CHAPTER 2
C HAPTER 2
B Y THE END OF O CTOBER, S TEVE HAD VISITED TWICE, ONLY TO BE pushed into the worst disappointment of his life, with Mary still reeling from a visit with her siblings. As grapevines will do, they carried news of Bennie Lapp’s proposal, which Mary’s brothers and sisters immediately took as a clear signal from God that Mary needed to give herself up. She had had enough time cavorting with this shady Steve Riehl from Lancaster.
They spoke in hard, accusing words like hailstones. Mary raised her defense courageously, but they left her no room for doubt. If a widower with eight children needed someone, well then, you gave yourself up, knowing that self-denial was the path to blessing. Her days would be lived knowing she had a great reward in store.
Mary swung between listening with humble acceptance and burning with rebellion. But in the end, she relented, saying she would do as they asked and give Bennie a chance.
S HE WAS DRIVEN to Bennie’s house the second time, where everything was much the same as before. His tall frame was at the door, his long dark hair neatly combed, but unwashed, parted in clumps which allowed the tops of his ears to peek through. But his eyes were kind, welcoming, and full of approval. The children greeted her with curiosity, and there were shy smiles and giggles from the smallest. Sarah was quite reserved, which raised a warning flag for Mary. Bennie seemed to notice too and suggested in his kindly manner that Mary help Sarah make supper, which would give them a chance to get to know each other.
Mary asked for a paring knife to peel the potatoes. Sarah reached in a drawer and held out a vegetable peeler. “Mother always used this,” she said, and Mary thought she detected a note of disdain in her voice. She took the unwieldy utensil and hacked away with short, choppy strokes, resulting in half-hacked potato skins, a sliced fingertip, and a strong urge to fling it into the trash. It didn’t help when Sarah leaned over the sink and said, “Draw it down more.” The last thing she needed was a girl half her age telling her how to peel potatoes. And she smelled, too. No antiperspirant. Poor girl—she likely didn’t know better.
So, Sarah peeled potatoes with long strokes, the peeler slipping and sliding over the rough, wet skins, gritted her teeth, and saw a long road ahead of denying the flesh.
She rallied, though, when the boys gave her wide smiles and asked her to come see the house they had made of leftover cabinet lumber.
When Bennie joined them and spoke so kindly to his growing boys—words of approval at the skill they showed—she felt a deep sort of relief wash over her. Here was a man who understood the hearts of young children.
The evening bumped along, with high and low moments, but she collected her courage and told Bennie she had enjoyed it, and yes, he could come visit on Saturday evening.
It was only when reality struck later that she knew she had to write to Steve. She was headed down the path of wisdom and righteousness now, and Steve had to deny his own flesh as well. He had to let go.
She started three different pages, tore them all into pieces, threw them in the trash can, and started yet again.
To say goodbye, that final blow, was like losing her own arm, but it had to be done. The pen dragged across the paper, spelling out her own doom, becoming a wife to someone she did not love.
Her brothers assured her that love would come later, which she included in her letter. She also stated that she must carry out God’s will and that she was willing to deny the desires of her heart. She covered that sentence with Wite-Out, then cried great, streaming tears that splashed on the Wite-Out like a hot rain of sorrow. She asked him if he thought love was like a plate of cookies, the many different varieties from which you could pick and choose, and did not Wite-Out that sentence, although the small brush hovered above the page.
The righteousness she knew she had chosen seemed to soften the blow, but the final letter of goodbye was, in the end, an impossibility without secretly hoping she might see him again, if only once, before the wedding actually took place.
They set the date for the end of February, but then Bennie thought perhaps April would be better, with the snowy weather a likely hindrance to the guests from other states. Mary nodded approval, winning his kind smile and gentle look.
Mary made stromboli that night, and Sarah told her outright she didn’t care for it, flinging her head in a way that seemed grosfeelich (prideful) and disrespectful, as if she loved putting Sarah in her place, which seemed to be a few notches below herself. Bennie frowned at her, his cheeks thinning as he did so. But John and Jesse pronounced it “really goot ,” and Amos nodded, his eyes shining straight into hers, guileless and full of a child’s mercy.
When she was alone with Bennie, she was always at ease, his quiet kindness soothing to her battered spirit. Their relationship was a secret, the community surrounding them kept completely in the dark, as is the custom in conservative areas.
By the time the frost killed the late garden vegetables, she had a nice supply of sweet potatoes and a small bin of white potatoes, with canned dill spears, tiny sweet pickles, red beets, and applesauce in the basement. She stood by the shelves and wept, thinking of the futile attempts at feeding a family of ten. This was only a drop in the bucket, a small amount needing to be multiplied like loaves and fishes.
She spread her hands, the long, rounded, smooth fingers, thought of the never-ending workload awaiting them, remembered her mother’s chapped, liver-spotted, blue-veined hands. The hands that had reached into a chicken’s body and yanked out the viscera, washed tons of soiled clothing in a wringer washer and hung them out to dry, hoed and clawed at the weeds in the garden, changed diapers and baked thousands of loaves of bread. A thankless, ongoing job neither her husband nor her children ever appreciated fully, and certainly never would, with her gone now, buried beneath the soil, from dust to dust.
Ah, but wasn’t that the plight of women? Was it a plight, or was it a blessing?
The chair was sold, the last remnant of her earthly desires, and she sat on her kitchen chair and waited for her blessing. She felt nothing except wishing she hadn’t sold it. But then she remembered a fancy flower pot still sitting on the porch. Yes, it too, must go, the voice whispered. Her sacrifice was not complete. But the green blinds were in place, she had sold the chair, and given up Steve to serve Bennie and his children. Isn’t this enough, Lord?
She knew the answer according to Steve. He would say it is never enough. We cannot buy or sacrifice our way to Heaven. But Steve seemed to be on shaky ground, to her way of thinking, whereas Bennie never talked about these things. He was content to go to church and live by what the preacher said, which he seemed to think was straightforward and simple enough, not that they’d had opportunity to discuss such things much during their short friendship.
By the end of November, she’d taken to reading her Bible out of desperation. She pored over the pages in English and in German, trying to quiet the voice of her father in her head so she could concentrate on what the words actually said.
Verse after verse reached out with an accusing finger pointed at her, as she cringed in her chair in fear. “Many are called, few are chosen” was like a sniper’s bullets singing through the air as she dodged between them, her hands smashed on top of her covering.
So many threats, such a fearful tirade. Why did people choose to read their Bible for comfort? There was no comfort between these pages for her. She knew she was lacking an element of spiritual understanding, but had no idea how to acquire it, so she began to kneel beside her bed every evening and recite the Lord’s Prayer: “ Unser Vater, in dem Himmel ,” she quavered in a broken whisper. “ Geheilichet verde die nama .” At the end, she always said the same thing: “Help me understand.”
She felt certain her words never went through the ceiling, and she often felt silly, but she kept on going, faithfully reciting every evening. When she woke in the morning, her thoughts were sometimes in song. “When the Roll Is Called Up Younger,” was one of them, which always scared her horribly, thinking how bold that writer was, saying he’d be there. How did he know he would be there? Another one was “Life’s Railway to Heaven.” The idea of a train chugging along was more reassuring, thinking how God was the engineer.
Her friendship with Bennie and the children was not a source of joy or comfort, but more of a reminder that we are not here to stay, and life is not made to be a bed of roses. So much about Bennie was kind and good, and she was not repulsed, but there was nothing to look forward to, either.
He was boring. He smiled, let his kind eyes shine into hers, but he had no sense of humor. Life was serious, and even more so since the death of his beloved Anna, and now this serious undertaking of pursuing a second wife.
And she continued to pray in her whispered recital of the Lord’s Prayer, the winter months looming ahead like a quiet haven of rest and privacy before she embarked on the journey with Bennie.
S TEVE READ HER letter, sighed, then flung it across the room, where his sisters found it an hour later and brought it to their mother like a forbidden gossip magazine.
“Mam, you need to read this. It’s a real cut-off job.”
His mother delighted in all things humorous, and she burst out laughing, then lifted her eyebrows, saying she shouldn’t be reading this. But she couldn’t help herself.
After many “Hmms” and “Really?,” snorts and chirps, she laid the letter aside and felt the empathy for her son welling up. But she told the girls he might be fortunate, in spite of not realizing that fact now.
Later, she wept copiously in the bathroom, sitting on the edge of the bathtub and using the towel on the rack to dry her eyes. Her son. Her poor son, who would be the best husband in the world with his generosity, his quick wit and sense of humor. He’d waited so long, searching for a special girl, and in spite of her own misgivings, seemed to have found someone he truly loved, even if she had some obvious issues.
She sniffed, looked in the mirror, noticed a smudge on her cheek and wiped it off. Her dentures were bothering her a lot, so she pushed them out of her mouth, examined the top, and found a blueberry seed nestled inside. Frowning, she rinsed the dentures and slipped them back, thinking how one blueberry seed could cause so much discomfort.
And one son’s aching heart produced a day’s worth of sadness. The girls tried to ease her bad day, saying, “Really, Mam. She’s not that much. Kind of fat, and sort of plain.”
“And all that red hair is enough to give you the shivers.”
“And she’s from New York.”
Steve’s whistling and singing was silent, his voice at the supper table stilled. The girls tried to lighten the mood with their banter about silly happenings at school, but nothing seemed to draw him out of his reverie.
Later, when his mother was tidying the kitchen, he went to the refrigerator and poured a glass of milk, then went to the pantry shelf searching for cookies.
“Didn’t bake, Steve. It’ll have to be Oreos.”
“It’s fine, Mam. I love Oreos.”
She smiled. That was so like her son, to say he loved them when she knew he much preferred the plump chocolate chip cookies she always made. He had a good heart, had never given them a moment’s worry, so it was hard to understand why God chose to take away his loved one.
“Mam, did you read the letter?”
“I’m sorry. The girls found it.”
“I figured. What did you think?”
“I honestly don’t know what to tell you. She is under a strange law, an iron-fisted influence. We can’t tell someone like that what to do. I know her father is gone, but you know what they say, their voices strengthen after they’re gone, and I found that true with my own father. Except his words were softer, of course.”
Steve held an Oreo between thumb and forefinger, kept it in the cold milk for just the right amount of time before popping it into his mouth, shaking his head as he chewed and swallowed.
“She’s so close, Mam. It’s almost impossible to bear.”
“She obviously doesn’t have feelings for this widower.”
“Not yet. But she says they’ll come after she’s married.”
His mother snorted, a loud derisive sound she felt perfectly entitled to. When she said nothing, he raised his eyebrows.
“Well,” his mother sighed. “We can only hope this is true, for her sake. Only God knows.”
I N FARAWAY N EW Y ORK , Mary fought her own battles without courage, her days filled with numbing doubt and ever darkening clouds over her head, as if the sun had lost its splendor, the colorful autumn scenery erased by gray hues of depression. Her stomach roiled with bitter acid and nausea complicated her days. Dark circles appeared below her eyes, her summer tan gave way to a pale, sickly complexion dotted with a spattering of freckles, her green eyes dulled. She leafed through the natural remedy catalog, sent for a bottle of enzymes to aid digestion, swapped out white sugar and flour for raw sugar and whole wheat, drank almond milk, and ate raw fruits and vegetables. She was pleased when the number on the bathroom scales was lowered significantly. She lay awake at night, her thoughts a churning whirlpool.
Bennie Lapp asked her to spend a Saturday with the children while he attended the Friesian sale in Ohio, thinking it would be good for the children to spend time with her alone. Her breath quickened, her heartbeat loud in her own ears, the hovering clouds closing in.
But she said yes. Yes, she could do that.
When she arrived, the smudged windows and cluttered countertops, the dust on the furniture and muddy floor took her by surprise, sending her heart plummeting. Things had really deteriorated since her prior visit. Sarah came out of the bathroom with bold eyes in her direction, a challenge she could not meet.
“You don’t look so good,” Sarah observed.
Betty and Lea stared at her from the small table where they sat, playing with their plastic dishes, dolls perched on their laps. Their hair was unwashed and uncombed, the fronts of their dresses splattered with bits of food, stained with yesterday’s drinks. A sour smell pervaded the house.
“I’m fine,” Sarah managed. “A bit of stomach issues.”
“Well, I hope you can help do Saturday work. The house needs a good cleaning and there is laundry to be done. Mommy Lapp was here yesterday, but she didn’t do much. She has gout, so her right foot is swollen and sore. Dat says we need a maud from now till the wedding, that you can’t do it yet.”
“I can’t?”
“No, he said you have housecleaning jobs and need the money.”
“True enough, Sarah. I do.”
“I thought so.”
Sarah met her eyes. A challenge? A smirk? Dark-haired, dark-eyed, already a womanly figure beneath the loose-fitting dress, a young girl on the cusp of her “rumschpringa” years, a future of dating and marriage before her. Mary could tell she felt superior, that Sarah knew Mary was past the point of being a sought-after young woman and was, instead, an older, jaded one who had to take a widower with children. Many felt the put-down, felt herself being stuffed into a box labeled “Past Her Prime.”
She stiffened her shoulders, raised her head, took a steadying breath, and asked Sarah where to begin, which was met with raised eyebrow and a pitying stare.
“If you don’t know, then I’d say you were pretty inexperienced.”
Mary gritted her teeth. She walked stiffly past the leering girl, flung open cabinet doors as she collected clean rags, noting the absence of furniture polish. She searched the kesslehaus (laundry room) walls until she found broom, dustmop, and pan.
Her anger drove her. She was a sizzling volcano of energy, dusting, stripping gray sheets and greasy pillowcases, flinging them on the cement floor by the washer, Sarah watching furtively now.
From the doorway came the announcement that they only did laundry once a month and it wasn’t time yet. Mary rode the crest of a crashing wave of rebellion, put down her dust rag, and towered over her.
“If I’m expected to live in this household, I will wash sheets when I choose.”
Sarah reared back, visibly shaken. Mary felt good about putting her in her place. For a while, she worked alone, with Sarah slinking around corners, saying nothing.
The downstairs bathroom was repulsive. Grimly, she searched for a jug of bleach, with no success. To break down the wall of Sarah’s animosity, she asked for it, and was met with an insolent shrug and a snide remark about bleach being hard on the bathroom floor. She found vinegar and an old container of Comet, opened the window, and proceeded to scrub with a vengeance. A mountain of wet, graying towels produced the horror of a shining copper-colored roach, scurrying furiously for cover. Instantly, Mary smashed it with the toe of her shoe.
She shuddered as she reached for the bathroom tissue, wadded it up, and scooped the revolting mess into the overflowing trashcan.
Her chin set with determination, she didn’t stop till the fixtures were gleaming, the shower curtain flapping on the sagging clothesline, the rugs clamped down beside it. She washed windows, scrubbed floors and walls, not stopping until she felt weak from hunger and exhaustion. Her anger was subsiding now, replaced by the need to find middle ground with Sarah.
Leah was asking for food, her sweet lisping voice dispelling most of Mary’s bad mood. Mary found Sarah outside, playing with the bevy of cats on the porch.
“Sarah?”
No answer.
“Sarah?”
Still no answer.
Sighing, Mary sat down on the faded bench. “Look, I’m sorry.” The form sitting cross-legged on the cold floor gave no hint of having heard a word.
“If we’re going to live together, don’t you think we should try to get along?”
“Nobody said you’re going to live here.”
“Except your father.”
“What?”
“Your father asked me to marry him.”
“No he didn’t. I don’t believe a word you’re saying. He would never do that.”
“But . . .”
Her dark eyes blazed up at Sarah, the cats shooed off her skirt as she leaped to her feet, her fists clenched.
“You will never be my mother.”
“No. I never will. Your mother died, Sarah. I will be a stepmother, and I’m sure even that is hard for you right now. I’m only hoping in time you’ll come to accept me.”
There was only the dubious response of cold silence, after which she stepped off the porch and walked away, disappearing behind the row of arborvitae separating the lawn from the shop.
Mary felt the bile rising in her throat, the pain spreading from her side across the top of her stomach. She swallowed, then massaged the roiling area. The oldest boys had accompanied their father, so Annie and Betty watched her hand going across her waist, a puzzled expression on their faces.
Mary stopped, gave them a weak smile, and asked what they would like to eat.
“ Sup (soup),” Annie said, her dark eyes guileless.
“Alright.”
She searched the pantry, making herself move boxes and cans despite being certain there would be a cockroach hiding behind one of them. There were torn bags of rice, oatmeal boxes with holes chewed through. If not roaches, they certainly had a mice problem. She found a tin of canned salmon and decided to make salmon noodle soup. She considered making grilled cheese sandwiches to go with it, but the bread drawer was empty.
Her stomach churned. She found a saucepan, browned butter, opened the can of salmon and upended it, sending a hiss of steam into the air above the stove.
“What stinks?” This from the opening to the living room. Sarah stood watching, a hand on her hip, a shoulder leaning against the doorway.
“Salmon,” Mary said, tight as a drum.
“We don’t eat salmon.”
Eat it or go hungry , she thought, but held her tongue. Instead, she turned, met Sarah’s eyes, and said she might like it with noodles and cheese.
“Ew. Sounds gross.”
Ignoring her, she mixed up some bread sticks, grimacing as a flurry of moths in the pantry came from torn flour sacks. She imagined the flour thick with small brown bugs, but was unable to locate them, so she finished the bread sticks and popped them into a preheated oven.
“Would you set the table please?” she called over her shoulder, as she broke homemade noodles into the salmon and milk.
“We don’t eat salmon,” Sarah repeated.
“At least give it a try.”
They sat down to faded, scratched Melmac soup bowls and a knife, fork, and spoon thrown haphazardly across them. Besides the soup, Mary placed on the table a box of saltines, a jar of applesauce, and the fragrant breadsticks slick with butter and a sprinkle of parsley and oregano.
Mary bent her head, lifted it after the silent prayer, and ladled soup wordlessly. She herself ate two helpings, plus a few breadsticks, pleased with how it had all turned out.
Sarah refused the soup, but the other children ate it happily, slurping noodles and asking for seconds.
Mary found Sarah’s eyes on her, a dark challenge in their depths. Mary rose to meet it, smiling and asking her to give the soup a try.
“We’re getting a maud ,” Sarah shot back. “I don’t think she’ll make this gross stuff.”
And hopefully , thought Mary , she’ll get rid of the mice and the roaches . Maybe she’ll even want to marry your father and I’ll be off the hook.
But this thought was met by a powerful jolt from her conscience. How was she ever to be a good example to Sarah when she struggled so much with giving up her own will?