CHAPTER 9
C HAPTER 9
M ARGARET STARTED HER NEW JOB AT THE MARKET THAT T HURSDAY . She rode to work in the backseat of a fifteen-passenger van, most of the girls asleep or staring out the window, the driver slurping coffee and talking nonstop to Margaret’s new boss, Elmer Lapp of the famous barbecue place.
Margaret didn’t want this job, but she wanted the cash. Market jobs were all the same, long exhausting hours with a check that should have been twice as much.
The alternative was cleaning English people’s houses, which was even less fun, swabbing toilets and scrubbing floors. She could work in a restaurant, but people made her too angry with all their petty demands, then left a skimpy tip. Amish girls had it rough until they got married. That kind of life wasn’t ideal, either, but what else was there?
She dreaded this day, dreaded navigating the maze of a new market stand. She knew it would be confusing, everyone so capable and businesslike, except her, standing there feeling like the biggest joke.
Her mom said she’d owned a bakery, bought the building and everything. Sometimes she could hardly believe her mom was capable of that.
Her mom had also been mental. She was on medication now, but it sure didn’t do much for her. She tried liking her mother, but the truth was, she couldn’t find much to like about her. She was such a turnoff, with her mouth pressed together till it resembled an earthworm when she disapproved or disagreed, which was basically all the time. She was so strict, so worried and serious about stuff. Ordinary stuff that didn’t matter at all.
She hadn’t seen Ivan since the night of her birthday party, but she hoped desperately she’d run into him again soon. She knew he was her meant-to-be, knew it with every fiber of her being.
She’d be the one everyone watched from here on out, riding around with him, windows down, music blaring. She shivered a little, thinking about it. No doubt, her mom would try and stop it, but she was sixteen now and could make her own decisions.
As she’d predicted, she had a terrible day, messed up the cash register, dropped a whole chicken out of the rotisserie, and made countless mistakes on orders. An older woman named Nancy dogged her steps, looked over her shoulder, and bossed her around till closing time. And all she had to look forward to was another day of this, and then more of the same after that.
But she made twenty-five dollars in tips, which wasn’t too bad. She bought a pair of sunglasses at the leather shop, which cheered her immensely.
At home, she showed her mother the sunglasses. She told herself she didn’t care what her mom thought, but she was hurt when she waved a hand, rolled her eyes, and said there was nothing Amish about them. Unsure how to handle the feeling of rejection, she retaliated with the first thing that came to mind. “You’re hopelessly depressing, Mom. Have you been taking your meds?” Her father overheard and was told firmly never to speak to her mother like that.
Rebecca watched in silence, her fourteen years having been spent quietly in Margaret’s shadow. She was content, comfortable, unassuming, watching the drama unfold around her. When her mother slammed pots and pans into cabinet doors, she knew she was upset.
O N S ATURDAY, THE market was humming with people, a steady line of them coming to the register. Margaret was sent to the back to mix barbecue sauce, where she had to listen to Elmer’s fourteen-year-old son tell her what to do. Joel Raymond Lapp was a pimply-faced boy with greasy hair and a camouflage bill cap.
“Hey, you have to measure that paprika. You can’t just pour,” he said.
“I wasn’t just pouring. the measuring cup wasn’t quite level, so I added a bit more.”
“You can’t do that. Dat is precise.”
In answer, she glared at him, hoping the blank stare would chase him away. Instead, he told her she was pretty, but had a bad attitude. Then he got chatty, telling her he was the best on his basketball team because he was tall for his age and quick on his feet. He asked if she played, but didn’t wait for an answer before saying he guessed if she did, it wasn’t very seriously. Whoever had heard of a famous Amish basketball player?
“That’s the thing about being Amish. You’re just so Amish. You can never be someone. I guess that’s supposed to be a good thing, a Bible kind of thing.”
“Yeah. Well, I don’t read my Bible. It’s scary.”
“Nah. No, it’s not,” he snorted, followed immediately by a, “Hey, not so much vinegar.”
“Eight cups. Eight cups is two quarts. This is a two-quart container, so what are you yelling about?”
He laughed.
“You have it right, looks like.”
“Looks like I do.”
Joel told her to stir that batch of barbecue sauce better, and she told him her shoulders were tired, she wasn’t going to.
“Don’t you listen to your mom either?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.
“No. Not always. My mom’s depressing. Every single thing I do is wrong.”
“Oh, come off it. I don’t believe it. I love my mom.”
“Good for you.”
He narrowed his eyes, reached up to pick his face.
“Don’t pick your face. It only makes it worse.”
“I don’t care about stuff like pimples.”
“Oh, you do, too. Or you will when you’re older.”
Elmer Lapp stuck his head in the door.
“You done with that yet?” he asked briskly, coming over to the kettle to give it a stir. “Looks about right.”
He told Margaret to give Nancy a break at the register, and told Joel to empty the trash, and hurry, there was a line a mile long. He looked frustrated, tense, and a bit too warm, but that was every market stand owner. It was all about making money, and half of them were already wealthy, owning two or more homes.
Margaret stood at the register, disliking Elmer Lapp, the market, and every person in the long line snaking around the corner.
“Good morning. May I help you?”
The old lady peered at her through rheumy eyes, adjusted the blue surgical mask, and mumbled. Did anyone even wear masks anymore? The man behind her sighed, shifted his feet, lifted his wrist to look at his watch.
“Excuse me?” Margaret asked.
Another mumble.
“I’m sorry?”
Margaret simply could not hear, the mask hiding the movement of the elderly lady’s mouth, so she asked her to remove it, please, resulting in a sharp rap of her cane and a louder garble from beneath the mask.
“I’m sorry?” Margaret said again, trying to hear.
The line behind her held a sea of faces registering impatience, disgust, a few pairs of eyes merely curious, but to Margaret they suddenly seemed threatening. Her heart began hammering in her chest. Nausea rose in her throat. Incredulous, she looked down at her hands, which were shaking, a tremor going up her arm.
The mumbling from beneath the mask was turned up a decibel, but still she could not hear. Helpless in the wake of her anxiety, Margaret turned away and tapped her co-worker on the shoulder.
“Help me, Lavina.”
One look at Margaret’s ashen face, and she hurried to the register, while Margaret gripped the edge of the counter, steadying herself.
“You alright?” Elmer Lapp asked, noticing the pale sheen of her skin, her agitation.
Margaret nodded, gave him a weak grin. “Too much caffeine.”
He nodded, moved on.
But the incident left a mark on her, a bewilderment. She was not quite sure what to make of it. But she tossed her head, shored up her reserves, and laughed it off to Lavina, saying she had to lay off the energy drinks.
She told her mother she wanted to quit her job. She simply had no interest in market work, it was a dead-end job going nowhere, and she’d had enough.
Mary turned slowly, holding a wooden spoon, her face impassive. The late Saturday afternoon sunlight cast a golden light on the white cabinets, turning the white walls into a honeyed color. Her daughter was sprawled on a kitchen chair, her strawberry blond hair afire, the small freckles like thrown stardust, her eyes hooded, dark with unhappiness, her mouth petulant.
“What happened?” she asked quietly.
“I hate market. It’s stupid.”
Mary sighed. “Can you tell me what happened though?”
“Nothing happened.” Lifting her hands to the side of her face, she wiggled two fingers. “It’s just a boring, dead-end job going nowhere.”
“Do you have anything else in mind?” Mary asked, turning to insert the wooden spoon into the bubbling caramel pudding.
“No. I hate any job. Why can’t Amish girls go to high school, then on to college, have an interesting career?”
“Oh, come on now, Margaret. You know better.”
“You don’t even know why, do you?”
“Of course I do.”
“Then what’s the reason?”
Mary gave the pudding a final stir, set it off the burner, and turned to face her.
“It’s the Amish way of teaching our girls to be keepers at home, to marry and bear children as the Bible instructs. We don’t feel it’s right for women to have a career, to divide her time between duties at home and in the workplace. It’s traditional, the way it was a hundred years ago.”
“Not a very good reason,” Margaret snorted.
“Oh, come on, Margaret. Be reasonable and try to understand.”
Margaret tossed her head. “Well, I’m not going to be Amish. I’m also quitting my job.”
A dagger of fear sliced through Mary. Her daughter not being Amish? It was unthinkable. Every ounce of her resisted this terrifying thought. Their status as good parents would be smashed into a thousand pieces. Her pride. There would be nothing left.
The true mark of successful parenting was keeping all your children in the fold, safely shepherded by the ordnung the bishop announced, guidelines to a life lived in Christ.
She swallowed her fear, and said she’d talk to Margaret’s father.
“It doesn’t matter what he says. I’m quitting. You can’t tell me what to do. I’m sixteen.”
She flounced off to her room, her sneakers creating dull thuds as she went up the stairs, leaving the kitchen to Mary, who stirred the pudding absentmindedly, her thoughts in a careening torment. Was this the harvest of her own rebellion? Was God a God of punishment, visiting the sins of the fathers—or mothers—into the second and third generation? The old anxiety threatened.
Steve found his wife in tears, Rebecca burying her face in yet another book, the boys at the table strewn with Legos.
His eyes questioned her, and he mouthed, “Margaret?”
She nodded. He shook his head, his mouth in a thin line.
A few hours later, there was a patter of feet on the stairs and Margaret was on her way out, dressed in her Saturday night favorite, a rose-hued dress and matching bib apron, one she’d bought from Betty Sue.
Mary noticed there were no strings on her covering and rose from her chair immediately.
“Margaret, where are your covering strings?”
“I ripped ’em off,” she called back, heading straight for the front door, where the idling of an engine could be heard.
Mary walked toward her. “You’re not leaving the house like that.”
“Sorry, Mom. Nobody wears strings on their coverings Saturday night.”
“But I forbid you to go.”
A pop song jangled from her phone. She lifted it, swiped, and giggled, “Be right out.”
“Margaret,” Mary said firmly, lifting a hand as if to restrain her, then letting it fall helplessly to her side as the door opened and Margaret flew through it, a blur of rose color.
Steve emerged from the bathroom, his hair wet after a shower. Mary turned, irritation wrinkling her forehead.
“Where were you when I needed you? Margaret just left with no strings on her covering. I told her she’s not allowed, but she simply ignored me and walked out the door.”
Steve sat down on the recliner and pulled the lever to bring up the footrest.
“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Mary cried.
“Come Mary. Sit down. Let’s wait until the boys are in bed.”
“But I need to talk.”
“We will.”
Mary sat with Chris and Logan while they fixed bowls of graham crackers, peanut butter, and milk, a concoction they loved to eat before bedtime. Logan told her they were building a fort with their Legos and tomorrow the Indians would attack. The only problem was not having enough horses.
“Maybe we can find a few at Walmart when I go for groceries on Wednesday,” she said, breaking a graham cracker in two before spreading it with peanut butter. She broke it in two again, dunked a portion in milk, sighed, and asked why it was so good.
Chris grinned. “It just is.”
“Yeah,” Logan echoed, his smile as contagious as Steve’s.
For a fleeting moment, Mary wished the boys would always stay this age, their winsome ways coloring her days with vivid hues of laughter. They were both well-adjusted, happy individuals who were a great help around the property, keeping the barns swept, using the blower on the driveway, with seemingly endless energy.
After everyone was in bed, Mary sat in the chair opposite her husband, and waited. He put down his magazine, smiled at her and said, “Shoot, Mary. I’m ready to listen.”
She did, starting with the market job and ending with the covering strings, her voice reaching a high wail as she finished.
“She’s bound and determined to take her own way, and I’m absolutely helpless in the face of it.”
Steve took a hand and swiped it across his face, a gesture he often displayed when he was agitated. He waited too long to speak, so Mary took up where she’d left off.
“I mean, what is most troubling is I did exactly the same thing, except I didn’t leave the Amish.”
“She hasn’t gone yet, and likely never will,” Steve said calmly.
“But you don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t, but don’t you think lots of young people go through this same thing at sixteen?”
“Surely not to this degree.”
Steve raised an eyebrow, his gaze meeting hers.
He said, “I think we’re all guilty of disobeying in our youth. Whether it’s having a fit about covering strings, going in someone’s car, or something else. She’s just spreading her wings, trying them out. It’s all a part of growing up, wanting to be cool, to feel accepted.”
Mary leaned forward, gripping the arm of her chair.
“You’re making light of this. You’re sticking up for her. You have her back instead of mine. How can we expect her to turn out right if we don’t work together?
She began to weep, quietly, her distress showing in the slump of her shoulder, the color of her face.
“Don’t, Mary. I wasn’t finished. I will support you, and I will stand with you. I just think you might be blowing this a bit out of proportion.”
“No, I’m not, Steve,” Mary cried out, dabbing at her eyes.
“Look, we always knew she was going to be a boundary pusher, right? Even in school, we knew.”
Mary nodded.
“So, I’m not surprised at the group she has chosen. No, it’s not what we want, but it’s what she wants, and I doubt we can change that right now. Think about it, Mary. How did your father make you feel when he refused to honor your choices? If we threaten hell and damnation, would it do any good at all?”
“I think so.”
“Really, Mary?”
She could not meet his eyes, but instead kept hers on her twisted hands.
“I don’t know. Maybe not. But don’t you think she needs the fear of the Lord to keep her from doing things we don’t approve of?”
“What kept us from leaving the Amish? Was it threats?”
Mary paused. “No, I suppose not. I mean, I always had my father’s voice in my head as a warning. But in the end, I guess it was my own conscience that kept me from leaving the Amish.”
“Of course. In all His mercy, God cares for the youth, taps a bit here, straightens a bit there, allows them to find out for themselves the things that matter most.”
“But what can we do ?”
Truly bewildered, Mary lifted honest, pleading eyes to her husband.
“She already knows our boundaries, and she’s broken every one. So we wait, and give her to God. She is in His care. We remind occasionally, we provide spiritual advice, but as far as forcing her to comply, I’m not sure it’s the thing to do. If it’s even possible. With a child like Margaret, we’re basically along for the ride.”
Mary shook her head. “Steve, I simply can’t agree with you. You mean you’re going to let her quit her market job, go out with this Ivan? And that cell phone. Her dress. Her covering. It’s all blatant disrespect.”
Far into the night, the battery lamp burned on as they exchanged views, troubling thoughts aired for the other one to see. But what came clearly to view was the fact that Steve leaned toward the more liberal approach to child rearing, and Mary the conservative. They took Mary’s upbringing into consideration, the way her father always threatened damnation if she did not obey, plus Mary’s mental illness.
“Do you think Margaret is bipolar like me, Steve?”
“I don’t like to think about it. You’re doing so well now, and it hurts to remember the hard times.”
“But what if she is? We both know ignoring it would be the worst thing we could do.”
Steve sighed.
Mary added, “I’ll ask her sometime, see if she’s experienced anxiety. That is how it all started for me.”
She paused, then rose to her feet. “And Steve, I want to thank you for talking to me. You have no idea how much it means to have someone to lean on. You are my pillar, my stronghold. I overthink things, and I need you.”
Steve took her into his arm and held her gently, murmuring his love and pledging to be the man she thought he was, creating a union of truth and love like a fortress of spiritual and emotional safety.
A FEW MILES down the road, at the home of her friend Rachel, Margaret sat in the vehicle with Ivan, talking. She felt lucky, felt on top of the world, reveling in his handsome profile, the excitement of being chosen at such a very young age, the first one of her friends to have a real boyfriend.
She didn’t want to leave his company, and certainly did not want to play volleyball, but he thought it was expected of them. He walked with her to the circle of light, where powerful batteries fueled pole lights, illuminating the entire yard. Standing with Ivan, she felt victorious, ahead of the pack, a winner.
The whole evening was a dream. She never left his side, playing volleyball beside him, filling a plate with snack food when he did.
He was showing her off, she knew he was, and she felt pretty and popular, the envy of every other girl.
When Betty Sue came and led her away, hissing quietly in her ear, Margaret drew back, horrified at what she’d heard. She told Betty Sue she was just jealous. They were joined by Rachel, who listened with a serious expression, backing what Betty Sue had told her. But Margaret would have none of it. They were just jealous. They knew nothing. She tossed her head, straightened her stringless covering, and tried to reclaim the exultant feeling she’d reveled in a few moments before.
She went back to the volleyball game and looked for Ivan. He was nowhere to be found. Taking matters into her own hands, she left the group and went to look for his car, thinking he might be waiting for her, wanting her to sit with him and continue their conversation.
His car was gone, and so was he. She texted him, asking where he’d gone and if everything was okay. For a long time, she stood by the side of the white fence, alone in the dark, checking her phone obsessively and waiting for his return. Maybe he had to help someone, or maybe he went to pick up a few buddies.
She did not want to rejoin the group alone, and especially wanted to avoid her two friends, so she moved through the dark till she found a large hedge and made her way beside it, hidden from view.
He’d be back soon, or at least he’d text her, explaining why he had to leave so suddenly.
She chewed her lower lip, changed her position, and waited. She texted again, then tried calling. Finally, she realized the lights were being taken down and groups of young people preparing to leave. Suddenly, she was truly afraid of being left alone. She got to her feet, did her best to appear unconcerned, and walked over to her group of girls.
“Marge, what’s up? We thought you left,” Rachel cried.
“No, I’m still here.”
She yawned casually, or tried to, and asked if she could hitch a ride home, adding about Ivan having car trouble, maybe, which she hoped was true.