Chapter 17
C HAPTER 17
T HE FOLLOWING WEEK, SHE DROVE HONEY BACK TO HER FATHER’S residence to help Mima pack her belongings. It was a hot day, the summer wearing itself into July, when the sun’s power produced discomfort for man and beast.
She slowed her horse to a walk going uphill, the white foam building up around the britchment and along the traces. As Honey lunged faithfully into her collar, Mary watched a pair of bluebirds in flight, coming to rest in a barberry bush beside the road. Such a beautiful blue. She felt sorry for the poor birds, having to light on those prickly branches.
Her mind was pleasantly empty this morning, after a good night’s rest after a long evening’s work, pulling out the pea stalks and hauling them away with the wheelbarrow, then removing the posts and chicken wire.
She’d tilled the soil and planted lima beans afterward, the way her mother and Lizzie had always done. She wasn’t sure if it was a good idea here in New York, with the shorter growing season, but she’d give it a try. Lima beans were not her favorite vegetable, but she liked them in vegetable soup, with cabbage.
She hummed a tune in time with the buggy wheels, then thought about installing a telephone in a shanty at the end of the drive, permissible by church rules and a very handy arrangement. She used Art and Jessie’s phone now, but wasn’t sure if she had always been welcome of late, the way Jessie was always in the middle of some important task or other when she knocked. She guessed that, too, was common sense, the church allowing neighborhood telephones so as not to disturb the neighbors.
She couldn’t build a phone shanty by herself, so she’d have to purchase one from a shed builder, she supposed. Or ask Abner and Jonas, which would likely be met by opposition.
It didn’t seem real, walking through the door of the Daudy house to find him gone. He really had passed on, which was a bit hard to digest, really. Although, after Mima’s visit, she could work through her grief with more understanding, recognizing the tears as those of deep disappointment that things had not been better.
Oh, but it was true.
Mima came up from the cellar, a large men’s handkerchief tied around her head, the front of her dress stained with dust and dirt.
Her eyes lit up at the sight of her.
“Oh hello, Mary. Komm rye .”
“How are you, Mima?”
“Good. I’m doing good. Just working hard to get ready.”
She flopped into a chair, nodded at the tea kettle.
“Go ahead if you want tea or coffee. It’s too hot for me already.”
Mary looked around, said she’d gotten a lot accomplished.
Mima nodded, took the corner of her apron to wipe her forehead.
“Abner and Malinda have enough on their plate without me yammering over there for help. Some of my siblings are coming tomorrow, for what that’s worth. They’ll be a huge boost.”
But Mary was only half listening, falling on her knees by a box of her father’s possessions. The wooden backscratcher, the small wooden pen holder he always had on one side of his desk. Stacks of diaries, old journals, deeds, and paid bills. A bag of marbles. A Ziploc bag of paper clips, small nails, eraser stubs.
A stack of blue men’s handkerchiefs, never red ones. Red was the devil’s color, he always said. Far be it from him to have the devil’s color in his own pocket. A hook of resentment caught her unaware, slicing across her mind. When he told her that, she was in third or fourth grade, and he removed all her red crayons from the well-worn box she owned. She refused to eat red apples and became nervous when her face turned red from the cold. She stayed far away from a classmate when she or he turned up in red clothes. She pictured red horns and a forked tail from the individual wearing the fateful color.
So many things were deemed sinful. Skipping to school on a bright morning was brought to a halt by a rebuke from her brother, followed by a sister saying she could see Mary’s knees. Mary’s black stockings had been drawn up to her knees, secured by a length of elastic sewn into a garter, so tight it was a miracle they didn’t cut off her circulation. She told her mother if she didn’t make new garters her legs would fall off right below the knee and how would they like to push her to school on a reddaschtul ? Her mouth was smacked a stinging blow by her mother, but she held her head up high and refused to show pain.
As she sorted through her father’s things, she found a small blue book, the one terrifying her most through all of her childhood. It was called “The Heart Book,” or in German, Hotz Büchly .
Her father often took her on his knee and showed her the ancient depictions of death and life, of Heaven and Hell. Drawings of angels, the real holy ones who came to carry you away when you died, and the hovering demon with split hooves and a tail. The fear of all spiritual matters took root in her small heart back then, the droning voice of her father explaining Hell in full detail—a never-ending lake of fire was too much for her sprouting senses, so she told herself it wasn’t real.
Denial was survival for her in those days. If you didn’t believe it, it wasn’t really true.
“You’re being very quiet,” Mima observed.
“Just going through stuff,” she answered quietly.
And here was the cigar box with pens and pencils with business logos. Zimmerman’s Horse Dentistry, Logan’s Plumbing, Beiler’s Horse Shoeing. There must have been a hundred of them, all saved, kept in a box.
She sighed, picked up a handful and released them. She thought how her father’s bones would return to dust long before these plastic pens began to break down in a landfill somewhere. Here was his photoless ID card. Absolutely no picture of himself anywhere, no graven images.
She’d let her brothers take care of all this.
She pushed the box away with a sense of finality. So many worthless items to dispose of, but she guessed if it brought him a sense of accomplishment, it was worth that much. To be frugal, a good steward of his finances, had been his highest goal, and certainly he had done well, saving every pen and pencil.
She called out to Mima, “Tell me what to do.”
“Oh, you’re busy going through his stuff,” she answered.
“No. I’m done. Nothing to see.”
“He didn’t have much, did he?”
“No.”
“Does it make you sad?”
“No, not more than anything else.”
But it had. An impending sense of doom settled over her. What was life here on earth if all you had to show for it was a cigar box full of pens and pencils, a mortgage on a crumbling farm in a valley filled with rumblings of God’s wrath and human sin?
Why did anyone ever bother trying? The sun rose each day and set at night without fail, the four seasons came and went, and man struggled on, only to take his last breath at the hands of a cruel disease. Between the covers of your life’s book, what was there? Lost in thought, she became aware of the beating of her heart, the acceleration like a frantic sparrow now, the fluttering wings increasing her fear. She tried to concentrate, tried her best to draw deep, even breaths, thought of rippling water and calm summer breezes, but was engulfed in waves of terror. Sweat poured off her face, her mouth dried out like a wind-driven leaf.
Mima stood over her. “Mary!”
Gasping, lunging for the bathroom door, she threw herself in and slammed it shut, lowered the lid of the commode, and sat down. She put her head between her knees to stay conscious as waves of dread rolled over her. Inky waves of blackness, thick and suffocating.
The door was thrown open. Mima was there, rubbing her shoulders, saying, “Mary. Mary.”
She began to cry, then, huge gulping sobs of despair and loss. And Mima stayed, rubbing her shoulders, her presence keeping her centered, bringing her back from the precipice.
“Tell me what brought it on,” Mima pleaded.
But Mary choked on her sobs.
Mima led her to the back porch, where the shade protected them from the blazing sun. For a long moment, they were quiet, as Mary’s sobs subsided, then stopped. She sat up, wiped her face, but kept her eyes downcast. A thin barn cat appeared out of nowhere, arched its back, and rubbed against the webbed lawn chairs.
Mary reached down and rubbed a palm across the cat’s back, a deep shuddering breath escaping her.
Mima waited.
“It’s so hopeless, Mima. Life is hardly worth the effort we put into it, really.”
“Don’t think like that, Mary. Please don’t. You scare me. I’m afraid I’m deserting my post, going back to my old home. You need someone to stay with you. Won’t you please see a doctor, at least to get over the worst of this?”
“This? What is this? What is wrong with me? Is it my heart?”
Mima shook her head.
“Come with me, Mary. Come stay at my house in the valley.”
“No, I can’t. I have jobs. The housecleaning. I’ll be fine.”
“You aren’t well, Mary.”
“I’ll be fine.”
A T HOME, SHE took a long soothing shower, changed into clean clothes, and relaxed on the pretty chair, her thick red hair drying in waves of color. The geraniums moved very slightly in the breeze, bringing the scent of tilled soil and decaying vegetation.
Here was a measure of stillness, here on her own property, surrounded by cool forest, even in the middle of summer’s heat.
She must stay here, away from memories she would never fully understand and had no power to control. She knew Mima meant well, knew her words were meant to be helpful, but it only stirred up a deep confusion, especially coupled with solid evidence of her father’s ways.
Where had that thought come from, that wondering what he had left behind? Of course life was worth living. She must bring her thoughts into subjection, must control that part of her brain.
For so many unknown reasons, she didn’t really know God. Of course He was up there somewhere, watching her. He knew her sinful ways, could see her disobedient heart, but she had no clear idea of who He really was—except, perhaps, someone to fear.
She wondered seriously for a moment if Steve would contact her if she changed the color of her blinds and sold this chair. Oh, and the urn. Would God’s blessing finally reach her if she obeyed the law to the letter? Mima didn’t think so, she could tell.
Well, Mima didn’t know everything.
For now, she was grateful for the measure of peace she found here in her own backyard. Perhaps if she had no other blessing, she could begin by being thankful for tiny things.
Opening her eyes, she watched a blue butterfly with black outlines on its wings hover and dip above a lantana bush, a perfect combination of colors against the backdrop of green forest. She closed her eyes and whispered, “Thank you,” hoping God would not find her silly.
A T WORK THE following day, she listened as Mrs. Combs told her about her husband’s drinking at night, the way it was beginning to affect their relationship, turning the music up too loud when he made dinner at seven.
“He just gets weird,” she moaned, sinking onto the leather sofa, her head in her hands. Her hair was loose and disheveled, her eyes bloodshot and swollen as two hard-boiled eggs, her T-shirt loose on her skinny frame.
Mary pushed the dust cloth steadily across the piano, lifted a pile of sheet music, dusted underneath, and replaced it.
“Here. Give that here.”
Mary obeyed.
“I’m hiding this. He doesn’t need to go pounding on these keys at night. He drives me crazy.”
Mary didn’t comment, going on with the dusting, carefully lifting costly items and replacing them.
“Did you clean the hall mirror?”
“I did.”
“You know that Windex doesn’t work real well.”
“I know. I use window cloths.”
“What are they?”
Mary explained, was met with a snort. “Never heard of such a thing. How can windows be clean without soap? They’re not. Fold your paper towels better. Like this.”
Mary watched patiently as she demonstrated the proper usage of Bounty towels, which would always, always leave lint and streaks on her windows, then listened as she described her husband’s alcohol-induced singing as he cooked, the way he created an argument as they ate, and how she always had to praise his cooking, even if it wasn’t all that great.
Mary thought of Amish housewives cooking every single meal with no help from their husbands and then milking cows in the dairy barn after.
But Mrs. Combs didn’t realize this, and her own set of problems were very real to her, so she listened.
“Don’t you have a boyfriend? Aren’t you ever getting one? I mean, it’s unusual for your kind to be this old without being married.”
“Yes, it’s unusual,” Mary said, quietly.
“Well, maybe you’re better off. Men are just trouble. Anyway, I gotta leave. I’m getting my hair done, then yoga. Oh, would you clean the inside of the microwave? I warmed a dish of spaghetti and got it too hot.”
Mary couldn’t bring herself to answer, so she nodded.
“Okay, see you.”
For thirty dollars an hour, you did what you were told, never talked back without due respect, and washed windows with Bounty towels and Windex, even if they left streaks and lint. You also used Clorox on the bathroom floor even if you would never use it on your own floors. You were grateful for the ride to and from work, knowing every handful of cash would be your means of survival.
You also didn’t ask which was the most sordid fate, a husband you couldn’t stand or no husband at all. You stayed quiet and knew your place in the order of things.
She smiled at her reflection in the hall mirror.
Yes, she was no longer a teenager, for sure, but she wasn’t all that bad, either. In summer, she was a bit golden, her freckles complementing those red waves.
As she moved into the computer room, she dusted, swept, and wondered how her future would pan out. She had no joy in thinking of the coming days, of fall’s approach, even the long winter ahead, but knew she must make an effort to go on. If only she had a goal, a challenge, she might find a purpose in life.
She thought of Tiger. Where was he now?
Tiger and Elam. She often thought of Eli and Sarah Allgyer’s house, the golden aura of perpetual sunshine, the love and healing surrounding this child with leukemia. The antiseptic scent of the hospital hallways, the pale face surrounded with love. And then the small lost boy named Tiger.
With all her heart, she hoped Tiger was safe, secure in his mother’s love.
She supposed the two boys had been in her life for a good reason, but had not been able to explain anything, even to herself.
She’d often heard the saying that everything happened for a reason, but how was a person expected to understand? She placed a kitchen chair below the microwave, stepped up on it, and peered inside, finding splattered, dried-on tomato sauce.
She shook her head, stepped down, and drew a sinkful of hot water, added a long squirt of dish detergent. She swirled a clean rag in it, wrung it out, and stepped back up. It was slow going, but eventually, the interior was shining, with no trace of tomato sauce. She glanced at the clock, knew she had to speed up to finish in less than an hour.
Would her whole life be a series of cleaning days?
She would practice gratitude, would appreciate her house and garden, her family and friends, the beauty of New York, and yes, the ability to have a successful cleaning business. Perhaps if she did that, she would finally find the favor of God.
On the way home, Mrs. Combs told her the house always smelled so good when she was finished, and how she appreciated the open windows in each room as she cleaned. With central air, it just gave the house a fresh feeling in summer. Mary smiled, felt compensated for her hard work, and knew why she continued to work for Mrs. Combs.
As they drove up to her house, they met a taxicab pulling away, a black and yellow vehicle with a white top across the roof of the car.
“Looks like you have company,” Mrs. Combs remarked.
“Hm.” Mary answered.
She was given a wad of cash, a confirmation about the coming date to clean, a smile and a wave. Mary took a deep breath, then stepped on the porch and into the house, finding nothing out of place, no one lurking about. She opened the back screen door and found Steve, looking a bit uncomfortable, his duffel bag on the chair she’d purchased at Lowe’s.
She stopped, her eyes wide in her startled face.
“Steve?”
“Mary.”
He stepped forward, extended a hand. She took it. They shook hands formally.
“I took a chance to come see you. I couldn’t bring myself to come to your father’s viewing, but I wanted to extend condolence.”
“Thank you.”
She nodded at the chair. “You’re staying?”
“If I may.”
She snorted unbecomingly, slanted him an exasperated look.
“You know you can’t stay here.”
“Why not?”
“Because of my father. Well, his voice. My family, the rules. The church.”
“Mary, we are friends. I have no plans of saying or doing anything immoral, not even questionable. I was just hoping we could talk.”
“Oh, do we? Now that my father is dead and gone, safely six feet under, you think New York has changed for the better?”
He said nothing, but squinted his eyes as he surveyed the backyard in the brilliant afternoon sun. Birdcall was everywhere, the drone of bumblebees on hollyhocks, the swish of cornstalks in the small garden. The leaves from the poplar trees created dappled shade by the porch.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Mary. I know I should have come when he passed. You did leave a message, and I’m grateful. You’ll have to call me a coward for not coming when you needed me.”
“I didn’t need you. I don’t now. I’m fine.”
“Good. Glad to hear it.”
He paused, looked at his duffel bag, straightened his shoulders, and took a deep breath. “Alright, if that’s how you feel, I’ll get my bag and hitch a ride back to the bus station. I was hoping to come to an understanding somehow, but that doesn’t seem possible, so I’ll take my leave.”
“I didn’t say you had to go.”
“You sort of did, actually. Do you want me to stay?”
“How long?”
“Till Sunday.”
He could see the conflicting emotion, the biting of her lower lip, the anxious eyes going to the corner of the house, as if her father’s ghost had already appeared to warn her of her hazardous position.
She looked at the chair, the worn rocker beside it, evaluated the cost of telling him to sit down, after which her eyes went back to the house corner. He saw the raised eyebrows, the tense shoulders, before she lowered them, shook her head, and sighed.
“ Ach , well, you may as well sit down. Let me get some iced tea.”
He sat. A quick prayer bolstered his courage. He realized the need to make these few days count, to win her trust in a very short length of time. To see her step through the screen door had certainly cemented his feelings for her. Her face, her voice, the fullness of her figure—it was all the Mary of his dreams, and all he ever hoped to have. She had so much strength, a hidden reserve of good, if only she would have the faith to see it.
If only she could see the true way of Christ, free from the disabling fear that bound her. But how could he show her that without seeming like he was tempting her into sin? It was daunting, but he would never forgive himself if he didn’t give it all he had.