When they began to sing the last song, Elsie rose and made her way along the long line of girls to help her mother, grandmother, and aunts prepare the food for lunch. They set out fourteen Styrofoam bowls of pickles and fourteen of pickled red beets with the purplish-pink hardboiled eggs nestled among them. There were also seasoned pretzels, spreads, jelly, butter, and pie.
Elsie helped stack towers of homemade bread slices on plates, then turned her back to spread a bit of cheese spread on a crust of bread, quickly gulping it down in a few bites. Breakfast had been a long time ago.
The rest of the day was spent in the company of her cousins, her grandmother Malinda, and all the chattering aunts. Elsie was always genuinely happy to be among them, a part of a growing circle of belonging, new babies and new husbands or wives added every year.
She didn’t mind the absence of sliced ham. Not until Rosanne complained about it. The crust of bread stuck in her throat and she coughed and took a drink of water, deeply ashamed.
Elsie heard Rosanne whisper, “We never have ham here. They’re poor.”
Nothing to do or say about that, so she left it where it belonged. With them.
She figured sliced ham and a pony were no match for kindness, happiness, and contentment, which they had. All three of those things. So much they tumbled out of a container, ran out, and dripped on the tabletop. But you couldn’t tell people things like that without sounding boastful.
She had been helping with the tables and had to eat last, with the aunts and mothers. A few boys had not yet eaten, so they were seated at the same table. She found herself next to Elam Stoltzfus, his little brother Benny opposite, hardly recognizable in clean Sunday clothes and without the smashed hat.
Benny sized up his brother with Elsie and said in a much too loud tone of voice that they looked as if they were getting married, then honked and wheezed at his hilarity, receiving a withering look from Elsie. But from Elam he got a wide grin that pretty much amounted to a home-run high five, which set him to chortling in glee.
Chapter Three
After church services were held in the garage, everything was put back in order. Dat worked at putting the benches back into the bench wagon, with Elsie’s help. Mam scrubbed floors and dusted, took care of all the leftovers, washed the front porch, and had a long nap with her little ones snuggled by her side.
That Saturday, Elsie and two of her sisters, Malinda and Suvilla, walked over to the Stoltzfus farm. Elsie’s desperation to drive a pony overrode any unwillingness she might have had to accept Elam’s invitation. It was time she experienced holding the reins, being in charge of the high-stepping pony drawing the lovely cart.
Of course, she’d have to admire the new horse, too, which was annoying. That was all she ever did, it seemed. Admire Elam’s horses and his ability to drive them.
Well. Things were about to change.
She marched up to the front door and talked to Elam’s mother, who was a good friend of her family, a comfortable, middle-aged woman with spreading hips and a loud voice.
“Yes,” she said, “go on out, they’re out there in the barn with the horses.” Then she handed Malinda and Suvilla lollipops, those big ones with Tootsie rolls inside.
Elam met them at the barn door.
“What’s up, Elsie?”
“I came over to see your horse.”
“Good. Benny, hitch up Cookie to give the girls a ride.”
“Sure. Come this way, girls, you can help me hitch him up. Hey, where’d you get those?” He pointed at the lollipops.
“Your mam,” Malinda said quietly.
Elsie followed Elam to a box stall and waited while he opened the gate and led a horse out to the forebay. It was a vision, like a horse from her dreams. It was mostly white, the back a dazzling, glossy black. It had large, gentle eyes, a shapely neck with a small head and curved ears, and a black mane and tail.
Elsie was speechless. She stood and stared at that horse with huge green eyes, her mouth open but no words coming out of it. She wanted to act cool, as if this horse wasn’t anything special, she’d seen hundreds just like him, but she couldn’t do it.
Finally she said, “He’s really nice.”
“Right?”
Elsie nodded, dumbfounded.
“You want to ride him? He has a mind of his own. You have to let him know who’s in charge.”
Elsie shook her head.
“No, I can’t ride in a dress.”
She waved a hand self-consciously over her skirt.
“My sisters do,” Elam said.
“But they probably wear something, don’t they? I mean, you know, under their skirt.”
“Yeah, they do.”
Elsie put a hand on the beautiful paint’s neck, slid it slowly to his head, the side of his face. The horse lowered his head, so Elsie stroked the perfect ears, ran her fingers through the long black hair that hung over his forehead. When the horse laid his soft nose against her sweater, she looked at Elam in disbelief.
“He likes me.”
Elam grinned. “Looks like it, doesn’t it?”
Elsie placed both hands on the horse’s face, one on each side, and whispered, “You lovely, lovely creature, you.” She glanced at Eli. “What’s his name?”
“Haven’t named him yet.”
“Do you have an idea?”
“I’ll think of something.”
He didn’t ask her for suggestions, so Elsie stepped back as Elam led the horse away. Elsie felt a decided sense of loss and wondered how long it would be before she could touch the satiny neck below the heavy mane again.
She drove Cookie that day. She sat in the driver’s seat and held on to the reins with both hands, Elam to her left and Benny sandwiched in between. The feeling of sitting on the upholstered seat, her feet pushed up against the front of the cart for balance, the reins in her hands, the smell of the leather and pony, the up-and-down rhythm of the cart, was beyond description.
Most of all, the ripple of energy that snaked along the reins from the bit in Cookie’s mouth was unlike anything she had ever experienced. To turn to the right or left took a slight touch, only a gentle drawing back on either rein. She imagined the tender mouth, the alert, intelligent pony who could feel the modest pressure on the iron bit in his mouth. She kept a steady tension on the reins, turned him perfectly.
That was when the real thrill began.
Sensing he was homeward bound, Cookie’s ears pricked forward, his steps increased, and Elsie steadied her hands and applied more pressure.
“Hold him,” Elam said evenly.
Elsie bit her lip, didn’t answer. She was so intent on doing just that, she barely heard his words. Realizing her hands were not where they should be, she gripped the reins with one hand till she was able to hold them farther out, away from her body, in order to apply all her strength.
Cookie bent his neck, took the bit in his teeth, and ran. His heavy mane flapped up and down, his neck was arched, his ears turned forward, his legs churning as his little hooves pounded the macadam.
Blip, blip, blip—the staccato sound stirred an unnamed emotion in her. She drew her mouth into a straight line, her lower lip caught between her teeth, to stop the shameful tears that came to her eyes.
This was unreal. This was pure, heady joy.
A great love for the spirited little animal welled up until she was afraid her breathing would be stopped.
“Hold him!” Elam yelled.
Elsie didn’t answer, just kept up a steady force on the leather reins, her arms extended, her back straight.
Benny yelled something unintelligible from beneath the crushed straw hat, but Elsie stayed quiet, concentrating on driving the energized pony.
There was the Stoltzfuses’ driveway. Going at this rate, there was no possible way to make the turn. She used all her remaining strength to slow Cookie, but it was no use.
“Just keep going,” Elam said, laughing.
So she did. Soon enough, the pony
slowed, and Elsie could turn him around easily, then trot into the driveway at a decent pace. In spite of the diminished speed, the wheels were pulled sideways, scraping a wide arc in the gravel.
To approach the barn contained another sense of loss. Elsie sat on the cart, reluctant to hand over the reins. But she knew she was being selfish, so she did, without meeting Elam’s eyes.
“Thank you,” she said quietly.
“You’re welcome.”
Malinda and Suvilla were given a ride, then it was time to go home. Elsie had a dozen questions to ask, but felt too shy, not wanting to be a pest. So she gathered her little sisters and they thanked Elam again.
“Right-o,” he said. Then, “You’re a good driver, seeing that was your first time.”
Elsie mumbled something unintelligible and left, herding her sisters out the drive and down the road.
After that day, Elsie’s passion for horses took on a new intensity. She planned and schemed and connived the best possible approach of acquiring a pony. Or a horse.
She worked hard after school. She mowed the grass for the last time, raked leaves, and washed the porch floor with soapy water and a stiff broom. She walked to the neighboring farm for milk, watched Amos on Saturdays while her mother went to town for groceries, and never complained about any job, no matter how difficult.
She asked her father again.
“You still haven’t given up on a pony?” he asked, laying aside a copy of the newspaper that was thrown in their yard twice a week.
“No.”
“We shouldn’t have allowed you to go to the boys’ place.”
“Why?” Elsie asked, already touching the substance of his refusal.
“Well, it certainly didn’t help with your pony obsession.”
He reached over to retrieve his coffee cup, slurped the hot black liquid, and replaced the cup back on the light stand. “If you’d never driven that pony, you wouldn’t know what you’re missing. It’s just like being Amish and driving a horse and buggy. If you never own a vehicle or learn to drive one, you remain content, and that’s as it should be. You know how often I’ve told you, Elsie—the funds simply aren’t available. When you’re older, the income you’ll bring in for your family will be a welcome boost to the household finances. I can’t help my handicap any more than you can help being born into a family like us.”
He hesitated. “Not that there’s anything wrong with us. We have more than enough—we’re rich, compared to many people. I have to give up every morning to having only one hand, and you will have to practice giving up your own will as well. Giving up at a young age is essential to becoming a well-grounded, mature adult. You must learn to be happy without everything you think you can’t live without. Material things are not important, Elsie.”
Elsie sniffed, toyed with the fringe on the old granny-square afghan that always lay on the arm of the green tufted sofa. Elsie hated that afghan. Mam had dug through the free box at a neighbor’s yard sale, pulled it out with shining eyes, and held it up for Elsie to admire in all its hideous, pilled, musty glory.
“But ponies and cars are different. Ponies are allowed,” she said, her voice already hushed as she struggled to accept her father’s words.
Later, she talked to her mother while they washed dishes.
“Oh, Elsie, do you have any idea how gladly I would give you a pony? I can see it in your eyes, and it hurts to see you standing at the gate, watching Elam and Benny. But what your father tells you is the truth, and hard as it may be, it’s better to say no than to try to hand over everything you girls ask for.”
“Well, we never ask for anything, so how do you know?” Elsie burst out, and then saw her mam’s strained expression and wished she’d kept her mouth shut.
Winter came with a fierce blast of icy Arctic air and gray clouds that churned and boiled above them like woolen sheep. Mam hurried to pull the last of the turnips and carrots, the woodstove in the living room crackled and burned, and the baseball games came to a chilly end.
Standing shivering in the frigid wind and stomping their feet to stay warm took away the thrill of popping flyers and catching grounders. The Ping-Pong table was set up in the middle of the classroom, and serious competition ensued.
Christmas excitement was in the air, especially after the teacher handed out parts for the Christmas program. The pupils giggled behind their copies, raised hands, and asked dozens of questions until the harried teacher became red-faced and impatient, snapping at her overenthused troupe and efficiently deflating the Christmas spirit.
Elsie walked home from school, her Christmas poem in her lunch box, her head down, her feet shuffling. Ahead of her, Malinda raced in circles with her friends, not yet touched by the burden of being poor, of being different than everyone else.
Elsie dreaded Christmastime. With each passing year, it got worse. Eating her cheese sandwich, listening to the upper grades chattering on about their wish lists, the shopping, the wrapping and gift giving, the final blow the tallying of mounds of different items they received. Of course, Elsie never participated.
She imagined herself seated beside Rosanne and Lydia Mae, talking about her new pony named Dream, or the coat her mother had found at Target. What was Target? She had no idea. At least there was a big meal to look forward to. There was always roasht, mashed potatoes, candied carrots, and homemade noodles with plenty of rich brown gravy. There were cookies and homemade candy, Rice Krispies treats, peanut butter fudge, and chocolate-covered peanuts and raisins. But they each received only one gift—a doll or a pair of warm slippers. Never both.
And so when Christmastime came, Elsie caved inward, became quieter and more reserved. She was who she was, and accepted it, but it still rankled at times, like a burr stuck in her sock. You suffered the itch until you took the time to reach down and extract it, which was actually a whole lot easier than extracting this jealousy, or whatever you called it when you stood on the sidelines and knew you amounted to the grand total of zero.
By the time Elsie had completed eighth grade and had been given a diploma saying she had successfully passed to vocational class, she had driven Cookie a number of times, but never came close to acquiring a horse of her own.
Elam became different, then.
He didn’t help her hitch up Cookie anymore. Benny did. Elam was always busy on the farm. He never looked at her anymore, either, just sort of swung his gaze behind her head and looked at whatever was back there. He blushed. Furiously. His face turned dark red and he blinked so rapidly he hardly knew what to do.
That was a mysterious thing to Elsie, but she figured he pitied her for not being able to have a pony and didn’t know what to do about it. Boys were like that. She had observed this phenomenon many times, watching them get softhearted with sympathy or admiration and covering it all up with a hard exterior.
So she didn’t think about it much, just let Elam go his way, and she went hers.
Benny became her funny little friend, though. He didn’t try to be funny, he just was. He hardly ever took that straw hat off, even in winter. The brim had torn along the crown, from Benny yanking on it so much, so when it was really windy, the front of his hat would be blown straight up, which acted like a sail and tugged even harder, causing Benny to run around the farm with one hand smashed down on top of his head.
When Elsie turned fifteen, she was through vocational class and ready to look for a job. She had four options: working at the market, helping at one of the many local dry-goods stores, housecleaning for English ladies, or being maud to Amish housewives who had a new baby, were housecleaning, or simply needed an extra hand at canning or freezing the garden produce. Elsie shrewdly calculated hours, the price paid per hour, and how many days her mother would allow her to work. Though housecleaning paid the most per hour, working at the market would bring in the most money, since the days were long.
So her mother called Amish market stand owners until she procured Elsie a job at the Reading Terminal Market,
a place teeming with city folks and hundreds of vendors hawking their goods inside an old railroad station converted to a farmers’ market. She would be working for Eli Beiler, starting at a hundred dollars a day, being picked up at 4:00 a.m. Sharp. “She has to be ready,” Eli had said. “If we stop two minutes at everyone’s house we lose fifteen to twenty minutes to get to market. Can’t do that.”
That scared Elsie. She pictured a king on his throne. A slave owner on horseback holding a whip in one hand.
Her mother hitched the old horse to the buggy and they went to the fabric store to buy cloth for three new dresses. She dug through the large cardboard box on the porch that was marked “Clearance” with a fluorescent yellow sign. Some of the fabric just wasn’t selling well; most had a bit of a flaw imprinted into the weave or a few snags.
Mam picked up a bolt of blue fabric with tiny checks in it.
“It’s a little fancy,” she mused, “but at this price …”
Elsie shrugged. She was glad for the new clothes, but would have preferred to use every bit of extra money toward a pony.
“Do you like this?” her mother asked, holding up a bolt of green with a puckered surface.
Elsie gave a noncommittal nod. “Whatever you think. I’m going to look at books.”
Mam chose plain white fabric for two new bib aprons, saying her dresses all had a bit of a pattern in them so they’d have to be toned down a bit with the white aprons.
Elsie shrugged again. If she was honest with herself, it wasn’t just that she’d rather spend the money on a pony. The thing was, most girls wore pretty new dresses, hoping to get the attention of some boy or to impress the other girls, even if they didn’t admit it. She knew she wasn’t going be popular, whether she had a fancy new dress or not. Especially now that school was over and she hardly ever saw the other kids her age. She intended to spend as much of her time working as she possibly could—not socializing, and especially not with boys. Elam was the only friend she cared about as far as boys went, but he had turned into an awkward, pimply, blushing creature she couldn’t begin to understand, so that was that.
A Horse for Elsie Page 3