by Gayle Roper
“I’m going to Silver Spring tomorrow to collect some more clothes,” I told Rainbow. “Will you be all right here alone?”
She didn’t deign to answer.
I thought of pictures and plants and personal things I’d bring back with me to make these rooms my own. I wondered if the Zooks would mind if I hung some curtains. I’d noticed they didn’t have any in their living room. Maybe they thought curtains were too worldly or something, a decoration that defied their definition of simplicity.
“Would they mind?” I asked Jake when I found him out by his van in the drive. “I’ll use spring tension rods so I won’t make holes in the frames.”
“What you do to your rooms is up to you,” he hastened to tell me. “They understand that my tenants will be English, and that means things like curtains and TV.”
“I’m not English,” I said, though come to think of it, how did I know what nationality I was?
“You’re English in that you’re not Pennsylvania Dutch,” Jake explained. “It’s a colloquialism. German or English. Plain or Fancy.”
“Ah. Interesting.”
Jake said, “You’ll learn a lot more unusual stuff—at least it’ll seem unusual to you—before you’re finished. I’m going to go get a hoagie for dinner. Want me to pick up one for you?”
“Sure.” I said. I wasn’t all that hungry yet, but I knew I would be before the evening was over.
“Oil or mayonnaise?” he asked.
“What?”
“Oil or mayonnaise on your hoagie?”
“You can’t put mayonnaise on a hoagie,” I said, scandalized at the very idea.
Jake shrugged. “I do.”
“Then it’s not a hoagie. It’s a sandwich on a long roll.”
“You sound like Todd. He’s an oil man too.”
Forty-five minutes later Jake and I sat at his mother’s kitchen table and ate our hoagies. Jake was a dark man with heavy shoulders and a strong upper body. He had a powered wheelchair that he handled with great ease. He also had anger leaking from him like air from a latex balloon in spite of his efforts to keep it hidden.
“I met Kristie this morning,” I said. “She told me how much she loved it here.”
“Yes, she did,” Jake said. “She did a great watercolor of our barn.” He pointed through the window.
I looked at the swaybacked building. “That’s one of the pictures Todd has hanging in his office. That means the other one, the one of the quilt with a faceless Amish doll resting against it, is your mother’s.”
“Mom was so pleased when he bought one of her pictures, and when he showed it to her framed and ready to hang, she actually cried.”
I glanced at the walls around me, all empty of any hangings except a calendar with colorful nature pictures and Bible verses and an advertisement for Morton’s Funeral Home. What was it like for Mary to have this talent, this drive, this need to paint born in her and yet live in a culture that told her it was wrong? I tried to imagine what it would be like if I were told I couldn’t write.
“Old Todd’s come a long way,” Jake said. “He used to think Kristie’s painting was foolish, but he came around when he saw how much Clarke encouraged her and how well she was starting to sell. What he used to see as foolish, he now seems to admire.”
“I wonder what he thinks of writing romances.”
“Is that what you do?” He looked at me as if he couldn’t believe he was having an intelligent conversation with someone who did something so foolish.
I nodded. “It’s great fun. I love it.”
“Have you been published?”
Since the answer was yes, I loved answering that frequently asked question. “Nine books so far.”
“And you can make a living at it?”
“I’ve been blessed and I can. Most people can’t.”
“Huh,” he said. He looked at me like he couldn’t quite believe writing romances was an honorable way to earn a living. He wasn’t alone.
“Romances are about people and relationships, love and marriage and family,” I said, wanting to convince him how wonderful they could be when they weren’t obsessed with the physical side of love. “They’re also very big business, and inspirational romances have a strong market niche of their own. Lots of women enjoy reading them, and you can say some pretty important things in fiction.”
He still didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t pick a fight either. Instead he asked, “Why did you decide to move to Bird-in-Hand?”
“I’m looking for my grandfather’s family.” I picked up the sweet peppers that had fallen out of my hoagie and slid them back into the roll. “He was given up for adoption a long time ago, and I want to find out where he—and the rest of us—came from.”
Jake nodded as he wiped a glob of mayonnaise from the corner of his mouth. I refrained from telling him that if he used oil like he was supposed to, he wouldn’t have to worry about neatness. Unless, of course, there was too much oil and the hoagie dripped all over everything like mine was doing.
“I see adopted people on TV who are looking for their parents,” he said. “They all sound like such unhappy folks, like there’s a big hole or something in their lives. Is that how you feel?”
“No. At least I don’t think I do,” I said. “If I were adopted, maybe I’d feel that. I don’t know. I’m just curious to know where Pop came from. If he wasn’t a Bentley, then who was he? Who are we? Do I have family out there? Pop was an only child and so was Trey, so extended family would be nice.”
“Trey?”
“My father. And Caroline’s family, that’s my mother, they live so far away, they might as well not exist. I used to feel that when Caroline died, something in them died. They lost interest in Ward and me. Maybe seeing us was too painful or something. I don’t know. I just know they were never there for us. Maybe I can find some people my brother and I can belong to.”
“So belonging is why you’re doing this?”
“Part of it. There’s also tracing blood ties and all that implies.”
“DNA, genetics, inherited traits?”
“That’s what makes family.”
Jake looked thoughtfully at his empty hoagie wrapper. He balled it and one-handed it into the trash basket beside the propane refrigerator. “I don’t know about that. Take my family. There are six of us kids. Three of us have chosen to remain Plain and three of us haven’t. Sarah’s the oldest and she’s Plain. Andy’s next and he’s not. He left over the issue of works versus grace, saying he believed in salvation by grace, not by keeping the Ordnung.”
“What’s the Ordnung?”
“The unwritten laws that govern Amish life.”
“If they’re unwritten, how does everyone know them?”
“We’re taught them our whole lives. But some, like Zeke and me, want no part of all those rules. There was nothing religious about our choice to leave the community. We chose not to remain Plain because we wanted freedom and fun and speed.”
He bounced his hand on the arm of his chair. “Not that speed did me any good.”
We were silent a minute as we contemplated what speed had done for him. Or to him. Then he continued.
“Elam and Ruth, the youngest two, have chosen to remain Amish. Now I ask you, why this diversity of opinion among us when we were all taught with the same intensity and commitment by our parents? Wouldn’t DNA and all that stuff tend to make us more similar rather than less, which it seems we are? How come Andy and Zeke and I got independent thinking, even rebellious genes, and Sarah, Ruth, and Elam got good little cooperative Amish ones?”
That was a very interesting question. “Genetics doesn’t make family members completely the same. Look at any family and you’ll see differences in siblings. It just guarantees that there are various similarities, some unimportant in the larger scheme of life like hair color or a taste for seafood, or some important trait like the need to excel or an ability in mechanical things or art.”
“Yeah, mayb
e, but that’s not the part that binds you together.” Jake frowned, intent on making his point. “At least I don’t think it is. What makes family is like Mom and Father taking me in and willingly dealing with all the fuss my care entails, especially since they don’t agree with the choices I made that eventually put me in this chair. That’s what makes family. It’s caring and loving.”
“So you don’t think genetics is important?” I gathered my garbage and took it to the trash can.
“Well, yeah, but—”
At this point we were interrupted by the arrival of a horse and buggy in the drive. We both looked out the window as a slim woman in a royal-blue dress and black apron climbed out. She wore her hair pulled straight back in a knot and her head was covered with a white kapp. She stopped and said something to the bearded man holding the reins. He laughed and drove to the barn.
“Mom and Father,” Jake said unnecessarily. “No Elam. He’s probably gone to a sing somewhere.”
So I met John and Mary, and they were every bit as welcoming and delightful as Kristie said they’d be.
Later that evening I was in my room happily arranging and rearranging my few belongings when I realized I didn’t know what time Mary served meals. Was breakfast at five to beat the cows or did they eat after milking and I could sleep in until seven? Or should I plan to get up whenever I wanted and pour my own cereal?
I started down the stairs when I heard a murmur of voices.
“Welcommen, Martha, Big Nate,” Mary’s gentle voice said.
Uh oh. Company. I’d ask about breakfast later. I turned to go back to my room when a strident voice echoed through the house.
“I must speak, John. Such disregard for right must be addressed.”
I made a face. Just what everyone liked—a guest who came to criticize.
I started back up the stairs when I realized that snarly person was now speaking about me. I sat on the top step to listen, mentally assuring Mom that if the subject matter pertained to me, it didn’t count as eavesdropping and bad manners. I swear I heard her snort.
“How could you take in another girl, John? It was bad enough you let the one that painted in. Her and her bright colors.” He sniffed in disapproval. “I was thankful when she left, but now you let in another?”
“Big Nate,” said a timid, tentative voice.
“Martha, I must speak. You know how I feel.”
I just bet she did. She probably heard his opinion 24/7.
“It’s all right, Martha,” Mary said, more gracious than I would have been.
“Big Nate, I do this for my son.” John’s voice was amazingly even considering the reaming the unknown Big Nate was giving him. “It’s how he—”
“Your son has gotten the punishment of God for his actions. Do not use him as an excuse for your own behavior or God’s hand might smite you.”
What? Was Big Nate, whoever he was, saying that Jake’s accident was punishment meted out by God? And that by letting Jake rent me the apartment, John might have something terrible happen to him? I couldn’t believe the man’s gall, and I guess John couldn’t either because there was a moment of silence below.
“Big Nate, we do not agree here,” John finally said. “It would be better if we did not speak of it.”
It was as if Big Nate didn’t hear John. “It is bad enough that you bring in phone and electricity for him. Do you now bring in women for him?”
My spine snapped straight. Wait one minute! That is my reputation he is impugning!
“Big Nate!” Mary sounded appalled. “You should be ashamed thinking we would allow something like that in our home.”
“Mary, be still. Let me.” John’s voice was gentle.
“Well, who is she?” Big Nate had the grace to sound a little less critical, but the edge was still there. It occurred to me that he was speaking in English instead of Pennsylvania Dutch, and Mary and John were automatically responding in kind. Why English? Did Big Nate hope I heard? Was that why he spoke so loudly?
I heard the front screen door open. “I thank you for your concern for us and our family,” John said. “We will see you again soon, I’m sure.”
“I am not through here,” Big Nate protested.
“Good night, Big Nate. Mary has had a long day and needs to get her rest. She’ll be putting up strawberries tomorrow, and you know how tiring that is.”
Probably not. I was sure the old Scrooge had never lifted a finger in the kitchen in his life. I could hear his angry footfalls as he stomped across the porch and down the steps.
“I’m sorry.” It was such a soft whisper, a mere breath of sound, that I barely heard it.
“Don’t be upset, Martha,” Mary said. “We understand that Big Nate speaks for himself, not you or the rest of the people.”
“I begged him not to come, but he said if your buggy was here, it was God’s will he confront you. Still, he knows you aren’t doing anything like…like—” She didn’t seem able to finish the thought.
Thank goodness one of them was sane.
“Shhh,” Mary soothed. “You’d better go. He’s waiting.”
The screen door opened and closed again, and there was silence until the noise of a buggy jingling and hooves clomping indicated Big Nate and Martha had pulled out of the drive.
“Oh, John!” Mary’s voice was unsteady.
“Shush, my Mary. We must not let a man like Big Nate upset us. I do not regret that we gave Jake our approval to use his empty second story.”
“I’m not worried about having another tenant here. I was thinking about something else. What if Big Nate finds out about my painting? He would love to make trouble for us, and Kristie and my painting would be his opportunity.”
“Are you going to tell him you paint and sell pictures?” John asked.
“Never!”
“And neither am I. So there is no way he will find out.”
“And I’m not telling him either,” came a third voice, Jake’s voice, vibrating with intensity. “I ask you, with men like that in the church, why would I ever want to return?”
“Jake.” Mary’s voice was steeped in sorrow and hurt.
“Don’t ask me to be nice about him, Mom. If he somehow learned about what you and Kristie are doing, he’d come down on you like a ton of bricks.”
“We will not talk of him,” John said. “He’s a man who has lost his son, and he cannot forgive us for having ours still.”
“He didn’t have to lose Davy.” Jake’s anger reached up the stairs and curled around me where I sat. “He sent him away!”
“Davy had to be shunned, Jake. You know that.” John was obviously going over material covered many times before.
“Just because he got pressured into joining the church.”
“He races cars!” Mary said, scandalized.
“And I bet it kills Big Nate that he’s successful at it. I saw him in a race on TV last weekend.”
“Big Nate doesn’t even know, Jake,” John said.
“Kristie wants me to be on TV,” Mary all but whispered as if saying the thought would earn her the reproach of her people, which it probably would. Certainly Big Nate.
“What do you mean?” Jake asked.
“She said something about a page that showed my work so more people would see than come to the store.”
“She wants you to have a Web page, Mom.” Jake laughed. “That would be so cool. You should do it.”
“But I have to get my picture taken. Kristie says.”
“Only if you want. You could put up pictures of your paintings without a photo of you. Come on over to my place, and I’ll show you some Web sites.”
There was another short silence. I guessed Mary and John were considering stepping over that Ordnung line, though probably the rules didn’t say you couldn’t have a Web page because no one ever thought it would be an issue.
“Do you think Kristie has one?” Mary asked.
“Come on. We’ll look.”
I stood
and went to my rooms. Later, as I lay in bed, I thought about Big Nate’s visit and about Mary and John’s precarious balance on the edge of obedience to their beliefs. How much could they give in the name of family and in the name of a God-given ability without breaking something?
Family was caring and loving, Jake said. Certainly they were part of family, no one would argue that. But I kept coming back to the psalms that talked about family. It was generation to generation. It was DNA and genes and bone and sinew. It just was.
And that was why I needed answers.
Chapter 6
When I woke up Monday morning, I lay in my sleigh bed and stretched contentedly. If change could bring such wondrous things as Amish farms and families and handsome lawyers into my life, I might have to reassess my lifelong aversion to it. I felt myself tense as I thought of actually becoming flexible, but when I remembered I didn’t need to achieve that goal today, my shoulders relaxed.
I pushed aside the crispy white sheets that smelled of sunshine from their drying on a clothesline and went into my new little bathroom. I decided that I’d bring some towels from home to add a little color to the utilitarian white, but it was a delight to be the first to shower in the new-smelling stall, the first to steam up the mirror, and the first to drape a damp towel over the rack.
I put on tan shorts and a white T-shirt and brown sandals. I braided my hair loosely so that it might actually dry before I went to bed this evening and tied off the braid with a rubber band. It flopped back to fall below my shoulder blades. Then I went to my laptop on my desk.
I sat down, intending to pull up my Bible program and have my devotions, writing my thoughts in my electronic journal. Instead I became mesmerized by the glorious June day outside my window. I slid the window open. Muzzy pale sky indicated heat and humidity were ahead, but the faint morning coolness made that threat seem toothless at the moment. I stared at the fields of tender corn stalks, golden winter wheat, and tomato shoots, and sniffed in greedily the rich scent of dew-moistened earth.