“Daniel,” Sarah said, her tone both amused and exasperated, “you’re working too hard. Here . . . let me just . . .”
Swiftly, Sarah cut a piece from each pie, slid them onto the waiting plates, and then placed the plates in front of Daniel.
“Now,” she went on, setting a fork down on the table with a sharp click, “take a bite of each and see if you can tell which one is Miriam’s and which is mine.”
“You are testing me,” Daniel said in a strange, flat voice. A voice that Miriam had never heard him use before. Again, his eyes sought out her face, and this time Miriam felt her stomach plummet.
He’s looking at me as if I’m a stranger, she thought, her sense of pleasure at the meal rapidly turning to dismay.
“You agreed to this?” Daniel asked. “This is what you want?”
“Oh, but”—Miriam faltered—“surely Sarah is right. You’re making this too hard. We both wanted to bake a pie, and we thought it would be fun to see if you could tell them apart. It’s just a game. That’s all.”
“No,” Daniel said. He got to his feet. “It is not a game. It is vanity. It is pride. Perhaps I should not be surprised that Sarah would propose such a thing, she has lived among the Englischers for so long.”
Sarah made a sound of protest, but Daniel went right on. “But I am surprised at you, Miriam. How can you not see that this is wrong? How can you be in fellowship and competition at the same time?”
“You can’t,” Miriam admitted softly, her voice all but breaking. The evening had been such a gift, such an unexpected gift, she thought. And now she had spoiled it; she had ruined it all. No wonder Daniel looked at her as if she were a stranger. Miriam had forgotten who, and what, she was.
She was a Plain woman, and she had no place putting her husband, or anyone else, to the test.
“You are right, Daniel,” she said. More than anything in the world, Miriam wanted to hide her face, but she made herself look straight into her husband’s eyes. “I apologize.”
Something came into Daniel’s eyes then, a thing Miriam could no longer gaze upon, for if she did, she knew she would not be able to hold back the tears. She dropped her eyes. In front of her, on the table, were the two pies. Miriam leaned over and picked them up. She carried them to the counter, then returned for the plates with their single slices.
“Miriam,” Sarah protested softly. “It was my idea. It’s unfair of Daniel to blame you so.”
“No,” Miriam said, in a calm and careful voice. “It doesn’t matter who thought of it as long as I agreed to take part. Daniel is right.” She turned back toward the sink. “I don’t know about either of you,” she went on, “but I have lost my taste for pie tonight.”
“Well, I haven’t,” Sarah said. She seized one of the plates, taking it out of Miriam’s hands, and marched smartly out the kitchen door. It closed behind her with a bang, leaving Miriam and Daniel alone.
“Do you need help with the dishes?” Daniel asked, a question Miriam could never remember him posing before. Doing dishes was woman’s work.
“No, danki,” Miriam replied. “I can manage on my own.” She turned and extended the piece of pie she still held toward her husband. “It’s blackberry,” she said, as if this were a thing Daniel could not see perfectly well for himself. “Sarah and I picked all afternoon. I’ll start on the jam first thing tomorrow.”
“Miriam,” Daniel said, “you are working too hard.”
“No harder than you are,” Miriam replied.
She turned back toward the sink, still clutching the plate with its single slice of pie. As if from a great distance, her brain sent a message—Put it down—but Miriam seemed frozen. She could not get her arm to comply.
“I’ll just go try and get caught up on the farm journals, then,” Daniel finally said.
“Ja, gut,” Miriam answered. “I know it troubles you to be behind.”
For a moment, she thought Daniel would say something more. But he turned and vanished into the house, leaving Miriam alone.
* * *
The rest of the evening passed in a strange blur. The details of the tasks she performed stood out, clear as day, but it seemed to Miriam that the world beyond the scope of her hands had simply ceased to exist. Daniel had ceased to exist. She could not reach him anymore.
Miriam did the dishes, gently wiping them dry and putting them away with such care they made no noise even as she set one plate atop another. The dishes done, she got out her canning supplies in preparation for making jam tomorrow. She checked the jars to make sure the rims were free of cracks. She matched the number of jars to rings and lids, making certain she had enough to go around. She would wash them tomorrow. The jars needed to be clean and hot when the jam went into them, so there was no sense in doing it tonight. She was lining the supplies up into meticulously neat rows on the kitchen counter when Sarah came back in through the kitchen door. A waft of sweetly scented evening air blew in with her. In her hand, Sarah carried her now-empty plate and fork.
“Miriam,” she said as she took in the kitchen. “You should have let me help.”
“It’s all right,” Miriam said, not turning. “I’m fine.”
“Miriam,” Sarah said again. She moved to put her plate in the sink and then stepped to Miriam’s side, placing a hand upon her arm. “How can you say such things? It isn’t all right. And you’re not fine. I can see that for myself. Let me talk to Daniel,” Sarah urged. “Let me explain. It’s unfair that he should blame you when it’s really all my fault.”
“No.” Miriam shook her head. “Daniel is right. It was a foolish idea, and I should not have taken part.”
“But . . .” Sarah began.
Miriam gripped the counter edge so tightly, the knuckles of her hands showed white. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Sarah, just let it go. No more tonight.”
Miriam felt her sister’s hand drop away. “If you’re sure,” Sarah said, her voice still troubled. “Miriam, I wish you would let me—”
“I am sure,” Miriam said forcefully. “I appreciate your offer, honestly I do, but this is between Daniel and me now.”
“I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then,” Sarah said. She turned to go. “You’ll probably have to lend me an apron,” she said from the kitchen doorway. “You remember what I’m like when it comes to making jam.”
“I remember,” Miriam said softly.
But she did not turn. A few moments later, she heard Sarah’s footsteps recede into the house. Sarah had to pass through the living room to reach the stairs to the second story, but Miriam did not hear her sister wish Daniel good night. Nor did she hear Daniel go upstairs. Had he already gone up to their room?
Miriam put off leaving the kitchen for as long as she could, but finally even she could find nothing more that needed to be done. Besides, she couldn’t put off facing Daniel forever. Squaring her shoulders, Miriam headed for the living room. It was empty. But there was a kerosene lamp burning on the table by her favorite chair. Slowly, her legs feeling wooden, Miriam walked over and sank just as slowly down into the chair.
Whose kindness was responsible for the light? she wondered. Was it Daniel or Sarah who had left it burning for her? Just for a moment, Miriam leaned back in the chair, resting her head against its high back. Hands clasped loosely in her lap, Miriam closed her eyes. She could feel the old farmhouse settling all around her, whispering and sighing to itself as it began to let go of the heat of the day and welcome in the cool air of night.
I want to be like this house, she thought. Patient and enduring. Able to let things come and go. But even as she made the wish, she knew that it would never come true. She might learn to endure, but she would never truly be patient. She longed for too much. And how could she learn to let go of something she had never been certain had ever been hers to start with? How could she let go of longing for her own husband’s love?
She winced as she thought of Daniel’s reaction to the pie contest. She had been so happy, had felt so close to him, and seconds later, he shamed her. I was wrong, she admitted, but if he really loved me, he wouldn’t have rebuked me that way, especially not in front of Sarah. Her mind circled back to the awful possibility. Perhaps he doesn’t love me. And who could blame him? What kind of wife is unable to give her husband children? And how does any man come to love a wife who’s his second choice?
Miriam realized she had drawn her knees up to her chest and was hugging them to her, as if to shield herself from all the grief she felt, for her marriage, for herself.
For a short, sweet time today, she had believed that things were getting better between her and Daniel. Instead, everything was so much worse.
I cannot bear this, she thought.
Miriam opened her eyes. There was something else she could not do. She couldn’t put off facing the consequences of her own actions any longer. Pushing up from the chair, she turned down the light.
* * *
Daniel was sitting in the chair by the window in their bedroom, his face illuminated by the soft glow of lamplight, a tidy stack of farm journals at his feet. He looked up as Miriam came into the room.
“You were a long time,” he observed quietly.
“Sarah and I will make jam tomorrow,” Miriam said. She walked to her dressing table, fingers fumbling with her kapp strings. “I wanted to make sure everything was ready. It will be good if we can get going early, before it gets too hot.”
“She didn’t help you with the preparations?”
“It’s all right,” Miriam said quickly, suddenly moved to defend her sister. She sat down at her dressing table and turned up the lamp. The bowl was warm. “I don’t mind. Sarah has other things she needs to do and I . . .” Miriam removed her kapp and placed it on the dressing table. “We’re not the same, Sarah and I.”
“I know that, Miriam,” Daniel said softly.
Miriam’s breath caught in her throat. For one terrible moment, she feared that she might cry. Quickly, she began to remove the pins from her hair, setting them in the dish she kept on the dressing table for just this purpose. They made soft pinging sounds as they landed.
And then, with a suddenness that made her gasp with relief, Miriam’s hair was down. Freed from its pins and the tight coil in which it was confined all day, it rippled down her back, thick, luxurious, golden. On their wedding night, the first time Daniel had taken her hair into his hands, he had gazed at it in wonder and then said that it was like holding a spill of sunshine.
Abruptly, Miriam realized that her head ached. The lamplight hurt her eyes. Although she’d turned it up just moments before, now Miriam reached to turn it down again, then decided to simply blow it out.
In the darkened room, she burrowed her fingers into her hair, pressing her fingertips against her scalp. Breathe. Just breathe, she thought. She reached for her hairbrush. As she did, Daniel’s hand came down to cover hers.
“Your head hurts, doesn’t it?” he asked.
Miriam jumped. She’d been so taken up with keeping her emotions contained that she hadn’t noticed that Daniel had gotten up and come to stand behind her. She nodded.
“Yes, it does.”
“Let me brush your hair,” Daniel said. “That usually helps, doesn’t it?”
Again, Miriam nodded. But she could not bring herself to speak this time. Slowly, she slid her hand out from under Daniel’s. He lifted the brush. A moment later, Miriam felt the stiff bristles ease through her hair and then glide along her scalp. She closed her eyes.
Oh, but it was glorious! Daniel hands were gentle yet sure as he lifted Miriam’s hair and slid the brush through it over and over again, in a steady, even rhythm that had the pain easing from her head, neck, and shoulders almost from the very first stroke. The room around them was peaceful and still. A faint breath of air brushed against Miriam’s shins. She could hear Daniel breathing in the same rhythm with which he stroked the brush through her hair. In time to the beating of Miriam’s own heart.
How I wish it could always be like this! she thought. If only she could always feel so close to Daniel. So much, so very much in love.
“I am sorry for your pain, Miriam,” Daniel said.
Miriam jerked beneath his hands. In spite of herself, she made a soft, inarticulate sound. He was trying to be kind, but that wasn’t enough. It wasn’t kindness she needed. It was for Daniel to love and desire her as wholly as she loved him. Miriam pulled in a breath and felt it move in her chest like the twist of a knife.
“Stop,” she gasped out. “Please, Daniel.”
Daniel’s fingers stilled at once. “What is it?” he asked. “What’s wrong?”
“I’m sorry,” Miriam said. “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . this isn’t helping after all.”
Just for a moment, Daniel stood without moving, still so close that Miriam could feel the heat of his body. She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap, desperately fighting for control. Her fingers were icy cold. Then he set the hairbrush down on the dressing table with a sharp click.
“I’m sorry, too,” he said. He took a step back. “I will say good night.”
Without another word he walked to his chair and extinguished the light, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later, Miriam heard the soft creak of the bed as Daniel lay down. She sat at her dressing table, head in her hands, until she thought she heard his breathing become smooth and even. Only then did she rise. She changed into her nightclothes, draping her work clothes over the back of her chair. They would be perfect for making jam in the following morning. Finally, Miriam moved on silent feet toward the bed. She held her breath for a moment as she slipped between the sheets, but Daniel did not stir.
As he had from their first night together as husband and wife, Daniel slept on the side of the bed closest to the window, his body turned so that his face was angled toward it. Miriam had teased him about it, during those first few weeks of marriage, claiming that Daniel was so eager to get to work he slept so that he could see the first rays of sun.
Sometimes, in the years that followed, Miriam had wished that Daniel would turn around. That he would sleep with his face toward her, as if she were his sun and it was her face that he longed to see the instant he opened his eyes. She wished that he would turn to her, spontaneously, in the night and hold her in his arms. He never did, though. Instead, when she was troubled and unable to sleep, Miriam had taken to laying her hand against Daniel’s back. Not a caress, simply a touch. A way to feel his skin against hers, to be connected to his solidity and warmth. She had never known if Daniel was aware of what she did or not.
Now, lying beside him in the bed they had shared for six long years, in the bed where they had tried without success for all those years to conceive a child, Miriam did not reach out. Instead, she rolled over, clinging to the side of the bed.
It was a very long time before she closed her eyes.
Twelve
Summer is a remarkable season of the year,” Bishop John said at worship that Sunday. “We see God’s work, His bounty, everywhere we look. But this bounty brings with it a special challenge. A challenge to remember to give thanks for all that we are given, to not become so wrapped up in the hard work it takes to keep our farms and businesses going that we forget that we cannot, we do not, accomplish this work alone.
“We need the support of those who work beside us, our families and friends. And, always, we need God. We need His guidance and strength. Sometimes I think we need it in this season of bounty most of all. Because with bounty can come distraction, even complacency. It is easy to ask for God’s help when the days are cold and difficult, but less easy to offer up thanks when they are bright and warm.
“And so, as we prepare to recite the Lord’s Prayer in the silence of our minds and hearts, let us do so in a true s
pirit of thanksgiving, remembering that even the strongest hands will falter if they are not guided by a heart that is dedicated to, and humble before, God. Let us pray.”
Seated just behind Rachel and Leah, Miriam bowed her head and closed her eyes. As so often happened when Bishop John spoke, she felt as if his words were meant specifically for her.
I need to give thanks, she thought. The farm stand was prospering. Although her father was gone, he was with God, and Miriam still lived in the house she loved so much. And she was who she had always wanted to be. She was Daniel Brennemann’s wife. The fact that being his wife had not turned out to be quite what she had imagined did not make the gift of her marriage any less precious.
Perhaps I have been wrong about my imagination all these years, she suddenly thought. Perhaps it isn’t that I have too little, but that I have too much.
Too much to give thanks for things precisely as they were. For life precisely as it was, with all its pain and flaws.
Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us, she prayed. Even if the one who trespassed against her most was Miriam herself.
* * *
“Here, let me take that,” Miriam offered. She held out her hands for the plate of sandwiches Victor King’s wife, Rebecca, had just lifted from the kitchen counter. “It looks heavy.”
“It is!” Rebecca admitted with a smile. She relinquished the plate, then pressed her hands into the small of her back. The action thrust her pregnant belly forward even more. “I get so tired lately. I admit, I will be happy when this baby comes.”
“You should sit down,” Miriam suggested. “Aren’t you near your time?”
“Early September,” Rebecca said. She lifted a smaller plate, of cookies this time, with a laugh. “Less than a month and not nearly soon enough!”
Miriam smiled. Rebecca shot her a quick look, and Miriam could feel herself brace. Here it comes, she thought. Some well-meaning remark about how hard it must be for Miriam because she and Daniel were still childless.
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