by Linda Byler
When Lizzie and Emma were little girls, they were chubby, actually more than chubby as they got bigger and older. But when Emma turned 13, she stopped eating calorie-laden foods, becoming steadily thinner until she didn’t look one bit like Lizzie anymore.
Lizzie had continued to take three sandwiches in her lunch to school, more than the eighth-grade boys took for their lunches, and Emma was terribly embarrassed by this. Lizzie tried to watch what she ate, especially when Mam was around. But it was hard. Often, when Mam was upstairs working and Lizzie had to watch the twins, she ate two whoopie pies.
Once, after Mam had made creamsticks, Lizzie ate four. Creamsticks were homemade doughnuts, but instead of being round with a hole in the middle, they were cut in an oblong shape. After they were deep-fried, Mam cut a long slit in each of their tops, filled them with creamy vanilla icing, and then put golden caramel frosting on the tops. They were the very best thing in the world of desserts, but Mam didn’t make them very often because they were so much work, with two different kinds of icing and all.
Lizzie learned quickly that it paid to be careful what she ate around Mam and Emma, but it didn’t matter if they were busy and couldn’t see her. When things were stressful, nothing made Lizzie feel better about her upside-down world than a good whoopie pie or doughnut. They were so comforting.
The girls rushed to clean the house and prepare Emma’s favorite foods for her birthday meal. When the table was set, Emma and Lizzie went out to the woodshed to gather more fuel for the fire.
Emma went straight to the woodpile. Lizzie trailed behind her, admiring Emma’s blue dress and neat hair. It wouldn’t be long until Emma had a boyfriend, she thought.
The sight of the stacked wood sent Lizzie right back to a long-ago afternoon, when she had played Mrs. Bixler with Emma. “I’m going to see if I can find some wood to make me some high-heeled shoes,” Lizzie had told Emma. But Emma ignored her and continued to pick up wood.
“Hello!” Lizzie yelled in what she imagined to be a stylish, grown-up voice. “How are you, Emma?”
Emma turned to look at Lizzie’s feet. Sure enough, she had securely tied a block of wood with baler twine to the bottom of each foot.
Emma extended her hand to shake Lizzie’s. “Why, come in, Mrs. Bixler! I’m just fine. And where did you get your new high-heeled shoes?”
Lizzie held her head up high, and in a genuine, English-lady imitation said, “Oh, I just bought them at the store!”
Both girls collapsed on the floor in a fit of giggles. When Lizzie hit the floor and her high heels fell apart, they laughed even harder.
Emma sputtered, “L-L-Lizzie—your shoes!”
Lizzie gasped, “Well, they did feel like high heels a little bit.” She picked up the blocks of wood and twine, trying to reattach them to her shoes.
She looked at Emma. “There’s hardly any use, is there? These aren’t really high heels, and I’m not really English.” Lizzie squeezed Emma’s hand and loved her so much she thought her heart would burst.
Dear, bossy, big sister Emma. And now Emma had turned 16. Tonight the family gathered around the dining room table to celebrate Emma’s big birthday. Each person had a lovely glass dish filled with chocolate cake and vanilla ice cream while Emma opened her gifts. The birthday cake had two layers covered with vanilla frosting—everyone’s favorite—and they enjoyed every last morsel of it with spoonfuls of creamy vanilla ice cream.
Emma opened the largest package and found a pair of candleholders with blue candles for her bedroom. Another package contained fabric for two new dresses, a robin’s-egg blue and a light dusty green material. Emma was quite overwhelmed, and her cheeks flushed a beautiful pink color as she gasped, exclaiming over the pretty fabric.
After they finished celebrating, the girls washed the dishes while Mam bathed the twins. Jason went out with Dat to finish up the chores, making sure the barn doors were closed properly against the approaching chill of the night.
Suddenly Mam appeared at the kitchen door, looking at the girls and listening for a sound she thought she heard.
“Did someone knock?” she asked.
“No,” the girls answered.
But now there was a decided knocking on the kitchen door.
“I thought I heard someone,” Mam said, hurrying to open it.
“Come on in,” she said, stepping back to let a young Amish man into the kitchen.
“Hello. Sorry to bother you so late in the evening,” he said, smiling apologetically.
“That’s quite all right. It isn’t late yet,” Mam answered.
“Looks like you have plenty of help,” he said, nodding toward the girls who were clustered around the kitchen sink.
“Oh, yes. My girls are growing up so fast I can hardly keep up with them,” Mam laughed.
“That’s good. We need mauda here in Cameron County.” Lizzie’s heart sank way down, leaving her stomach feeling all hollow and helpless.
Mauda! Oh, no! I’m not going. Emma can. Mam and Dat can’t make me be a maud. I’m not going to do it. I’ll run away, she thought. She had a wild impulse to run upstairs and hide under her bed where no one would be able to find her and make her go be a maud, or maid. Sometimes being a maud meant staying for weeks at a time in a family’s home, which really, Lizzie thought, was much like being a slave.
She had told Emma that one evening when they were discussing the fact that eventually they would probably need to be mauda, with so many young families moving into the community who would need help with housecleaning, canning, or assisting when a new baby arrived.
Emma said, no, that a maud was not nearly the same. Lizzie argued vehemently, saying it was the exact same thing, except there was no cruel overseer who cracked his whip above your head when you didn’t pick cotton fast enough. Emma told her she should be ashamed of herself, that slaves lived in little hovels or cabins with only bare necessities.
“Well, the reason I’m here is …,” the Amish man cleared his throat. “My wife needs some help housecleaning, and I think she wants to paint the kitchen, too.”
“Let’s see, you’re John King, aren’t you?” Mam asked.
He nodded.
“Well, I don’t see why not. Emma, would you like to go? When is it? Next week?”
“Monday till at least Wednesday. Maybe two of the girls could help with the painting on Wednesday,” John offered.
“Why, yes! Lizzie could go Wednesday, and Emma will go the rest of the time. Will you send a driver on Monday morning?”
Lizzie glared at Mam but said nothing. She hadn’t even waited till Emma said yes or no. But, really, what difference would it make whether she did say yes or no? It was all the same. Either they could go willingly or rebelliously. Either way, they had to go.
As soon as John King left, closing the kitchen door behind him, Lizzie put her hands behind her back and said staunchly, “I’m not going.”
“Lizzie!”
“I’m scared to paint other people’s houses. I’m afraid I’ll make streaks.”
Mam turned to look at Lizzie.
“Oh yes, Lizzie, you’re going,” she said. “The Kings will show you what to do.”
“Why must I go?” Lizzie wailed, flopping on a kitchen chair, her arms flung across the back in a gesture of rebellion.
Mam took a deep breath.
“Because. When you girls reach a certain age, you need to learn about working outside of our home. You need to earn some money and learn how to obey and do jobs you would ordinarily not experience at home. Besides, it won’t hurt you to give up your own will. That’s what a lot of your life consists of.” Mam paused, seating herself at the kitchen table, gathering Susan in a big hug on her lap. Not Mam’s favorite line again, thought Lizzie. It had been hard enough for Lizzie to learn to do her part at home.
“When I was your age, I was almost never at home,” Mam was saying. “Either I was cleaning houses or I was caring for elderly people. These are all good experiences for
young girls to have before they get married.”
“Good for you,” Lizzie muttered.
Mam chose to ignore that comment, and Mandy blinked her large green eyes in Lizzie’s direction. Lizzie caught her gaze, and Mandy blinked again. Lizzie knew she meant she had better watch it.
“I’m kind of excited to go. John’s wife, Hannah, always talks to me at church. She’s so full of fun, sometimes it seems as if she’s my age instead of being a mother with children,” Emma said, wiping the counter clean.
“Well, good! Then if you feel that way, we’ll just forget about me going. You can paint the kitchen, and I’ll stay here and do the work for Mam. Right?” Lizzie looked hopefully in Mam’s direction.
Mam shook her head. “You’ll go,” she said, and she was not smiling.
Chapter 14
SO THAT’S HOW LIZZIE found herself at the Kings’ new house at the bottom of the mountain, six miles away from her family’s farm. Because John had come to get her in his horse and buggy, the drive there was long enough to give her a good chance to think about painting for a very long time.
Emma and Hannah had already spread newspapers on the floor. They had set up a stepladder in the middle of the kitchen and had gallons of paint and fresh new rollers and brushes scattered across the plastic-covered kitchen table.
Hannah greeted Lizzie warmly and explained that she needed to help John in the fields that forenoon so the girls would start painting the kitchen on their own. After Hannah left, Lizzie went upstairs to change into her old dress and tie a bandanna around her head. She clattered back downstairs to find Emma covering the stovetop with an old sheet and then carefully moving everything away that could accidentally be spattered with paint.
“Where’s the paint?” Lizzie demanded.
“Lizzie, this isn’t our house. You need to be careful,” Emma said.
“I know what I’m doing,” Lizzie said.
Lizzie picked up a paint can and set it on the table without bothering to put any newspaper underneath it. She pried off the top and started stirring the light green paint so vigorously it sloshed over the side of the can.
“Watch it!” Emma yelled.
She dashed over to grab the wooden paddle from Lizzie’s hand.
“What?” Lizzie asked.
“The paint! It’s spilling down over the side. I mean it, Lizzie, if you don’t slow down and listen to me, I’m not going to help.”
“Good, then I’ll do it!”
Emma gasped as Lizzie tilted the bucket of paint into the roller pan.
“Not so much! Not so fast!” Emma wailed.
“Oh, calm down,” Lizzie said.
Emma sighed. She picked up a tray and brush and put them carefully on a sheet of newspaper that covered the floor. Lizzie slid her roller deeply into her own tray before heading straight for the wall in front of her, a trail of sticky paint dripping behind her.
The kitchen walls and ceiling were old plaster with deep cracks, some broken spots, and peeling paint. Covering them well would be hard work, she knew. She smacked on the paint as if her life depended on it, furiously rolling straight up and down in long, uneven rows.
Emma grabbed an old rag and wiped up the paint Lizzie had dripped on the floor.
“Lizzie, see what you did? Don’t fill your roller quite as full next time,” she said.
“Okay,” Lizzie said cheerfully, continuing her mad rolling.
The two girls worked side by side, covering the walls with new paint.
“How do we do the ceiling?” Emma asked.
“That’s easy—with a broom handle stuck in here,” Lizzie said airily, pointing to the end of her roller.
Lizzie used the rollers as if she was brandishing a serious weapon and the ugly old plaster was a great enemy she needed to conquer. She dashed back and forth from her paint tray to the wall, spattering paint on the floor, on the table, on anything that was not sufficiently covered. Emma tried in vain to keep all the paint spills under control. She continued to clean up drops of paint while brush-painting the trim.
“I love this color!” Lizzie said.
“It is a nice shade,” Emma agreed.
The forenoon passed quickly with Emma chattering happily, going from one subject to another. Lizzie could tell that Emma enjoyed painting. Lizzie hoped that someday soon she would be as confident as Emma was in new situations. It hadn’t always been that way. Lizzie remembered when Emma would get scared and would even admit it—like when they were eight and nine and going sledding with the big kids at school.
“Lizzie, don’t tell anyone, okay? But …” Emma had lowered her voice, “I am so terribly afraid of going sledding that I … well, Lizzie, don’t tell anyone—promise?”
“I promise,” Lizzie answered solemnly.
“Cross your heart?” Emma asked worriedly.
“Cross my heart.”
“Okay. I was so scared at lunch that when I tried to eat my bologna sandwich, I almost threw up. Really, I had to take a drink and put my sandwich away.”
Emma stopped and looked squarely at Lizzie. “And Lizzie, I don’t want to go sledding. Don’t tell anyone, but I’d almost rather sit at my desk and do my lessons.”
Lizzie’s eyes squinted as she looked out over the sparkling white hill. She watched as the boys tried to push each other off their sleds while they were flying down at quite an alarming rate. Then she turned to look at Emma, who looked back quite solemnly at Lizzie.
“Emma, that doesn’t matter one bit,” Lizzie had said staunchly. “I will not tell one single person ever that sled-riding scares you if you don’t tell one single person that I put five whoopie pies in my lunch this morning.”
“Five?” Emma was horrified. “Why five?”
Lizzie looked carefully over her shoulder and whispered to Emma, “Because. And I’m not even giving one to the teacher!”
Emma had laughed, throwing back her head, and Lizzie had smiled, glad that her sister was feeling better. And now here they were together today, but with Emma stepping out ahead.
The Kings’ house was new, built only a few months earlier. It offered a lovely view of the mountain, which really was only a big hill, but quite a beautiful one, nevertheless. Lizzie thought she could have stood at the kitchen window for a very long time and watched the trees swaying like natural dancers with the mountain providing the stage.
John King’s brother, Elam, lived on the same farm, with only the large white barn separating the two houses. His wife, Priscilla, was a small, dark-haired woman, and she was good friends with Hannah.
Lizzie wondered if she and Emma might marry brothers and live together on the same farm. That would be all right as long as Emma and her husband did the milking. They might share a farm, but her husband would most definitely not be a farmer. Even to imagine a whole cow stable full of huge black and white Holsteins was so depressing, she could not think about it too long. Smelly creatures!
Mam always told the girls they must learn to pray for God’s will for their lives. Lizzie didn’t know if it was alright to ask him to please not make her milk cows, though. There were lots of other ways to make a living that were just fine. Would Joe and John ask her and Emma for dates? She doubted it, but then, you never knew.
“I’m hungry!” Lizzie said.
“It’s not even 11 o’clock!” Emma said.
Lizzie glanced out the window and across the front yard toward the team of horses and the wagon moving slowly across the hay field. Hannah was driving the horses while John stood on the back of the wagon, stacking bales of hay.
“Oh, that almost scares me, Emma. I cannot imagine Dat plowing a field with those huge, fearsome-looking workhorses. They’re five times as big as Bess and Billy.”
“Not that big!” Emma laughed.
But Lizzie found the idea of Dat working as a serious farmer both exciting and scary. How could he handle those large, heavy horses? He was not a big man. It was all too much to think about, Lizzie realized. The only
way she could have any peace was to think Dat and Mam must know what they were doing. Everything would turn out alright, especially with Doddy Glick helping Dat to get started.
Lizzie kept rolling paint onto the ceiling. She grimaced as she put one hand up to rub the back of her neck. The ceiling was a lot bigger than it looked. Her arms ached and her lower back hurt, but she wasn’t going to complain.
She thought about what kind of horses Dat would buy and if she would ever be allowed to drive them. If Hannah could, then so could she, Lizzie thought. That would be much more of a challenge than anything she had ever experienced before in her whole life.
She was thinking about driving the new workhorses and walking backwards as she painted the ceiling.
THUMP!
Lizzie’s foot hit the edge of the roller pan. Warm, sticky paint flowed over her foot, across the newspaper, and onto the tile floor. She dropped her roller and held up her foot. Paint dripped steadily onto the floor.
“Oh, my word!”
“Don’t move!” Emma shouted, as she dashed to the back porch for rags.
“I didn’t do it on purpose. Maybe you should have offered to do some of the ceiling!” Lizzie wailed.
“Be quiet. Stop your yelling. You weren’t watching what you were doing,” Emma ground out between clenched teeth as she knelt on the floor and grabbed Lizzie’s foot. “Hold still.”
Emma muttered and grumbled to herself as she swabbed Lizzie’s foot viciously.
“Now go to the bathroom and stick that foot in the bathtub,” she instructed.
“Go to the bathroom?” Lizzie shrieked. “How?”
“Hop on one foot, of course,” Emma said.
So Lizzie hopped through the living room, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Emma followed her, trying to clean up any paint that fell on the floor.
“Stop your crying, Lizzie, you big baby,” she said. “Maybe if you’d grow up once and stop being so … so much in a hurry when you do something, things would go better for you. I didn’t say anything on purpose, so we could get along, and look what happened. Nobody can ever tell you one thing, Lizzie Glick, so you’re only getting what you deserve.”