by Leslie Gould
I let him squeeze it and then said, “It’s not your fault. It’s not even entirely Pete’s fault. . . .” He couldn’t help it if he didn’t love me. And he’d been set up, truly. I should have expected him to resent me. It was only natural. I sighed, pulled my hand away, and stood. “What would a girl have to do to borrow a horse and buggy around here?”
Esther popped back into the kitchen. “Keep up with her chores.”
Horrified, I realized she’d been eavesdropping.
“Tomorrow’s laundry day. That doesn’t leave much time for anything else. And on Tuesday you need to bake—without burning everything.” She didn’t even stop to catch her breath. “Wednesday is cleaning, and Thursday you need to weed the garden.”
“Is that all?” I didn’t care that my tone was sarcastic.
It was as if she hadn’t heard me. “So you might want to rest up today.”
I decided to do just that—not because I was tired but because I needed to escape. After Esther retreated to her quilting room, I asked Walter if there was anything to read in the house, maybe a copy of the Martyr’s Mirror, the book that recounted centuries of persecution against the Anabaptists, or a prayer book tucked away somewhere. I followed him into the living room, where he opened up the ottoman. Inside there was a hymnal and a couple of other books. He handed me a devotional and a worn King James Bible.
“Denki,” I said, clutching them to my bosom.
“The Lord provides, jah?”
I nodded.
Walter smiled and patted my shoulder. “Both were my mother’s. Take good care of them.”
In the week before the wedding, I’d finished the biographies of Andrew and Eliza Johnson. If I were back home, I’d have been reading about Ulysses S. Grant and his wife, Julia. Perhaps, once I found a way to get to the library, I could start back up.
After I finished the dishes, I headed upstairs. Before I collapsed on the bed, I stood at the window, taking in what I could see of the farm, clutching the books. Beyond the pasture in the far field, a man sat on the top rail of a fence. A woman approached on the other side. She looked young but was partially blocked by the wild roses growing along the fence line.
I stepped closer to the window. I was pretty sure it was Pete. Maybe the woman was a girl Pete used to court. Perhaps her parents didn’t want her to marry him because he was penniless. Perhaps that was why he left with a broken heart.
I stood, afraid to move. He jumped down from the fence. They spoke for a moment, and then he took off, following the fence line the opposite direction, toward a freshly plowed field. She stood and watched him go, not leaving until he disappeared into a grove of willows along the creek.
Somehow I managed to conquer Esther’s wringer washing machine and get the wash on the line on Monday. Although my work dress was dirtier than it had ever been in Pennsylvania, Pete’s clothes were the worst. I scrubbed and scrubbed, and still couldn’t get them clean.
The more I observed Esther and Walter, the more I wondered at the life I had ahead of me. They didn’t spend any time together, and there were no signs of affection between them. I thought of my Mamm and Dat and how playful they’d been with each other, and how Dat used to steal kisses when she was working in the kitchen. I was sure, had my Mamm lived, that my parents’ love would have grown with the years, not soured, as Pete’s parents’ affection seemed to have. Although, it was probably more Esther than Walter. He was at least respectful of his wife. Their dynamics made me miss home all the more.
That night, in our pitch-dark room, I asked Pete about Esther and Walter’s relationship.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Pete said.
“They don’t seem very happy. I read one time—”
“Look.” It sounded as if he turned his head toward me. “Don’t go analyzing my parents’ marriage.” His voice grew softer. “And remember, no one knows what goes on between two people when they’re alone.”
I winced. That was certainly true in our case. I bit my tongue from saying that was just it—his parents never spent any time alone.
By Tuesday, after I’d completely incinerated one batch of bread and then managed to burn the bottom of the second, I felt sick, both from straight-out loneliness and from the feeling stuck in my chest that was worse than anything I’d ever felt.
Walter scrounged up a pen, paper, and envelope for me, and finally a stamp. After I’d finished the evening dishes, I sat down and wrote a letter. I didn’t tell Dat and Betsy how miserable I was, both in my marriage and in my in-laws’ house. I did tell them, as nicely as I could, how primitive things were and how much I missed home. I asked specifically how each of them was doing, wishing Betsy would write me privately, hoping perhaps there would be an invitation to her wedding that would pull me home soon. That would be the perfect excuse for me to go, even if Pete wasn’t willing to.
When I was done, I addressed it carefully, slipped the pen into my pocket, and started down the lane to the mailbox out on the highway. As I walked, I saw Pete running the team of workhorses quite a ways to the left.
The lane was much more inviting in the daylight. If only I didn’t feel so heavyhearted. I looked for a telephone shed as I walked. Walter had assured me they didn’t have one, but I knew Esther had talked to Nan on the phone, so I figured someone nearby had one.
It took me five minutes to reach the end of the lane. Much less time, I was sure, than it had taken us to walk up it when we arrived. I found the Treger mailbox out of a half dozen in a row and slipped the letter inside, raising the red flag. Then I scanned up and down the road. About two hundred yards away and across the road was a house. It was even smaller than Pete’s parents’ home and probably just as old.
The front door opened and a woman stepped outside, her apron loosely tied. I held my hand to my brow, trying to block the lowering sun, squinting to try to see her more clearly. She had something in her hand—a broom. She stopped on the first step and began to sweep, her back toward me. By the time she reached the bottom, I was sure she was the woman who had talked to Pete in the field. Now she walked to the edge of the yard, behind a chest-high hedge, just a few feet from the highway. She was young, probably about my age. She wasn’t facing me but was turned toward me as she waved. And waved some more, her hand high above her head. I couldn’t see Pete but could clearly imagine what was going on; he must have been encouraging her with his response.
I turned. What had I gotten myself into? Had I married a man who loved someone else? Feeling sick, I swallowed hard and hurried back down the lane, tears stinging my eyes. I’d never felt so sorry for myself in my entire life.
Wednesday morning I tied a kerchief around my head. With all the weeding, gutting chickens, and mucking out the barn, my Kapps would all be ruined before I got back home if I kept wearing them to work in.
I’d been on the Treger farm for almost a week, and in that time no one had gone into town, and no one besides John had stopped by. But that afternoon Esther told me we needed to start preparing for the family reunion.
“When is it?” I asked.
“A week from Sunday.”
That made sense. It would be another Sunday off from church.
“I don’t know why they want to come here. They all have bigger homes than we do—except for John. But every year they want to come home.” She sighed. “Anyway, at least I have you to help me this year.”
“Don’t they all help?”
She stared at me as if she didn’t understand.
“You know. Bring food. Help set up and clean up.”
“Oh, sure,” she said. “They’re gut about that.”
“What do we need to do?” I asked.
“Clean the house. Tidy up the yard. Make pies. And potato salad. They have their favorites that they expect.”
I didn’t know what it was like to still have a Mamm as an adult, but I could imagine wanting favorite dishes one had grown up with. I didn’t bother telling her to make me a list. I knew she wou
ldn’t. She would just tell me what to do.
I asked Walter a couple of times if he was going into Randolph anytime soon. He said he’d let me know ahead of time when he planned to go. “’Course it could be six months or so. If I’m still kickin’.” He grinned.
“Stop teasing,” I said.
“What’s wrong with the books I gave you?”
“Nothing.” I’d read all my favorite Bible stories and had gone through the devotional three times. “But I’ll have whole passages memorized soon.”
“Sounds like a good idea.” His eyes danced the way Pete’s had when I’d first met him.
It seemed what was consumed the most in the Treger household was fabric for Esther’s quilting. The thin one on the bed I slept in was completely made of scraps, though. As was the Amish way, when quilting for ourselves.
That evening before supper as we all bowed our heads, I was dumbfounded over what to pray but was convicted that the time had come—I must. I’d always taken prayer seriously—until Seth broke my heart.
Now I realized how much I’d strayed from God in the last two years, and even more so in the last month. I’d gotten myself into this mess by acting willfully and independently, by acting exactly the way God didn’t want me to.
All I could manage now was a silent but very sincere, Help! as Walter said, “Amen.”
That night I read the story of Jonah again. He had been in exile, along with Moses, Joseph, and so many others. I couldn’t help but identify. I flipped around, looking for another story I wanted to read that night. Finally, I decided on Esther. It had been years since I’d read the story. As I finished, I realized I identified with her too. I felt her vulnerability. Her need to be patient and bide her time. Her need to be pleasant and submit to others. In earlier readings I’d thought of her as manipulative, but now I saw she was doing what she needed to do to survive, to save her people.
I no longer had any people to save—I’d already tried that. I attempted to be cordial with Pete’s mother, as best I could, but I wasn’t exactly pleasant. And although I kept cooking, was I really doing my best? Then again, I had to remember who I was dealing with. Surly Pete and his sour mother. I closed the Bible. My mother-in-law was opposite, in every way, of Esther in the Bible.
I kept going with that logic. I’d never wanted to be like Esther in the Bible, which now made me realize I might end up a whole lot like Esther in my all-too-real life. I grimaced. I’d read somewhere that men often subconsciously chose to marry someone a lot like their mothers. I grimaced again. Was that why Pete, along with the motivation of the bribe from M&M, had been attracted to me in the first place?
I had a quick glimpse of the future me—and it wasn’t pretty.
I opened the Bible again, deciding to read the story of Esther a second time. When I finished it, I breathed a prayer, asking God for wisdom. Esther’s husband loved her for her beauty, not for who she was. But God absolutely loved her for who she was. And he used her, used who she was, because she was willing to let him. Her willingness was cloaked in wisdom.
My husband didn’t love me for who I was either—but God did, regardless of the situation I’d gotten myself into.
I flipped to Proverbs, deciding to find the verse Nan had quoted about the unloved woman. I skimmed through quickly, not finding anything similar until all the way in chapter thirty. “For three things the earth is disquieted . . .” I read. Nan had said, “ . . . the earth cannot bear . . .” but that was a more recent translation, and this was the King James. I skimmed down to verse twenty-three. “ . . . an odious woman when she is married.”
Odious! Was the woman unloved because she was odious? It was such an . . . odious word. It sounded like how the manure from the dairy farm smelled. Repulsive.
Oh, Lord, I prayed, I don’t want to be odious. . . .
Please help me to be wise, like Esther. You know . . . the one in the Bible—
My prayer was short. Pete entered the room wearing his long underwear.
I’d been wanting to ask him about the other woman for days. I cleared my throat. He ignored me. I cleared my throat again.
He looked up briefly as he unfurled his sleeping bag.
“So what’s her name?”
“Whose name?”
“The woman across the street. The one you were waving to in the field.”
“She’s no one.” He blushed.
My heart turned inside out. “She didn’t look like ‘no one.’ She looked like someone who matters to you—a lot.”
He stepped toward the bed, standing closer to me than he had in days, but didn’t answer.
“Maybe that’s why . . .” I stopped, realizing I wasn’t sure how to go on. I felt out of sorts with Pete so close.
The smell of smoke and kerosene mingled with the strong odor of lye soap and the manly scent of my husband. Pete’s hand fluttered, and for a second I thought he was reaching out to me, but then he turned toward the lamp and turned it off, the flame sputtering as it died out.
He stayed put a moment in the dark but then stepped away.
My heart palpitated as Pete wiggled into his sleeping bag.
Why couldn’t he have reassured me that the woman didn’t mean anything to him? Sure we’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, but that didn’t mean he had a right to pine away for someone besides me.
I turned toward the wall. Why couldn’t he love me the way I had started to love him—before I knew the truth?
I stifled a sob.
Because he didn’t love me. Because he’d never loved me. Because he would never love me.
His breathing slowed. Pete would have reached out to me tonight if there was any hope.
I knew I couldn’t survive this, not on my own. Lord, I begged, I really need your help. I really need your love.
CHAPTER
19
The next day, as I weeded the garden and prayed again that the Lord would help me, an Englisch woman pulled into the driveway. I stood straight and greeted her warmly, surprised at how happy I, the introvert, was to see a strange face.
She asked for Esther. I started toward the house, but before I reached the back door my mother-in-law appeared. She ignored me as she tottered down the steps, even though I was just a few feet from her. I headed back toward the garden.
“Come back in six weeks or so,” she told the woman.
“You said you’d be done by today.” Disappointment filled the woman’s voice.
“I said I hoped to have it done by today. I’ve been delayed,” Esther said.
I’d reached the garden, stepping carefully to the row of beans I’d been weeding. I couldn’t hear any more of their conversation, but a few minutes later the screen on the mud porch slammed, and the Englisch woman walked toward me.
“Excuse me,” she said.
I looked up, my hand on my lower back as I straightened.
“Can I ask you a couple of questions?”
I nodded.
“Has Esther been too busy to quilt?”
“I don’t think so,” I said.
“I was going to give it to my daughter, for her wedding . . .”
“When is that?” I asked.
“Two months.”
“She’ll have it done.” I hoped I was right.
The woman frowned. “She’s the best quilter around. But I wonder if she’s getting a little old. . . .” The woman shook her head, as if stopping herself. “You must be her new daughter-in-law.”
I nodded.
“It’s so odd. She told me once you moved in, she’d have more time to quilt.”
I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know anything about her work.” I still hadn’t been inside her quilting room.
“You’re from Lancaster, right?”
“Jah.”
For the next ten minutes the woman told me about her trip to “Amish Country” a few years ago, describing the different quilt shops she’d visited. I was familiar with many of them. Finally, as much as
I enjoyed listening to her, I said I needed to get back to work. I had to finish weeding before it was time to start dinner.
She sighed. “Well, I’ll be back.”
I didn’t say I’d see her then. I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t.
I made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, making sure there was plenty for seconds and even thirds. For the first time since I’d been cooking for the family, I didn’t burn, scorch, or damage a thing. Of course, no one commented on my accomplishment, but Esther didn’t scowl at me either. I was thankful for small blessings.
The days went by, pretty much the same, the only difference being the chores I did. On Friday a letter arrived from Dat and Betsy, but I found it disappointing. They were happy I was doing well. Betsy said absolutely nothing about how she felt and didn’t write a thing about getting married.
On Sunday I went to church with Pete and his parents. It was the first time I’d been in a buggy since I’d arrived. Esther and I rode in the back, while Pete and Walter, who did the driving, rode up front. We plodded along. The horse was one of the workhorses, so I couldn’t expect anything more.
I sat by Esther during the service and the meal, and I searched the crowd for a young woman who looked like the one who lived across the highway but didn’t see anyone who fit my picture of her.
One of the women sitting at our table asked how I liked living at the Treger farm. I said I liked it fine. What else could I say? Another asked how life there compared to Lancaster. I said there were several things that were the same and several that were different but didn’t elaborate. Still the two women exchanged glances. A third asked how I met Pete. I said I met him at the bookmobile.
That made Esther laugh. “He didn’t tell me that. He said he worked for your Dat.”
“That too,” I said.
“Well, there’s no one who likes books more than Pete,” the third woman said.
Esther made a guttural sound but didn’t say anything.
As soon as we were done eating, Esther was ready to go, but Walter was in the middle of a conversation and it seemed she was having a hard time pulling him away. I went outside ahead of them and found Pete waiting in the buggy. Several of the men standing around outside watched me as I walked by, but none of them said anything.