So, at the urging of her mother, Elsie went to the thrift store in Strasburg. She had no idea what color she wanted the walls of her room painted and couldn’t have cared less about curtains or any kind of bedspread, quilt, or comforter. Why spend money on things no one would see, things she didn’t care about? But she accommodated her mother, agreed to the packaged quilt and shams (what were shams?), and watched a small child throw a temper tantrum about a Ziplock bag containing small items her mother did not allow her to have, while her own mother chose filmy white curtains yellowed with age, mumbling to herself about homemade lye soap and the power to turn anything snowy white.
They left with bags of good items and went to the paint store, where she paid far too much for one gallon of paint the color of a horse’s muzzle—the part that was velvet. She swallowed her annoyance at the expense, knowing this decorating brought her mother more pleasure than herself, definitely. And she couldn’t take this away from her.
They painted the walls and gave the old woodwork a fresh coat of white. Mam said it didn’t matter if the paint was left over from painting the porch posts and said “Exterior” on the side of the plastic five-gallon bucket.
As they worked, her mother gave her sage advice, talking in a breathless tone as she plied the roller. There were many things to learn about rumschpringa, she said, stopping to look into her daughter’s eyes.
“Things have changed since your father and I ran around. You will belong to a supervised group, where you won’t have to worry about some of the improper behavior that used to be tolerated. Well, not really tolerated—there was plenty of concern, sadness, whatever, but no one really knew what to do about the low morals that had crept in over the years.”
“So how did things change?”
“Well, a group of parents and ministers took it on themselves to make a change. And you know how hard it is to do that among our people.” She shook her head, rolling her paint roller up and down the corrugated roller pan. “But change has come. There are still plenty of ungehorsam, but I think this group is a good one. They’re decent kids who care about their future, who seemingly want what is right. So when the time comes to begin dating, I want you to think deeply, pray that God will lead you in the path of righteousness. For one thing, you will be expected to spend your evenings in the living room with your chappy, and not upstairs, the way we did.”
“Stop saying ‘chappy,’” Elsie said.
Her mother laughed, a deep, happy sound that always made Elsie laugh with her.
“Oh, well, that’s what we used to say.”
“I know. Don’t worry about a chappy for me, Mam. I have no intentions of becoming interested in any young man in the near future. Or the faraway future. I want to keep working until I can get a horse and be able to buy feed and hay, a saddle, and a bridle.”
Her mother looked doubtful, but she couldn’t help but notice the way Elsie’s eyes shone as she talked about her long-held dream.
Chapter Five
By the time Elsie reached her seventeenth birthday, she had learned the ins and outs of rumschpringa, the do’s and don’ts, why there were popular girls and girls who were not. She learned to avoid eagerly amorous suitors, too.
Already, she had been “asked” by more than one nervous, bright-eyed young man awash in thoughts of romance, wanting her for their girl. She felt coldhearted, cruel, but knew it wouldn’t work. She simply had no interest in any of them and was rather perplexed that they had an interest in her. She had no idea of her outstanding beauty, her grace and charm.
She understood the girls’ room thing now. Her friends spent many hours visiting each other, sitting on the bed, happily gossiping, giggling, dressing up. She enjoyed the time together, reveling in friendship, the kind that brightens existence for each other. And her bedroom was pretty—everyone said so.
“Where did you get this unique furniture?”
“It’s really lovely.”
Her parents had acquired the furniture at an estate sale, a dull brown thing without a headboard for the bed, a mirror that was broken, and drawer pulls that were so loose they came off in her hand. Her father measured and adjusted, fixed and nailed things together, while her mother applied layers of white primer and paint and glaze. The results were amazing. Her parents did not tell her the weeks of penny-pinching that followed, but she knew, and loved her parents even more.
They made this sacrifice for her.
She was in the garden when he stopped his horse, slid the buggy door aside, and said hello.
Elsie straightened, wiped the back of her hand across her forehead, leaving a brown smudge, and smiled.
Elam. All grown up now, his hair cut fashionably, wearing a white polo shirt and no suspenders, his shoulders wide, his face tanned and chiseled, his eyes deep and dark. Elsie noticed all this fleetingly, her eyes going to the magnificent horse hitched to his buggy—black, huge, and powerful, the neck thick and arched, with a wavy mane that rippled in the evening sun. The horse’s feet had long fur around the hooves, in the back, so that his graceful legs looked as if he wore boots.
He stood at attention, his head held high, both front hooves aligned perfectly, his ears flicking, swiveling easily, alert for a command from his master.
Elsie’s mouth formed an O of admiration, but there were no words.
“You still looking for a horse?”
Dumbly, she nodded.
“I think I know of someone who has one for you.”
“Serious?”
“I think so.”
“Where is he?”
“It’s a ways off. I thought maybe you’d enjoy a ride over to see him.”
Elsie nodded. “When?”
“How about Friday night?”
“You mean, with … ?”
She could only incline her head in the direction of the horse hitched to his carriage.
“Yeah, this one can travel twenty miles without becoming winded. His stamina is amazing.”
Almost, she echoed him, saying, “He’s more than amazing!” But she was certain Elam knew what he was driving, so why gush and exclaim unnecessarily?
“You’ll go?” he asked.
“Yes. I certainly will.”
“OK. I’ll pick you up around five.”
She didn’t get home from market till seven. It would be too late.
“Uh, I’m sorry. I don’t get home till seven.”
“How about Saturday night, then? Five?”
“I could do that.”
“Good. I’ll see you then.”
He tugged slightly on the reins and the horse lifted his feet with perfect fluid grace. The steel rims of the buggy wheels moved, crunched on gravel, and he was gone, the gray buggy top, the black underside and wheels with the slow-moving vehicle emblem and row of reflectors shining in the sun.
Elsie turned back to her hoeing, wondering how he knew she still wanted a horse. After school was over, they had parted ways, in every sense of the word. He worked on a construction crew, had joined another youth group, and hardly ever attended church services, likely going to church with buddies who were in other districts.
But he must have remembered.
She bent down to retrieve a long-rooted dandelion from among the cabbages, wondering what had become of Benny. Certainly, the straw hat would be gone from his head, as he approached the age where young men thought about their appearance. Who knew, though? He might still be wearing a hat below his eyebrows, squinting at the world with his altered eyesight.
Elsie smiled to herself, then began humming.
Was it possible her dream may be coming true? A real live horse. Elam had not elaborated on the breed, the place, or anything, really.
She pictured a stable. One of those huge, standing-seam, metal-roofed barns with siding stained to a
cheerful yellow-brown color that resembled logs, huge paddocks and riding arenas, a lush pasture dotted with excellent horses. Equine paradise.
Elam would know a g
ood horse when he saw one, so there was no sense in worrying if the animal would be appropriate.
Perhaps, if she was lucky, she’d have money left over for a used saddle and bridle. She thought of the beautiful hues of color on the Navajo-inspired saddle blankets thrown in heaps at the harness shop in Gordonville. To own one of them would be a stroke of good fortune. She loved to follow her father to this shop, the odor of leather and dye, oil and horses, the air sharp with the smell of new nylon ropes and halters. Even as a small child, she had followed her father into the dim interior and stood mesmerized, tracing a design on a brand-new saddle with a forefinger, stepping up as close as possible to the layers of leather harnesses and sniffing deeply. The bio-plastic harness had no smell, which was quite sad, but Dat said they were lighter, better.
Elsie didn’t agree, but never said so.
Her anticipation mounted as the days went by. Friday seemed so far off. Lillian was preoccupied, grouchy, if it came right down to it, so there was no happy banter, no Jason this and Jason that. At least Lillian’s happy prattle made the day pass swiftly, every week. Finally, Elsie told herself to stop watching the clock. If she checked every fifteen minutes it seemed as if the day would never end.
Rache lumbered into the yeast bread corner, carrying a handful of silver trays.
“Hey you, Lillian. Elsie, that last batch of hamburger rolls was too small. I mean, the rolls. You have to stop skimping on the dough. That’s not going to help our sales.”
When there was no answer, she cleared her throat.
“Just so you know.”
Then she turned on her heel and moved away.
“Good. You didn’t talk to her, either,” Lillian commented.
“I couldn’t think of anything to say. I guess they were too small.”
“Puh. She isn’t happy if she doesn’t pick on someone.”
And so Elsie picked up speed, tried to correct the problem, and stopped watching the clock. In spite of her best efforts, the day seemed endless. Her shoulders ached, her feet hurt, and she was upset at Lillian.
Saturday was even worse.
Finally, she found her coworker in a corner, her back turned, wiping her eyes with a crumpled Kleenex, her nose red and swollen.
Without thinking, Elsie slipped an arm around her waist, and whispered, “What’s wrong, Lillian?”
Without answering, Lillian tore away from her, knocking down a pyramid of bread pans that clattered to the floor, creating a sound that brought Rache immediately.
“Seriously, Lillian,” she said, in a low, threatening voice.
Red-faced and flustered, Lillian bent to gather up the pans, keeping her face averted without giving Rache the satisfaction of a reply.
“Try not to let that happen again.”
Lillian straightened, her eyes shooting sparks of outrage.
“It was an accident, OK? So go mind your own business.” Then she muttered “Fat cow” under her breath, or what she hoped was under her breath, but Rache caught the nasty slur and went crying to Eli Beiler, and Lillian was let go that day.
Fired.
Elsie was horrified. She felt awful about Lillian and worried for herself. To be fired from her job would be complete annihilation of her dream. A popped balloon.
She couldn’t afford to be in ill spirits and must certainly never vent her feelings about a coworker. She must pay close attention to details. If there was no market job, there was no horse.
The thing was, Rache was indispensable. She was the queen of the bakery. So there was no use denying her superior position, or fighting against it. Elsie felt a stab of pity for Lillian, her unnamed troubles, and the stinging humiliation of being fired.
Rache confided in her, then. It wasn’t just the slur; Lillian had been slacking off in her duties, which Elsie was carrying, until she was easily doing three fourths of everything, and it wasn’t fair.
Rache sat down, braced her tired back with her palms clipping her knees, a cup of cappuccino at her elbow, and said she had been trying to get her niece to take Lillian’s place for a while already, but wasn’t having any luck.
“She isn’t interested.” She sighed, took a sip of her hot drink, grimaced, pried the lid off, and blew across the top. “Hot, hot, hot,” she said.
“Do you have anyone in mind?” she asked, after swirling a mouthful like Listerine mouthwash, then bending for another slurp, more grimacing.
“Perhaps my sister Malinda. She’s not sixteen yet.”
“You have a sister? Perfect. I’m going to tell Eli. Oh, here. Here he is. Eli!” she bellowed, wagging a finger like a rope sausage. When he appeared, Rache pointed at Elsie.
“She has a sister. Could we hire her?”
Eli whistled, low. “I would say so.”
Elsie nodded, said she’d bring her along the following week.
Her parents agreed immediately. But Malinda smiled, shook her head, and said no, she didn’t think she’d enjoy bakery work, but thanks for asking. That brought one raised eyebrow from Dat, pursed lips from her mother. After a brief discussion, Malinda agreed to go.
Not that she did so without complaining to Elsie, though.
By the time Saturday evening came, Elsie stopped thinking about the bakery and Malinda’s coming introduction to all of Elsie’s own trials and mistakes, and focused entirely on the upcoming ride to an undisclosed location with Elam Stoltzfus.
She didn’t worry about the color of her dress and had no time to fuss with her hair and covering, having arrived home only thirty minutes before five. She didn’t think Elam would notice her appearance. He was merely doing this to help her find the long-awaited horse, which was thoughtful and very kind.
She gasped when he drove in, sure she felt like any English girl if someone had picked her up in a very expensive, foreign-made car, one you seldom saw and, of course, never had the opportunity to drive.
The horse bounced, all grace and strength, lifting his front hooves high, his neck proud and powerful. The buggy wheels flashed as if there were water on the spokes, the gray canvas top flawless.
Nervous now, Elsie smoothed a palm down the front of her black apron, inhaled a steadying breath, told her mother goodbye, and walked through the door, down the steps along the cracked, uneven sidewalk.
Elam sat in the buggy and watched her descend the porch steps, wondering how Elsie seemed never to notice how perfect she was. She was as fresh as an April shower, and as invigorating.
When she slid in beside him, he looked into her eyes once, then found himself immediately tongue-tied, all the clever words he had planned on saying evaporated like steam off the apple butter kettle.
“Where are we going?” she asked eagerly.
“North of Ephrata.”
“Way up there?”
He nodded, could not think of one word to say. They rode side by side, too close, yet too far away, in an uncomfortable silence. Elam was dry-mouthed, horrified. He tried to remind himself that this was Elsie—the expert ballplayer who was tall and skinny, put in the background by the other girls. He’d known her most of his life.
Elsie was too shy to lead the conversation. This was Elam Stoltzfus, the Elam of good fortune, who owned ponies and horses and never allowed her to drive. Or hardly ever. He was so far above her in everything—knowledge, prestige, wealth, a good, solid name in the community, and now, very, very good-looking.
She leaned against the soft seat back, crossed her arms, and relaxed. If he didn’t talk, then there was no reason to become upset. Besides, she could sit and watch the black horse run for miles and be content.
The buggy seemed light, like an afterthought to the horse, or as if it had never been there in the first place. This horse ran for the joy of running, creating a flowing motion where the buggy seemed to be a part of the horse.
Elsie couldn’t help but compare him with the only tired old Standardbred they owned. He trotted along with his loose ungainly pace, creating a jerking motion as soon as the road incline
d, then slowed to a walk, which resulted in being tapped with the tip of the frayed old whip. As soon as he felt the whip, he jumped, lunged into his collar, only to slow to another walk a bit farther down the road.
This created plenty of movement, being jerked forward then slammed back against the seat, the seat itself lifting a bit from time to time.
“So, what do you do?” Elam croaked finally, then grimaced inwardly with the pain of the lame attempt.
“Do? You mean, as in work?” she asked, her voice low.
He nodded, too miserable to search for further words. What was wrong with him? He felt beads of perspiration form on his forehead, but was far too embarrassed to lift his left hip to fumble for his handkerchief. As long as she didn’t look in his direction, he’d be all right.
“I work at the Reading Terminal Market. In the bakery.”
“Do you like it?” Oh my. See Jane run. Run, Sally, run. His words were completely predictable, as if he’d read them from a first-grade reading book. He cringed, sniffed with misery.
“I do, actually. I like my boss, Eli Beiler from the Cattail area. Do you know him?”
“I don’t believe I do.” Whew. That cliff-hanger was done. Now what was he going to come up with? The long ride was turning into an excruciating form of mental endurance. He had always prided himself on being the suave conversationalist with all the girls he knew, so this shake-up had not been foreseen. Ill-prepared to meet an unexpected rush of awe, never associating plain, poor Elsie with the girls who were usually seated beside him, he was floundering like a hooked and landed fish.
She asked how much they were asking for the horse. “I have been saving money for over two years, but I give most of my wages to my parents. Hopefully, I’ll be able to afford the horse you have in mind.”
“You will.”
“How do you know?”
Once on the subject of the long-awaited horse, conversation came easier, although it was far from relaxed.
The summer’s evening was perfect, the air heavy with maple leaves, undulating telephone wires, the manic wheeling and flocking of an assortment of small brown birds, traffic coming and going in myriad colors of blue, white, red, and black. They passed immaculately groomed lawns with colorful arrays of petunias, dahlias, marigolds. Fields full of corn growing like small trees, thick-stemmed, broad-leafed, the large, firm ears formed and yellowing. Fourth cutting alfalfa. Soybeans and pumpkin and tomato patches.
A Horse for Elsie Page 5