The Witnesses

by Linda Byler

  Back and forth Sarah went, her feet numb with the cold. Grimly, she bit down on her lower lip, determined to get every last one of these pumpkins out of the cold, muddy garden.

  A pickup truck drove up the driveway and stopped near the house. The passenger door opened, and a man got out. He stood watching Sarah as she staggered along with the heavy pumpkins in the garden.

  She dumped two of the awkward vegetables into the cart, then turned when she noticed someone approaching.

  “Lee!”

  A glad smile crossed her features, a light came into her eyes.

  “What are you doing in your bare feet?” he asked.

  “Can’t you see?”

  “In your bare feet?”

  “It was that or have my shoes sink to the ankles.”

  “Sarah, our wedding isn’t very far away. What if you got sick?”

  “Oh, I’d get over it in a week, hopefully.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes, smiled, and asked if she could accompany him to the outlet stores in Rockvale Square sometime this week. She blushed, unexplainably embarrassed.

  Yes, she could go, but her heart raced, thinking of the fine china, the tableware, the stemware—all the beautiful dishes he would be required to buy. Because of tradition or out of love, either way, he’d do it.

  “Perhaps I’d better stay here now, help with these pumpkins.”

  “No, no. We’ll get them done. You know you don’t have time.”

  “Not really. We’re starting on Anna’s addition today.”

  Again, Sarah’s heartbeat increased. Her mouth went dry. She smiled a wobbly smile, her cheeks heating up again.

  Lee looked down at his bride to be, the unruly curls springing from her white headscarf. She was wearing an old, torn sweatshirt, but her cheeks were rosy with health, the scars on the side of her face noticeable, but better. A mere discoloration, a constant reminder of God’s hand leading them together.

  He stepped forward.

  “I love you so much, Sarah.”

  Her eyelashes swept her cheeks, as her eyes fell shyly.

  “I love you, too,” she whispered.

  He reached out and tucked a stray curl behind her ear, straightened her headscarf, and said, “See you Wednesday night?”

  She nodded and let her eyes find his, the message between them a complete story of love, anticipation, and joy.

  The hard work of peeling pumpkins was definitely energized after seeing Lee. Sarah tackled the wearisome task with renewed vigor.

  Pumpkin pies for the wedding dinner. She knew better than to try to argue against Mam’s reasoning about pumpkin. All canned, store-bought pumpkin was inferior, even the best brand. The taste of home-canned neck pumpkin could not be replaced.

  Sarah knew Mam’s pies were a creamy testimony to her theory, so she gripped the knife handle and sliced through the heavy, unyielding skin of the pumpkin, her mind churning with possibilities.

  Why Rockvale Square? It was such a worldly, expensive place.

  She was afraid Lee could not afford fine china. She had heard that Steven Stoltzfus gave his girlfriend Lenox china and paid close to a thousand dollars for service for sixteen. Oh, my goodness.

  Well, Lee would never. He bought the farm and was building an addition. She’d be happy with serviceable stoneware or dishes from an Amish store. That price was bordering on sin. One thousand dollars.

  “Mam,” she blurted out.

  Mam was at the sink, cutting the pumpkin into sizable chunks, filling a giant twenty-quart pot. She was preparing to set it on the stove to cook the pumpkin to a mashing consistency.

  “What?”

  “Lee wants me to go to Rockvale Square with him. That means expensive china. What should I do?”

  Mam set the stainless steel pot on the stove with a clatter, turned, and asked Sarah what she meant.

  Sarah thought expensive china would be a sin. Not really a sin, but sort of wrong.

  Mam smiled a secretive, indulging smile, as if she meant to stay humble but couldn’t quite carry it off.

  “My oh, Sarah,” she said. “Well. I guess if he wants to buy expensive china, that’s his business. And, no, it’s not wrong. How much do you think our ancestors paid for their china from England? It wasn’t cheap. Not at all. I guess in the Amish heritage, dishes are cherished by the women. We don’t have other things, like diamond rings or bracelets, whatever it is English men give their friends, their girlfriends. So, no, if he wants to give you fine china, that’s his choice. Remember your great grandmother’s? That pink and white?”

  She pointed to the hutch cupboard, where the antique dishes resided with the more inexpensive set Dat had given her.

  Sarah nodded.

  Yes, she knew what Mam was saying. In each culture, there are cherished objects handed down from generation to generation, treasures of the past. Dishes were valued. They were taken carefully from cupboards made by Amish craftsmen to be used on special occasions and then washed and replaced with absolute care, these china dishes used by de alte (the old ones).

  Sarah was relieved. She didn’t need to worry about shopping with Lee. She and Mam then discussed the colors Sarah had chosen for her table, the corner table. The bride and groom would be seated on either side with the four attendants—two on each side—beside them.

  Sarah had chosen white. All white. Her dress was blue, her cape and apron were white organdy, so that would be very different, unique, a touch of class. Sarah smiled at the thought.

  She would need to wait, though, to plan the details until after she had the china.

  Her hands were getting tired, her fingers stiff, refusing to slice through the thinnest skin, so she laid down her knife and washed her hands at the sink. She had to use a scrubbing brush as the pumpkin left a sticky, wax-like film on her hands. Cucumbers did the same thing, only that was lime green and this was yellowish.

  She turned the burner on beneath the pot of coffee left out from breakfast and went to the pantry to look for a snack. Popcorn, oatmeal, noodles, flour, sugar, chocolate chips, baking cocoa, rice.

  She lifted the aluminum foil that was covering a pie and found half of a peach pie covered with fuzzy, green mold. She set it on the counter. She’d allow Mam the pleasure of discovering that one for herself.

  Sarah snapped open the lid of a Tupperware container and found a half dozen chocolate chip cookies. She squeezed one, and it broke into crumbs immediately. Hard as a rock. Taking the container, she set it on the counter beside the moldy peach pie.

  Returning to the pantry, her gaze skimmed across the shelves. Peanut butter, honey, olive oil, grape jelly, graham crackers, saltines. Suddenly, she wanted a bowl of puppy slop—that mushy, milky dish from her childhood.

  Taking the graham crackers, she broke five of them in half, placed them in a cereal bowl, and added milk. With a spoon, she broke the crackers into smaller pieces, soaking them well in the cold, creamy milk.

  Mam smiled at her, watching her enjoy the dish.

  “Nothing like puppy slop,” Sarah grinned through a mouthful.

  “I have a big notion to have some, too,” Mam remarked.

  “Who gave it that disgusting name?”

  “If I remember correctly, it was Abner that started it. He was five or six years old.”

  Sarah nodded.

  “You think that will turn into a tradition, too? Will my children also call it puppy slop?”

  Mam nodded happily, her mouth closing over a large spoonful.

  On Wednesday evening, Sarah dressed carefully, pinning her black belt apron with precision, settling it comfortably around her waist. The green of her dress matched her eyes perfectly, the black sweater around her shoulders carrying the black of her apron.

  At Rockvale Square, Lee asked the driver to park close to the Lenox place. Sarah felt the color leaving her face. When he opened the door for her, she cast him a wild-eyed look, which he answered with a wink.

  Two hours later, she was the stunned
recipient of a large set of the most beautiful china dishes she had ever imagined.

  It was white all over, except for a slightly off-white spray of wheat, or a fern, she wasn’t sure, splayed along the right side. It was as if an artist had drawn it there, impulsively, as an afterthought.

  She murmured about the price, which she wasn’t sure about, and Lee would not reveal.

  The knives, forks, and spoons to match it were so beautiful, she had to catch her breath. They chose a pitcher, clear crystal, and a dozen water glasses, a set of stemware, two white tablecloths, and cloth napkins.

  Such a dizzying variety, but Sarah knew her mind, completely stealing Lee’s admiration yet again for the quick decisions she made. She obviously knew what her tastes were and never wavered, once she saw what she wanted.

  The evening flew by like a dream, albeit a real one that never faded away. At home, the dishes were taken from the box, admired, and fussed over. Then they were put away to be taken out the day before the wedding, when the eck-leit (corner people), the couples whose job it was to serve the bride and groom, would wash and prepare all the dishes needed for that special day.

  Steadily, through the remainder of October and into November, the work continued. And on the weekends, Mam and Dat attended different communion services in neighboring districts.

  The silos had been filled, and long, round snakes of white plastic covered the excess silage layered behind the barn. Fourth-cutting alfalfa was already in the haymow. The garden was cultivated, and a good cover crop sowed for the winter.

  The cabbage remained undisturbed like squat, round little sentries, standing guard all alone after the celery was cultivated into the ground, including the newspapers that had been used to “bleach” it. Mam said she was glad to see the celery cultivated under, her failure now well hidden.

  Melvin and Lydia came one Saturday to help paint the shop. Melvin had a fit that they were using rollers and not a sprayer.

  If anything, marriage had only increased his chattiness. The expounding of his viewpoints reached new heights, the smiling Lydia swelling his already well-developed self-worth.

  He eyed the good quality rollers, the metal pans, and gallons of white paint with a certain condescending weariness, resignation setting in as Lydia said rollers were fine. They didn’t need to do the ceiling, she added, and this would be fun, working together with Lee and Sarah, the soon-to-be newlyweds.

  She pronounced newlyweds as two separate words, putting grins of pure happiness on Sarah and Lee’s faces. Melvin’s face softened to a state of high emotion, his bushy eyebrows went straight up, and his nose became red as he began to speak in a most holy manner.

  “You just have no idea what God has for you. I never thought I would be so happy on this earth. I mean, I was happy before, or I thought I was, but I wasn’t. I lived for myself. Now I live for Lydia and the children.”

  On and on, Melvin spoke of his exalted position as stepfather, reveling in the assumption that he was counted as one of the best that ever held this position of such honor.

  Lee opened the paint, stirred it with the wooden stirrer, dumped it into the metal pan, and began to spread it on the drywall. His grin was lopsided, listening to Melvin.

  Sarah couldn’t hold it against her cousin. He was so obviously just being Melvin, genuine and sincere in his own belief in his abilities. She knew he wasn’t blatantly blowing his own horn. He was just telling Lee and Sarah something he thought they needed to know. That was how harmless he was.

  Lydia had acquired a bit of spirit as well. She chattered like a busy magpie, her roller moving steadily across the vast shop walls as she talked.

  She had to make new trousers for Melvin. He had already gained ten or eleven pounds, and he said it was her cooking.

  She made the best fried chicken and meat loaf he had ever tasted. And her chocolate cake with peanut butter icing was unbelievable. Who would eat salad and apples if she cooked like that? Lydia beamed and dimpled, smiled and talked, until Sarah was completely in awe.

  What a transformation! Remembering the sad, thin, cowering Lydia of old, Sarah felt the quick sting of tears in her eyes.

  She could still see her the night the original barn had burned. That night she stood there, too thin, her face immovable, showing no emotion. Her feelings were hidden away, where they festered, damaging the thin hold on the emotional health she had left.

  Her faith had been trampled as her first husband’s harsh words had torn at her. She truly believed she had been what he chose to call her. Miserable, hate-filled man that he was. But he was gone, and he had had a chance to repent. The judgment of his soul was God’s duty and none of theirs, the way they had been taught.

  So there was a positive thing. Good had come out of evil. Sarah became Lydia’s friend, introduced Melvin, and here they were.

  It was an intricate design, this web of life. The good came with the evil. It just had to be sifted through, and the priceless lessons kept, while the rest was discarded.

  “Where’s your dat?” Melvin asked suddenly.

  “He went to a farm auction.”

  “He just wanted to get out of painting these shop walls.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “No. I was teasing. He’s a good uncle. Good guy.”

  Again, Melvin went off on an emotional bluster, exalting the many merits of Davey Beiler. He lectured on forgiveness then, reminding them all that in the end, Davey was right. Even if that Walters guy sat in jail for a hundred years, they still, in their hearts, needed to forgive.

  Leaning against a door post, his elbow propping up his now slightly fuller frame, he informed them that they didn’t have to go further than the Lord’s Prayer to know about forgiving.

  “You know, guys, it doesn’t say how someone trespasses against you—if he walks across your property or burns your barn or shoots someone you know. We’re still supposed to forgive.”

  “That’s requiring the superhuman, right there,” Lee broke in, stopping to adjust his roller handle.

  “Oh, absolutely. But Lee, how can we be forgiven if we don’t forgive? We can’t.”

  Lee nodded, went back to work.

  They discussed Michael Lanvin, who seemed to be doing alright. He was a work driver for Sam Fisher in Leola. Sam said he was punctual, always on time, no matter what. Michael now had an apartment in Leola, above the laundromat. He had just gotten in with the wrong bunch before, and Ashley had known all along what was going on, poor girl.

  Sarah nodded.

  “It’s over now. May that pitiful girl rest in peace. She was in an awfully hard place, between that violent Harold Walters and her boyfriend, Michael, who was under his influence as well.”

  “Did the trial ever come up?”

  “Oh, I think so. Surely.”

  They became aware of another presence in their midst. One by one, they turned to see Matthew Stoltzfus standing in the doorway.

  “Hey.”

  He said it quietly, with reserve.

  “What’s going on, Matthew?”

  Effusive as ever, Melvin hurried over and shook his hand, pumping vigorously.

  “It’s been awhile. Sorry about your wife’s passing.”

  Melvin rambled on, asking questions about Haiti, his church, his future plans.

  Sarah cringed when Matthew’s words became short, clipped, the questions answered halfheartedly or not at all.

  “So,” Matthew said finally. “Preparing the wedding chapel.”

  Lee had his back turned, rolling the paint furiously. He didn’t stop or bother answering. Sarah became ill at ease, hurriedly acknowledging his words with a quick smile, a nod of her head.

  That subject sputtered and died at take-off, so Matthew found an old folding chair and dropped onto it, stretching his legs and crossing his feet at the ankles, hooking his thumbs into the belt loops on his jeans.

  “Go ahead, keep working. I don’t want to hold you up.”

  “You’re not,” Melvin ass
ured him.

  They all continued with the job at hand, but with a note of discord, a certain tenseness making them do unsettling things. Sarah tripped over the metal pan, spilling paint on the newspaper, and some of it soaked into the concrete. Lee broke the broom handle that was screwed into the roller, and Lydia hurried off to find another one.

  Matthew then informed them that Rose had asked him to be a cook at the restaurant where she worked. He was duly congratulated and went on his way, a smile of satisfaction on his lips, a new purpose to his step.

  Lee watched him go and glanced at Sarah, but he said nothing.

  Melvin began barking immediately, like an excited dachshund.

  “Did you ever hear anything more perfect? He always liked to cook. He always wanted Rose. He’ll be cooking with Rose!”

  Slapping his knee at his own hilarity, Melvin went to fill his roller, chuckling to himself.

  Straightening, he had to say what was on his mind and burst out, “I’m so glad that guy is out of the way. He used to irk me so bad. I could hardly stand how he treated you, Sarah.”

  Lee didn’t answer. He just kept painting. Sarah watched the rise and fall of his wide shoulders, the blond hair above them, and she was filled with gratitude, and so much more.

  Carefully, she laid down her roller, walked over to Lee, and slipped an arm around his narrow waist. On her tiptoes, she whispered in his ear, telling him of her love. Then she gently kissed his cheek, blushing to the roots of her hair.

  Melvin blinked back genuine tears and could find no words to enhance the moment. Lee propped his roller along the wall and gave Sarah a look that could only be described as worshipful as he pulled her into a quick embrace.

  They ordered pizza and sat in Dat’s office to eat. They took a whole pepperoni pizza to the house for Levi and Suzie, and Levi was clearly beside himself at this wonderful opportunity. Mam wasn’t even at home, so if he ate four or five slices, nobody would know, except Suzie, and she’d never tell.

  Lydia finished her first slice of pizza and reached for another, shaking her head in wonder.