by Linda Byler
“I know that,” Lizzie spat out, thoroughly riled now.
“I’m sure you do.”
“Well, I do. I don’t care what you say.”
“Let’s not argue,” Mandy said agreeably, gazing unseeingly out the window.
“I’m not arguing, Mandy. I’m not selfish, either. Well, I know what you mean, though. It seems as if I get my own way in lots of things, and that I don’t appreciate it enough but just expect more. I’m sure that’s the way you see me from your perch on top of the Himalayan Mountains with the rest of the little grizzled men who dish out wisdom to us failures!”
Mandy laughed genuinely, then jumped up and tugged on Lizzie’s sleeve.
“Come on, let’s eat an early lunch. I’m starving. John isn’t home today. He’s helping his brother with hay and will eat there. So let’s make those huge sandwiches like we used to make on Saturday evenings before church.”
They went to the kitchen, finding Swiss cheese, leftover chicken, tomatoes, and mayonnaise, which they slathered thickly on two slices of soft, chewy, homemade bread. Heating the griddle, they slowly toasted them while Mandy poured peppermint tea into two tall glasses, adding ice cubes from the refrigerator.
Mandy told Lizzie that she was indeed very happy, and John was a sweet, kind, and loving husband. But like Mam told Emma before Baby Mark was born, having a baby is more than a woolly pink blanket, so it is with marriage. There were days, of course, when things went wrong, and your husband was not always the way you thought he should be. But when you averaged everything out, she would much rather be married, living right here on the farm, than anything else in all the world. Lizzie took a bite of her sandwich and chewed thoughtfully while she listened. Of course, Mandy was right, just as she almost always was about important matters.
When John came home that afternoon, Mandy begged Lizzie to stay and watch them milk. John agreed laughingly, knowing her dislike of cows and anything that went with them.
So Lizzie tagged along with Mandy while she tied her dichly, the little triangular bandana most Amish women wear to do chores or help with farm work. She watched as Mandy went to the milk house and started assembling milkers, looking around at the brand-new interior of the large building.
“Wow!” she breathed. “Classy farmers!”
“You think so?” Mandy asked, pleased at Lizzie’s compliment.
“Of course. Our old milk house wasn’t even half as nice as this one. Maybe I wouldn’t have minded milking so much if our facilities had been better.”
She watched as John let the cows in who walked as ungracefully as any other cows, new cow stable or not. Cows didn’t change, that was for sure. John worked with deliberate swiftness, if there was such a thing. He didn’t seem to move fast; in fact, he hardly moved, and yet, he did everything at once. Mandy went from cow to cow, washing udders, exclaiming over the amount of milk in the milker from one of their best cows. They worked together in complete unison, and Lizzie could tell that Mandy had a genuine interest in the cows’ well-being, which in turn made John feel proud to have such a good helper.
Well, Lizzie thought wryly, God sure doesn’t make mistakes, does he? As much as I wanted to marry John, I could never be Mandy and love to milk cows the way she does. She doesn’t have to pretend one tiny bit. She truly enjoys her work on the farm.
They talked and laughed while they worked, the milkers clicking away in their usual ka-chink, ka-chinking rhythm. It reminded Lizzie of her mornings with Dat, which she never once had felt even a twinge of nostalgia about now that the cows were all gone. Milking cows was just not something she enjoyed, and she probably never would.
John was awfully good-looking, though, in his straw hat and everyday work clothes, and his small dark beard. She told Mandy about her observation after chores were done, and Mandy laughed agreeably.
“Of course, Lizzie, he’s the most handsome man in Cameron County, you know.”
As Lizzie drove out the driveway to start her long trek home, she looked forward to the time alone, driving Bess. She needed to think. No use looking back, that was one thing sure. Life went rolling along like a gigantic wheel, and all human mortals had to go along, whether they wanted to or not. But did she really want to go back to when Mandy and Emma were still at home, before Joshua and John were part of the family? Probably not really.
She did so look forward to the time when she would live in her own house with Stephen, even if she was worried about marriage sometimes. If there were trials and troubles, everybody got through them. Well, Amish people did anyway. Some English people were divorced, but they were allowed to be, and Amish people weren’t. Although when Mam heard of some far-off people who were having marital problems, she would shake her head and say, “They should live apart for awhile.” Stephen was quiet, that was one thing, so Lizzie would probably do most of the talking, but that was all right. She did that now, and Stephen listened. He liked to hear her talk.
Oh, there were countless things to look forward to when she got married. Stephen would buy her a set of china, a water pitcher and tumbler set, and silverware in a nice wooden chest. Mam would go furniture-shopping with her. It was all just too good to be really true. Already, Mam was piecing two quilts for her, and one was a yellow and white Dahlia pattern that she would put on her guest bed. If she had one. She didn’t know how many bedrooms Stephen was planning on having in the house.
She missed her pupils, thinking back to the last day of school a month earlier. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to try and keep on teaching in spite of getting married or not. They had asked her to return in the fall, but she really hadn’t decided. The money she made would be nice, but maybe it would all prove to be too stressful with the new house underway and planning her wedding.
Mam was really the one who carried most of the stress when it came to having a wedding. Lizzie often wondered what kept her from popping like a balloon when you blow it up too far; that’s how nervous she became about the day before the risht-dawg. Oh, well, a lot of Emma and Mandy’s wedding-day tensions could have been avoided if they hadn’t cared so very much about things like the amount of guests they invited, the menu, or who did what.
It didn’t matter a whole lot to Lizzie, because a wedding was just a wedding, and then it was over. Who knew or remembered who was invited and who was not, or what they ate, for that matter. She slapped Bess and told her to hurry up. It was time to get home.
Chapter 7
STEPHEN SPREAD OUT THE sheet of paper with blue markings all over it. After he turned it the proper way, it resembled a rectangular pattern of sorts, the lines running every which way, outlining walls, doors, and windows.
“There. Hold that corner,” he said.
Lizzie held down the one side of the drawing to keep it from rolling up and peered eagerly at the sketch of their house.
“Here’s where the front steps go up to a small porch,” Stephen explained. “This door goes into the kitchen. You said you wanted the floor plan open—kitchen, dining room, and living room in one, or almost. What do you think?”
Lizzie drew down her eyebrows, concentrating intently on the small squares that were rooms.
“Do that porch and door face the road?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“Oh.”
Two bedrooms made up the back of the house; the bathroom sat on one side with the basement stairs across from it. An open stairway in the living room divided it from the back bedroom. The dining room and kitchen seemed like one room except for a small wall on each side that separated them, and the living room was off to the left, creating an L-shaped living area.
Lizzie loved the sensible house plan. For a small house, it was very open, the space flowing together in a way that allowed for the maximum amount of light and air on summer days.
“We don’t need two bedrooms, though,” Lizzie said doubtfully.
“I thought we’d use the one to put my desk and gun cabinet and all my hunting and fishing things in until we need
it,” Stephen said.
“How many bedrooms are upstairs?”
“Three small ones. It’s only a story and a half, you know. The dormers out the front allow for extra space for windows.”
“What color is our house going to be?” Lizzie asked eagerly.
“What color do you like?”
“Brown.”
“We’ll have brick halfway up to the windows, so we’ll need to decide what color we like. I like white bricks with brown mortar. I think that will look nice with that brown siding that resembles wood.”
Lizzie looked at Stephen. She was incredulous. White bricks! White! He couldn’t be serious. He liked white bricks. She knew in one swift moment that she shouldn’t say anything, but she so desperately disliked the idea of ruining her dreamed-about little brown house with white bricks, that she blurted out, “White? I hate white bricks.”
Stephen turned to look at her, his eyes narrowing. “You do?”
He was surprised at her outburst, Lizzie could tell. Well, he’s just going to have to be surprised, because I won’t have my dream house ruined by that strange idea.
Her own will overrode her common sense, even the things Mam had tried to teach her about being submissive. Like a gray storm cloud across the sun, the atmosphere between them became a bit chilled as Stephen cleared his throat.
“Yes, I do. They look like a prison or a doctor’s office,” she said emphatically, completely sure of herself now that Stephen was wavering.
Her heart sank as she saw Stephen turn to the drawing, his jaw setting as he worked the muscles along his face.
“Well, that’s too bad, Lizzie. I happen to like them. The light-colored bricks set against the dark brown mortar look neat.”
Lizzie’s mouth literally dropped open in disbelief. He was openly disagreeing, without considering her point of view at all! How could he do that? Wasn’t he supposed to love her enough so that her every whim would be his command?
She panicked. She didn’t want to have white bricks on the house, so she burst out, “Well, then I guess you’ll have to live in it alone, because I won’t live there if you use white bricks.”
“Lizzie!” Stephen said sharply.
She crossed her arms in front of her, leaning back against the chair. Stephen stared at her, and she glared back defiantly. Silence stretched between them like a taut rubber band, ready to snap in either direction.
Stephen sighed.
Lizzie breathed quietly, her heart hammering in her chest. She knew she was hurting his feelings, but she so hated the idea of white bricks that she didn’t care how he felt.
He rolled up the drawing, stood up, and said, “Well, I may as well go home then, if we’re going to disagree.”
“No! No! I don’t want you to go,” Lizzie said, gazing up at him with eyes that she hoped would melt his heart. Maybe if she whined and begged, even shed a few tears which were very close to the surface anyway, he would give in to her.
“I’d better go. It’s getting late. Your parents will think I shouldn’t be here anyway, the middle of the week like this.”
“Are … Aren’t you going to talk anymore about the … the bricks?” Lizzie implored him.
“There’s no use. Lizzie, I’m a builder, and I know what looks nice. You aren’t used to building houses, so how could you understand what I’m talking about?”
That was like throwing kerosene on an already smoldering fire. Lizzie completely lost all sense of right and wrong, of caring whether she hurt his feelings, of anything at all. She was so angry she leaped to her feet, her eyes flashing as she faced him squarely.
“Oh, you! You make me so angry. You don’t have to be a builder to know what looks nice and what doesn’t. Women have more taste than men, and they always know what looks pretty. Men don’t, and you don’t either.”
All he said was, “I think white bricks would look best,” and then walked out to the kitchen, through the door, and out to the barn, while Lizzie fumed and sputtered all by herself.
All right. Let him go. She was not going to go help him with his horse or say good-bye. Good for him if he had to go home like this. She watched, barely breathing, as he backed the horse and buggy out of the forebay and gathered up the reins. Switching on the headlights, he climbed in, and gravel spit against the wheels as he turned to drive out the lane at a fast pace.
He meant what he said! Surely he’d turn around and come back to her. He’d pity her and tell her brown bricks were the best choice just because she thought so, and that he loved her much more than the house, and that she was the light of his life and he would do anything in his power to make her happy. Then she would feel so adored and be so happy in her little brown house that would look exactly as she had always pictured it.
She stayed by the window, watching and peering anxiously into the darkness for a glimpse of the bluish white lights of his headlights as he returned to apologize to her. Crickets chirped steadily, and the night sounds remained exactly the same with no horse’s hooves clopping on the road. Sighing, she smoothed back her hair in agitation, chewing on her lower lip as a lump began forming in her throat. Her nostrils burned and quivered, and tears stung her eyes.
Turning, she marched up the steps to her room, determined not to give in to her absolute misery with a display of emotional tears. He was completely out of his rightful place. She had every right to choose the bricks for her house. She was the wife, or soon would be, and who would live in the house the most? She would. He would be away at work over half of the time anyway.
See, that’s how Dat was, she thought angrily. If he wanted to move somewhere, he just said he was moving, and it was up to Mam to go along. Men were all alike. Gros-feelich. Conceited. How could he think that just because he was a builder, he knew what looked good?
Lizzie fairly snorted as she buttoned her nightgown and turned down the covers of her bed. Climbing in, she pulled them up to her chin and stared wide-eyed at the ceiling.
Dear God, she tried to pray. Please make Stephen see his big mistake.
That didn’t work.
Her prayer seemed to bounce against the ceiling and come back down, landing like a great crushing weight on her chest, making her feel worse. She was so miserable that she didn’t feel like getting married at all, especially if he was going to be so stubborn about bricks.
She rolled over, punched her pillows, and squeezed her eyes shut. Then, like cold, hard little hailstones, she was accosted by doubts and fears. Her thoughts ran completely rampant, as she lay all alone in the dark with only her own will and anger to keep her company. It was not a peaceful or restful kind of company.
How much were you expected to give up after you were married? Bow before your husband, the king, and say in a quiet, hushed, humble tone, “Oh, of course, Your Majesty, white bricks are beautiful.” Stuff all your own wants and desires in a deep recess of your brain, like a garbage bag full of forbidden fruit, stuck away into the darkest corners of the attic?
And so her rebellion raged, fighting off any hope of ever falling asleep. What was best? Living in a house that didn’t even come close to what she had imagined and submitting to the will of her husband. Or, like a fiercely determined warrior, sword and shield drawn, hack her way through until he finally relented? Oh, she so wanted to have her little brown house encased in brown bricks with pretty shrubs growing around it, exactly as she had always pictured it.
Maybe her whole life would be easier if she never married but remained single and taught school until she was 70 years old. She could hold Emma’s and Mandy’s babies and eat all she wanted, because she would not have to worry one tiny bit about her figure if she had no boyfriend or husband. For one thing, she could do exactly as she pleased. If she ever saved enough money from teaching school, which was highly unlikely considering teachers’ wages, she would build her own house and use brown bricks. Just like the last little pig in the “Three Little Pigs” nursery rhyme, she thought grimly. The wolf could not get in.
Suddenly there was a soft knock on her bedroom door. No, it couldn’t be. Nobody knocked on bedroom doors in the Glick household, especially in the middle of the night.
Knock, knock.
Her heart leaped to her throat and cold shivers chased each other up and down her spine. Grabbing her woolly housecoat, she wrapped it tightly around her body, her arms crossed over the front protectively.
“Who is it?” she called weakly, her mouth as dry as if it were full of cotton.
There was no answer, then in the space of a few seconds, a quiet, “Me.”
Stephen!
Lizzie drew a sharp breath, and in one rush, she was at the door.
“Stephen!” she gasped, “you’re not supposed to be up here.”
“I know. Can we talk?”
Placing her hand firmly in his, she crept down the stairs, carrying the kerosene lamp from the bathroom. She set it carefully on the kitchen table and turned to face him with red, swollen, questioning eyes.
“What is it?”
In a gesture of helplessness, Stephen raised his hands beseechingly, then let them fall to his sides.
“I … I’m not real good at expressing my feelings,” he said in a quiet tone of voice, “but … well, I got home and just couldn’t unhitch my horse. I had no right to be so bullheaded. You know how much I love you, and I want to be able to do anything for you. But I’m self-willed, too, and if I want something, I think that’s how it has to be. I’m sorry. That wasn’t right.”