Chapter 18
C HAPTER 18
S HE RETURNED WITH A TRAY ON WHICH SHE’D PLACED TWO TALL glasses of tea with ice cubes tinkling, a plate of pretzels, and slices of yellow cheese.
She eyed him apologetically. “I’m hungry after housecleaning.”
“Of course. Don’t you want more than a few pretzels?”
“There is a casserole in the oven.”
They talked of mundane things then—the weather, his work, the garden, the shorter growing season. Mary sipped her iced tea, broke a pretzel in half, added a slice of cheese, and ate it hungrily.
“I’m starved.”
They both laughed, which served to clear the air between them.
“Now tell me about your dad,” he said, his eyes crinkling as he watched her face.
So she did, starting with the call for help, the situation she’d found in the small house, and the hospital stay for both him and Mima. Often, her eyes would be lowered, or slid away uncomfortably, her apron picked up and folded into pleats, the agitation clearly visible. When she stopped, he watched her face until her eyes found his.
“Mary, you’ve been through a lot. Grief is never easy, and I’m sure you loved your father.”
“I did. I do. His words ring true, now more than ever.”
“That’s what they say. I wouldn’t know, since I’m fortunate enough to have both parents still. But I’m the oldest in the family, so they’re only in their fifties. I hope to have you meet them someday.”
“Why?”
“Mary.”
She broke a pretzel half, then in fourths. She inspected the boards on the porch floor, took the toe of her shoe and shoved a stray leaf, then leaned over and undid the laces of her shoes, removed them, and set them aside.
“I miss sandals,” she said quietly.
“You don’t wear them here?”
“No. Of course not.”
“But there’s no future in Lancaster for you?”
“I don’t know if there’s a future for me anywhere.”
“Don’t say that.”
She shrugged, said the casserole was done, likely. He followed her inside, where he found the kitchen stifling, in spite of the mountain breeze. She said nothing as she opened the oven door, lifted the lid of a glass dish, and stirred the contents. A delicious aroma rose from the dish, and he realized how hungry he was, having done without lunch. She set two plates and the iced tea, then went to open a cabinet drawer. They sat together and bowed their heads in silent prayer. When they lifted their faces, their eyes met, but hers slid away before he could say anything.
The chicken and rice was hot, filling, and delicious. She served a slice of apple pie with ice cream for dessert, but conversation was stilted, starting in self-conscious fits and coming to immediate halts. The sheer togetherness of sharing space at a kitchen table, the unspoken world of feelings between them, rendered them both helpless.
“I have to go to work tomorrow,” she said stiffly.
“You can’t cancel? I was hoping to go hiking.”
“Hiking? In this heat?”
“Why not? It would be cooler in the mountains. I know you said you wanted to take a solo hiking trip, but I thought maybe we could do a test run together. See how you like it.”
“I can’t cancel.”
As the late afternoon turned into evening, they retired to the back porch where the best breeze from the open backyard was available. They had just settled themselves when the sound of steel rims on wooden buggy wheels alerted them to someone’s arrival. Mary was out of her chair in one frightened move, her hands cupped beside her face as she stared through the screen door and out the front window.
“Quick, Steve. You have to hide.”
Irritation rose in his chest. Here was a grown woman, an adult in her own right, terrified of introducing him to a family member, likely. None of this was right, and he told her so, without a care for consequences. He needed for her to see how unfair this really was.
“Who is it?”
“My sister Mattie and her husband.”
“I want to meet them. I refuse to hide.”
“You can’t. Please, Steve. There will be talk. You have to listen to me.”
“I’d love to visit with them.”
So he stayed, was introduced, shook hands with the stalwart Reuben, and found the brilliant green eyes on his face were welcoming, curious. Mattie was a thin little woman, surrounded by three children of various ages, all toddlers hiding behind her skirts, completely covered in chicken pox, the lesions red and sore.
“Mary, I figured you’d have had chicken pox as a child, right?” Without waiting for an answer, she plowed on. “Well, but this is something. I didn’t know you had company. And who did you say he is?” She lifted her apron, fished out a gray, crumpled handkerchief and blew loudly, then bent to wipe the noses of all her children.
“It’s Steve Riehl, from Lancaster County. A friend.”
“Where’s his wife? Oh, you don’t have a beard. You don’t have one.” She laughed, then asked how a single man could come visit a girl like Mary, living here by herself. She looked around, but Mary had vanished.
The sight of those lesions, the remembered misery, had dislodged an unwanted emotion, the specter of an instance in her childhood she had forgotten. Her father had wanted to visit someone, but she’d come down with chicken pox, so he was unable to go. He told her only disobedient children got chicken pox, and they were a sign of God’s punishment.
She heard her name called, so she went back to the porch, effectively subduing the swift breaths, the pounding heart.
She met Mattie in the kitchen.
“Mary, where were you? Listen, you can’t have this chappie staying here. Dat would have a fit.”
“He’s not my chappie, and I’ve already told him he can’t stay.” This was true. She absolutely had told him that, whether or not she changed her mind before evening.
This seemed to calm Mattie somewhat. Looking around, she observed the fact that Mary’s house was fancy, and what was she thinking with those blinds?
“I haven’t gotten around to changing them yet,” Mary answered patiently.
They found Steve immersed in a lively conversation with Reuben, his wide-brimmed straw hat pushed back on his head, his green eyes alight with interest. It didn’t seem as if it mattered at all to have Steve sitting hatless, in a polo shirt, his suspenders store-bought with black and white stripes. One of the little boys stood at his knee, waiting to be held, and with a smile, the child was lifted, cuddled. There was no evidence of impatience, only a caring thought for his son’s welfare. The little girl, Sarah, whined for a drink, but Mattie told her to hush, she was listening to Steve. When Sarah began to cry, she reached out with thin lips and pinched the little arm, hard. The child cried even harder.
Reuben bent down and spoke to the small boy, then placed him on the chair he vacated, smiled at Sarah, and gathered her up in his arms.
“Are you thirsty, Sarah?”
She nodded, a smile breaking through her tears.
Mattie told Mary he spoiled the children, but she tried to make up for it when he wasn’t around. Mary’s chest fell as if an elephant stepped on it and squeezed the life out of it, the raw pity for Mattie’s children almost more than she could bear. Was this, then, the legacy her father left behind at his passing?
The time passed reasonably, with Mattie convinced there was no romance between Steve and Mary.
When the buggy crunched its way down the gravel drive, Mary fell into her chair, arms extended, and breathed deeply of the cooling night air.
“Mattie looks like you,” Steve observed.
“Huh. She’s half my size.”
“I’d pick you any day.”
Mary frowned. “Now what am I supposed to say?”
“Thank you.”
Far away, a screech owl began its high, undulating call, a sound always putting her teeth on edge.
“Do you have whippoorwills here?” Steve asked.
“I never heard any.”
“Tell me, Mary, why were you afraid? Why did you think I should hide? They seemed fine with my being here.”
Mary shook her head. “Mattie wasn’t.”
“What is she going to do about it?”
“I have no idea. Something, no doubt.”
J ULIA GLADSTONE PICKED Mary up the following morning, with Steve at home doing the breakfast dishes. He said he’d clear the stable till she returned.
She had never exactly told him he could stay, but at some point, it became so late that it would be ridiculous to ask him to leave. And in the morning, she reasoned it would be inhospitable to kick him out. Far into the night, they’d shared thoughts, hopes, and dreams, made coffee, and shared half a shoofly pie. Steve told her she was the only girl he’d ever met who enjoyed a sizable slice of pie, which he found very attractive. It was nice to see her really enjoy her food.
Mary told him that honestly, food had always been a comfort, and did he think there was something wrong with that? They were standing in the kitchen, by the stove, waiting for the coffee to finish dripping, and he’d never wanted to take her in his arms quite as much as he did then. When she opened her heart like that, saying nothing but the truth, she revealed a rare glimpse of her real self. He expertly chose to stay away from all religious or spiritual subjects, knowing they would only make her defensive and mistrusting.
At Julia’s Mary hummed and pushed the vacuum cleaner, dusted and sang snatches of songs, did loads of laundry and folded them fresh and warm from the dryer. Julia noticed the change in her and wondered, but it was only when she dropped her off that the reason presented itself, in the form of a young man sweeping the cement floor of the barn.
“You have company?” she questioned.
Mary’s face flamed, but she only nodded, exited the vehicle, and hurried away, which seemed a bit suspicious. She didn’t think these Amish people lived together without getting married, but then, you never could tell.
T HEY HATCHED A plan to take a short hiking trip. Mary found the idea exciting, and somehow it felt less improper than having Steve in her home. She didn’t want to send him away, but she was nervous that another sibling would swing by and discover him still there.
Art took them to town, where Steve purchased two pup tents, two Coleman sleeping bags, backpacks, and dried food. He would not allow Mary to pay for anything, saying it was a gift that she was willing to accompany him on this adventure. He had no idea where they would start, but had a map of the Adirondacks and the many trails through state game lands. He loved the wilderness, loved to hike, and would be thrilled if she shared his enthusiasm.
They’d go for three days. They pored over maps, stuffed their backpacks, and tried them on. Mary said there was no way she could take one single step forward with this buffalo-sized thing on her back, and no, she wasn’t going. And another thing, she wasn’t wearing hiking boots lacing up over her ankles, either, so he might as well forget that.
She did not wear a covering but instead tied a navy blue triangle of cloth on her head and pinned it securely. With Steve, she was beginning to forget everything about guilt and sin and frightening admonitions coming from nowhere. She fished out an old stack of black bib aprons, the comfortable tie aprons she missed so much.
They were off to Three Springs armed with a map, a compass, bug repellent, food, water, tents, and sleeping bags.
Finally, they stood alone in the deserted trailhead parking area as their driver pulled away onto the highway.
Mary took a few steps closer to Steve, a shiver going up her spine. They were really doing this. Everywhere, there was thick green forest, droning insects, a hazy blue sky overhead with a white-hot sun spreading its heat over their shoulders. The shadows beneath the trees seemed hazardous, filled with dark spirits having the power to instill panic. When Steve spread his arms, breathed deeply, and shouted to the sky, she jumped, then lowered her eyebrows and glared at him.
“This is scary,” she muttered, stepping even closer.
“What? This is great, Mary. There’s something so freeing, so exhilarating, about the wilderness.”
“Steve, are you sure about this?” she asked quietly.
“Of course. Mary, hiking is when I find myself closer to God than anywhere else. Completely surrounded by nature. There’s nothing like it.”
“Good for you,” she muttered.
“Mary, don’t you want to go?” he asked, peering into her face.
“I do, but it’s so, well . . . wild.”
He hefted her backpack onto her shoulders, secured it around her waist, then looked at her as she fussed with the straps.
“You okay?”
“This is crazy heavy.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
He led the way, entering the forest by following the signs. They both stopped to read the signpost with an inscription of the trail rules, their location, and the projected time to reach certain points.
Mary was having serious doubts. The trees. It was these towering dark trees with heavy leaf cover that shook and shuddered and called out accusing names. All these green little ghosts dancing and swaying to their own wailing musical notes.
Steve walked ahead, his black trouser legs like scissors, his steps long and sure and, yes, covering ground. Too much ground. After ten minutes, she was breathing hard, then irregularly, as she tried filling her screaming lungs with a reserve of precious air.
Every single step was uphill. She hadn’t imagined any of this. A trail went uphill and down, twisted around, and doubled back on itself, didn’t it? The backs of her legs ached, then burned. The straps on her backpack dug into her soft flesh, with only her dress and apron to cushion the steady pressure.
She kept the figure of Steve as a goal, putting one foot in front of the other, and decided she was not going to yell uncle. She would not disappoint him. After what she thought was at least an hour, he stopped, turned, and asked how she was doing.
“Okay,” she puffed, stopping to lean an elbow against rough tree bark, which she decided was the scratchiest thing she’d ever encountered. She took her elbow away and rubbed it with the palm of her hand, perspiration trickling down her face, soaking her dress and causing her feet to slide around in her sneakers, creating painful burns. This was, hands down, the most miserable thing she had ever done.
Why had she agreed to go?
“Thirsty?”
“Not yet.”
She wiped her streaming face with her shoulder, wishing she’d brought a handkerchief. As if he read her thoughts, he shook out a clean men’s handkerchief, wiped her face like a child, then put one hand on each side of her face and looked into her eyes.
“You’re a real good sport,” he announced, then let go abruptly and swung back on the trail.
It was the only thing that kept her moving, those words. By midmorning, she wasn’t sure which would happen first, whether she’d be cut in half by the backpack straps, die of strangulation by the shoulder straps, or simply be mummified by the lack of fluid in her body.
“Steve?” she squeaked.
He didn’t hear, so she clenched her teeth and tried walking faster. Why didn’t he show an ounce of mercy? Well, if she didn’t take care of herself, she’d die like an animal, simply crawl beneath an old rotten log and take her last breath. She stopped, her chest heaving. She loosened the plastic clasp around her waist, shrugged off the cumbersome pack she’d dubbed “The Buffalo,” and watched as it hit the ground with a dull thud.
Greedily, she drank the cold water. Insanely thirsty, she almost cried at the beauty of cold liquid sliding down her parched throat. She didn’t care if Steve never found her, didn’t care if he was five miles ahead, she was done. She sat down hard, her back against her backpack, heaved a deep breath, then reached down, grabbed the corner of her apron, and swabbed her face. She relaxed. Blissfully tired, every muscle throbbing, she felt sleep creeping up on her, like a soft blanket ensuring comfort.
He found her like that, fast asleep, sitting upright under the shade of a spreading pin oak, her face smudged with dirt, her eyes closed, two dark sets of lashes on her freckled cheeks. His first thought was to wake her, but he decided against it, and instead reached out and laid a palm very gently on her cheek. She slept on. He smiled, lowering his own backpack; he sat down lightly, took a few swallows of precious water, and leaned back, closing his own eyes.
He awoke, finding her awake, watching him. She looked away, quickly.
“Why didn’t you tell me you needed a break?” he asked gently.
“I tried, but you were too far ahead to hear me. So I took matters into my own hands.”
“I’m sorry.”
She shrugged. “When do we eat?”
“Soon.”
She stifled a groan as he helped her adjust her pack. Two and a half more days of this. She’d never survive. She was a fool for thinking she could ever do a solo hiking trip in the wilderness. Gritting her teeth, she moved one foot, then the other, plodding steadily behind the black scissor legs ahead of her. She felt like a pack mule, then an overloaded burro, a pitiful creature with aching legs and heavy ears. Even her ears hurt. It was sheer willpower that enabled her to reach the projected rest stop.
When he stopped, she stopped.
She came to a standstill, surveying the patchwork of green spreading below them, ravines and cliffs, undulating hills folded like a half-open accordion, in every shade of green and blue imaginable. Above, the patterned blue and white of the sky was like a marbled bowl, an immense expanse turned upside down on the assortment of greens.
The whole scene was breathtaking, the word coming to mind a bit late, the way her breath had been taken by the grueling climb.
“Beautiful. Absolutely,” Steve said softly.
He spread an arm, his fingers splayed. She wondered how he could manage to lift it, or move his fingers, but she nodded, a silent acknowledgment of his words.
He looked down at her. “Pretty, isn’t it?”
“It is. But some food would look even better.”
As they shared protein bars and chocolate, her irritation dissipated, her spirits lifted as they pored over the map. Six miles. They’d walked not quite six miles.
She looked straight into his eyes and told him she’d never walked that far in her life. He said they had to go another eight, at least, if they wanted to reach their destination.
“I can’t walk eight more,” she said quietly.
“I’m sorry, but you have to. I think we may have overextended ourselves, but we don’t have much choice now.”
“Too bad. If I have to walk eight more miles today, you may as well leave me here for the buzzards.”
He laughed, genuinely enjoying her sense of humor.
“It’s no longer all uphill. See here?”
His finger traced a dotted line, where another rest stop was supposedly by a pond or a lake.
“I guess I don’t have a choice.”
“You can do this, Mary.”
No, I actually can’t , she thought . And you’re stupid if you think I can. I wish I never would have agreed to this craziness.
But she shouldered her pack and followed him.
Bluejays screamed as they passed. The trail leveled, then began a slight descent, which lifted her spirits immensely. She felt invigorated by the lack of effort, covering an amazing distance as the sun slanted toward the west in late afternoon. There were short distances of walking uphill, but the trail always headed to a lower level until Steve announced an opening in the trees.
Sure enough, they came through a line of trees, a grassy area like an oasis, the sun slanting through trees on the opposite side, the breeze creating ripples on the brackish pond water. It smelled. The whole area smelled. She imagined dead fish.
Her nose wrinkled, but it was the only thing that could move on her entire body. He helped her with her pack, spread her sleeping bag, and told her to rest, that he’d get dinner going.
She almost laughed, thinking of her dream of hiking alone. She would never have made it. Would never make it. She simply was not a hiker, and if you saw one tree, you’d seen them all.