved her. He loved her to distraction. He was not worthy of her, would never be. He would give his life for her, of this he was certain.
“In the spring, we’ll both join the church,” he said evenly.
“But do we have to?” she asked. “It won’t be fun dating without the truck. I can’t imagine getting around in a horse and buggy.”
His only reply was a smile, his blue eyes crinkling.
W INTER SET IN with a serious blizzard in January, one that kept Mike at home on a Saturday night, and Margaret at home with her family. Mike tried to concentrate on the book he was reading, which he thought was rather lame considering all the reviews it had garnered. He stoked the fire, swept up the sawdust from the chunks of dry oak, then went to the front porch to see if there was any possibility of going to her house. The cold air hit him like a smack in the face, the whole world grayish white, the only sound a soft swishing of falling, blowing snow and the brittle rattling of brown oak leaves desperately clinging to bare branches.
Hushed and still.
He felt the presence of God, the way he sometimes did. As if he was only a dot, a pinhead, in the vast order of things, and yet in all of that, he felt cherished, as if he mattered to Someone.
He was awed by the sheer force of nature, the wonder created by the driven flakes of snow, the houses and barns huddled and still, the rectangles of yellow light from neighboring homes.
He breathed deeply and turned his face to the sky as he marveled at the storm. He wanted to be with Margaret, but this time of being alone was perhaps what he needed, to reflect on how far their relationship had come.
He still didn’t know what kept him from showing her his love in the usual way, but so far, they had not touched except for an occasional clasping of hands or a discreet touch on the shoulder. It wasn’t any of his convictions, or any shyness, or fear of upsetting her—it just didn’t happen.
But they talked. They had endless dialogue about every single thing in both of their lives.
He turned back and let himself in, closed the door firmly behind him, and went to the woodstove to rub his hands and shiver.
He looked around, noticed the old-fashioned wainscoting, the chipped green paint, the linoleum worn thin, black spots where sparks from the woodstove had melted the finish. And he remembered the one thing he could never share with Margaret. He thought he’d stuffed it away, closed the latch and never bothered to open it again, but it was there. In his mind’s eye, he saw his father acting strangely, slurring his words, sometimes singing odd snatches of country music, and his mother’s tight face. He shook his head, squeezed his eyes shut to rid himself of past haunts, the ghosts of a closet alcoholic, the patience and long-suffering of his saintly mother. She had tried so hard to protect her children from an unhealthy situation. And yet, it had not been entirely possible. The smell of it would never go away, that alcohol-laced breath as he wheezed into the house, already too drunk to care if he seemed arrogant, or bold, roughhousing with Mike, his youngest son, teasing the girls.
It was buried, dead and gone. He’d forgiven his father for his weakness, the clutching grip the alcohol had on him. Who knew what his father’s own childhood had been like?
So many winding paths, so many years of Amish ancestors, and so much kept quiet. Who was to know the failures, the hurts, the hidden abuse?
Growing up, he had never imagined being Amish for the rest of his life, but he’d lived the English lifestyle for more than a decade now and it still didn’t feel fulfilling. Shortly before he’d met Margaret, he’d told his mother he’d likely do what she wanted of him and join the church. Yes, he wanted to honor his mother’s memory by following through, but it was more than that now when he imagined his future with Margaret, he saw them surrounded by the community of their ancestors, riding in the buggy to church, gathering with his siblings’ families for holidays. When he tried to picture them raising children as an English family, he couldn’t. It just didn’t feel right.
He laid the book aside, unable to concentrate, moments of his childhood playing through his mind. He had been painfully aware of their circumstances, unable to build a shop or garage large enough to accommodate church services, so they would have to ask the neighbors to host them, every time. He’d hear the deacon announce in church, “Services will be held at Jacob Miller’s for Abner Kings,” an announcement that their kindly neighbor’s benevolence would enable them to provide food and take their turn at hosting church services.
He’d load up the express wagon with pies and pickles, red beets and coffee, knowing there would be no lunchmeat, no delicious thin sliced ham or sweet bologna to go with the bread and cup cheese. He’d suffer through the dinner table, the boys searching for bologna or ham, snickering the word “poor.” He had come to detest Amish church services, and eventually refused to go.
No, Margaret need not hear about this. Thank God he’d turned out stable, normal, a human being without being fettered to the past.
He blinked, listened to the wind as it hurled bits of frozen snow against the north window, hitting it with a sliding, pinging sound. He looked at the plaster walls, the cracks in the open stairway, the rounded arches for doorways, and thought it amazing Margaret wanted to live here at all.
He would speak to her parents, try to get them to agree to a wedding in November.
And he did just that, the following month, before Valentine’s Day, when he planned on proposing, having the clock delivered to her house.
He surprised Margaret by asking to come in that Saturday night, surprised her even more when he shrugged out of his coat, and sat at the kitchen table as if he planned to stay. Margaret asked if he wanted coffee, and wasn’t he worried about getting to Rueben’s party on time?
He shook his head, which was when she noticed the pinched look around his mouth.
“Ask your parents to join us for a moment,” he said quietly.
“Sure.”
She beckoned to them from the kitchen, and both appeared, a bit disheveled from being nestled on recliners, eyelids heavy from reading sleepily. There was a muted yell from the basement, where Logan and Christopher were playing shuffleboard.
“Yessir. Good evening, Mike.”
“Hello, Mike.”
“Yes, good evening to both of you, too.”
“Think it’ll start to thaw here after a bit? I think my chaps have about had it with being off work for so long.”
“Yeah, it’s been a real winter.”
There was an awkward space of silence, then Mike took a deep breath and began.
“I hear from Margaret you won’t approve of our marriage in the fall, which is perfectly understandable.”
Before he could continue, Mary snapped, “That’s correct.”
“I was hoping I could persuade you to see it another way.”
Steve smiled slowly, broadly, which helped tremendously.
“Fire away,” he said, inserting two fingers into his coffee cup handle, lifting it to his mouth, his eyes smiling over top of it.
“I’m not exactly a young man . . .”
“But Margaret is very young,” Mary threw in.
He started over, and simply stated outright that he would like to have their consent to be married in the fall.
Margaret went pale and a hand went to her mouth.
“I know she’s young, but she’s also more mature than some.”
Margaret’s eyes shone.
“I know, Margaret, how unusual this proposal is, but I thought it best to have all of us together, and you and I will be alone later.”
“She’s too young, too stubborn.” Mary would not yield.
“Thanks, Mom, for your vote of confidence,” Margaret said quietly. Then Mike told them frankly all he saw in Margaret, and that no marriage was ever perfect, he was well aware of it. He said he wanted a clear yes or no, but was afraid he’d go ahead with it in November either way.
Margaret simply sat like a stone, her green eyes wide with wonder, filled with hope of her dream fulfilled so much sooner than expected.
Steve looked at Mary, who refused to meet his eyes, and a silence as thick as pudding settled over the room.
“Well,” Steve said finally. “I guess it’s up to Mom here.”
“It’s not up to me,” Mary said hoarsely. “We said no, and we meant it. Still do. You’re too young, Margaret.”
“Almost nineteen, Mom.”
“Exactly.”
Margaret’s lips trembled. “I grew up at the edge of the river the day I almost died. God saved my life and since then, things have been different. I’m ready to join the church.”
At this, Mary burst into tears, left her chair, and went out of the room. Steve looked at Margaret and understood her. He breathed a soft sigh.
“Let’s wait, give your mother a few minutes.”
When Mary returned, her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose discolored, but her face was composed. Margaret saw the wrinkles lining her eyes, the soft sagging of her jowls, the lines on her forehead, and realized the aging taking place.
“Mom, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but . . . think back to when you wanted to get married. Imagine being told you weren’t allowed.”
“Obviously, you don’t know how many times that happened.”
“I’m sorry. Of course, I forgot. You told me all that.”
“But, I don’t know, Mike. Margaret. Perhaps . . .”
Her voice trailed off.
“Maybe you’re a bit like your father, Mary,” Steve said gently.
“I know,” she said, nodding. “Time after time. I find myself letting ultra-conservative views crowd out common sense. And I have this awful need to control those around me. Maybe I don’t even think you are too young. Maybe I just need to control how fast I’m going to lose you to Mike.”
“It’s not that you think I’m not fit for marriage?” Margaret asked, her voice quavering.
“ Ach Margaret, of course you’re fit. It’s just that you’re so willful, so much the way I used to be. But if this is what you want, and if you feel it’s what God wants, then I suppose we can be ready to have a wedding in November.”
“I haven’t asked her yet,” Mike said softly, and reached for her hand.
Steve and Mary looked at each other, remembering their own engagement.
Did time, or age, or circumstances matter when two people were in love? Of course they’d have trials, rough times, arguments, even moments of regret, but God willing, that would be balanced with the good times. When you were young and so in love, the future was brilliant.
T HEY WENT UPSTAIRS for the first time and sat together on the small sofa. He complimented her tasteful room, then began to talk in that low tone, the one she loved to hear.
“Margaret, I know my house isn’t much, and I don’t have a lot of money to hire someone to renovate, but I’m hoping that together we can make it a home you’ll love.”
For once in her life, Margaret didn’t have anything to say.
Slowly, he got off the sofa, down on one knee, and looked at her face until she met his eyes, those clear, pure green eyes he loved so much, and this is what he said.
“I know, Margaret, I’m not worthy of you, and never will be, but will you be my wife?”
And she said very soft and low, as sincere as she knew how to be, “Yes, Mike. I will.”
His eyes filled with tears, and hers caught the emotion in his, before he got to his feet and reached down to draw her up and into his arms for the first time. He drew back and asked if she thought it okay to kiss her this one time. Just once, he said.
She nodded, and he touched her chin so lightly it was like a benediction. He stroked her cheek very gently, then lowered his mouth to hers. The room spun, righted itself, and still he could not set her free.
When they broke apart, both of their eyes were shining with the love awaiting them, the soft, beautiful bud of promise for a lifetime together.
“Oh, and I forgot. Here is your engagement gift.” He drew a photograph from his shirt pocket, the picture of a grandfather’s clock, in oak wood, with a golden pendulum, and weights.
“Oh, it’s gorgeous!”
“You mean it?”
“Do I ever say things I don’t mean?”
He laughed, with real joy. “No, you don’t. That’s the best thing about you. The one quality that sets you apart from everyone else.”