The Witnesses

by Linda Byler

  “You know, there was a time in my life when I didn’t have enough money to buy five pounds of flour. Not even enough to make this pizza crust. And here I am, wolfing down pizza delivered to our—I mean, your—door.”

  “Oh, Lydia!” Melvin cried. “My dear wife! My darling girl!”

  Gladly, Lydia accepted the unrestrained endearments, smiling at her exuberant husband. She ate three slices of the good, hot pizza and said it didn’t seem right, being so blessed. That sent Melvin into an account of the day he met her, that very first time when she stood in her kitchen surrounded by all those women, her heart so burdened, her situation so dire. Through the dark valleys we walk through, he said, we become blessed.

  Lee chimed in then, telling a bit about his own life, which hardly had any dark valleys, except for Sarah’s tendency to leave him for Matthew. Lydia reassured him. She said he lived a life of unselfishness, always giving his time and energy to others. Trials were often withheld from people such as him, she told him.

  He shook his head, humbled, but Sarah knew Lydia’s statement was true.

  A contentment, a unifying silence floated among them like golden fog. It comforted them with the knowledge that they had come through so much and had been blessed just as much.

  “Look at us,” Melvin chortled, “We’ll still be friends fifty years from now, old and fat, sitting together drinking peppermint tea. Or, no—what is it old people drink?”

  “Ovaltine?” Lydia asked quietly.

  “That’s it!” Melvin shouted. “Ovaltine!”

  “We’ll know every Nature’s Sunshine product from A to Z,” Lee said dryly.

  Melvin slapped his knee and reached for his sixth slice of pizza.

  CHAPTER 22

  THE DAY BEFORE THE RISHT DAG (DAY TO PREPARE before the wedding), Levi came down with a terrible sore throat. His hacking cough tore through him, and his fever rose steadily, requiring all Mam’s resources. She mixed a poultice of steamed onions and salt, plastered it on his chest, and tied a heavy white cloth around it. She almost drenched him with a dark, bitter brew of black tea laced with Southern Comfort whiskey. She put his feet in lukewarm water containing vinegar and red pepper, then massaged them with quick, sure strokes of her thumbs and fingers.

  In between fer-sarking Levi, she barked orders. She sent Priscilla for the groceries she had planned to buy herself, wrote a list of jobs for Sarah, and did what had to be done for Levi, saying she didn’t know how long they would have him. She would do what she could for him while he was here.

  The weather was surprisingly mild, for the first week in December. The forecast in the daily paper predicted moderate temperatures with plenty of sunshine. It looked like at least the weather would cooperate for the big wedding day.

  All through November, they had attended weddings. Lee was not always able to stay the whole time. He had his herd of cows to tend, the addition for Anna to build, and the fall work to finish up. He never complained and was always cheerfully on time to escort Sarah to yet another wedding. But by the time November came to a close, he appeared tired with a weary look around his eyes.

  That was when Sarah decided to spend a weekend with her sisters Anna Mae and Ruthie, leaving Lee to a long, restful weekend of much needed sleep and plenty of Anna’s calorie-laden snacks.

  Now, on this day before the risht dag, the memories of the weekend with her sisters kept her smiling as she went about her duties.

  They had been seated around Ruthie’s kitchen table until four o’clock in the morning, drinking coffee and Pepsi. They made unhealthy buttered popcorn loaded with salt and sour cream and onion powder and Brewer’s yeast. That strange but delicious mixture gave the popcorn such a unique flavor.

  Anna Mae told Sarah in advance that they were preparing her for marriage with words of well-seasoned wisdom coming from them—women of substance, wives of experience. If she listened to them, she couldn’t go wrong.

  They weren’t very far into the evening before her sisters decided Lee wasn’t normal.

  “You mean, he never says no?” Ruthie shrieked.

  “I wouldn’t know when.”

  “He never gets angry? Not even when he’s stressed? Snappy?” Anna Mae asked in disbelief.

  “I have never seen him that way.”

  Sarah’s eyes narrowed, contemplating what to say next. Should she tell them?

  “Okay, listen. Once Lee told me that if he knew I would be happier with Matthew, he’d let me go. My happiness is all that matters to him.”

  Ruthie placed both hands over her face and said she couldn’t stand it. It was too sweet. Then she began sobbing hysterically, her shoulders heaving. She snorted, got up for a Kleenex, and said that was the single most unselfish thing she’d ever heard of. They decided then, for sure, that Lee wasn’t normal.

  Usually only sisters enjoy the bond they shared that night. They talked of their deepest fears, their greatest joys. They discussed life—all of it. They cried, they shrieked with hilarity, and then spoke in hushed tones of reverence, as the subjects changed.

  Anna Mae gave Sarah a book to read about love and marriage with something about respect in the title. Sarah thanked her wholeheartedly and said even though she knew Lee was extraordinary, she was sure they would have their times. Everyone did. Simply everyone.

  Ruthie added some extra salt to her popcorn and poured a handful into her open mouth. She nodded and chewed vigorously, before repeating the maneuver all over again. She wiped her mouth, chugged away at her Pepsi, and burped quietly. Then she opened her mouth and belched unrestrainedly, her eyes opening wide with surprise, her nose turning red as tears formed in her eyes.

  “You are excused,” Anna Mae said, sending a baleful glace at her.

  Ignoring the stab at her lack of etiquette, Ruthie leaned forward and wiped her mouth with the sleeve of her housecoat. It was a ratty old blue thing she had had when she was a young girl at home.

  “Hey, but you know what?”

  Sarah was picking unpopped kernels of corn from the bottom of her bowl, crunching them between her teeth.

  “Would you stop that?” Ruthie asked.

  “Pure fiber.”

  “Salt and grease.”

  “Remember what Mam used to say? You’ll get appendicitis. One of those kernels will get stuck in your appendix.”

  “That’s an old wives’ tale.”

  “Huh-uh. No, it’s not.”

  “Hey, be quiet. I was going to say something,” Ruthie paused. “Oh, I know. Love is never perfect. I wish it was, but it isn’t. That wonderful, good looking, amazing guy we fall so in love with will eventually become the same person who sprawls on your new couch with feet that smell like road kill, snoring away, while you are feeding the baby with a whining toddler at your knee. Meanwhile you have a pile of unwashed dishes and a flabby stomach, and the best way you can think of to express your love is a quick thump on the head with a baseball bat.”

  Ruthie howled with glee at her own description.

  “He’ll be the same man that invites his parents for supper and forgets to tell you until Sunday morning, when you have a good book stashed away—one that you finally, finally planned on reading that day. And his mother is so piffich (meticulous), and you gave your Friday cleaning a lick and a promise. . . .”

  “You mean you licked the floor and promised it you’d scrub it next week?” Anna Mae broke in, and they all burst into peals of laughter again.

  “Then they arrive, and right away she says, ‘My oh, looks like I should send Rhoda to help in the garden.’ You know exactly why she says it. You know the garden is not pristine, mostly because it was too hot, and you plain down didn’t feel like weeding it.”

  Ruthie sighed. “And you know, Rhoda goes tearing through that garden, thrashing around with my hand cultivator. Not one vegetable is safe. She doesn’t want to be there, so she plows through in double quick time so she can go home again.”

  “Sounds like marriage!” Anna Mae trilled, sha
king her head from side to side.

  “Lee wouldn’t do either one of those things,” Sarah said stoutly.

  “Oh, but he will!” Ruthie sang out.

  “He surely will!” Anna Mae chimed in.

  Sarah laughed and looked at the clock.

  “I have plenty of advice to last me for a long time. It’s past one o’clock, and I’m going to bed now. I’m tired. There is still work at home to get ready for my wedding, you know.”

  Her sisters would hear nothing of it. They still planned on making soft pretzels.

  Sarah groaned as Anna Mae leaped to her feet and began throwing yeast, salt, and water into a bowl. But the sisters talked and joked while they baked the pretzels and savored their salty goodness. There was not much sleep for any of them that night.

  The weather was perfect, for December, on Sarah’s risht dag. The air was nippy, but so clear you could see all the surrounding farms etched against the green of fall rye crops, the dark brown of bare trees in stark relief against the colorful backdrop.

  Mam had been up since three o’clock, when she could bake her own pumpkin pies with no interference or well-meaning advice from sisters or mothers-in-law. Mam knew what she was about when it came to pumpkin pies.

  For one thing, the egg whites had to be beaten until stiff peaks formed and stood up to a point, all by themselves. They couldn’t be folded over in the least bit, the way they had when Davey’s mother did them for Ruthie’s wedding. She could still feel the dismay that came over her, sitting at the special table with the close relatives, when she cut into the pumpkin pie that had not met her standards. A thin telltale line of bree (juice) had formed around the crust, spoiling it and making it soggy.

  She remembered the quick stab of irritation, though she had quenched it just as quickly, the smile on her face folding for a mere second before being put back into place.

  She had seen it. Those peaks had not been stiff. They had folded over easily. Plus Davey’s mother had taken the pies out of the oven a few minutes too soon. Yes, she had. Malinda had seen the centers jiggle. Centers of baked pumpkin pies do not jiggle. She had told her mother-in-law that, but she was snapped off with quick tones of reassurance. The tops were golden brown, and she didn’t want dark tops on pumpkin pies for a wedding.

  Well, Malinda knew what she wanted, but Davey’s mother wouldn’t listen, so it was up and out of bed at three o’clock for these wedding pies.

  She giggled a bit, a quiet burst of mirth. She felt very much like the little pig that got up especially early and beat it to the apple orchard before the cunning fox appeared. No one was going to bake these pies but her.

  And another thing, the oven had been about twenty-five degrees too hot when Davey’s mother made them for Ruthie’s wedding. That was why the tops would have been too brown. But you couldn’t tell Davey’s mother one thing, so here she was. Well, no use spoiling this risht dag with thoughts like that. She’d just make her own pumpkin pies. That was all.

  So at five o’clock, when the first couple, Sam Kings, arrived, Malinda had just put the first of the pumpkin pies into the oven. She wiped her hands on her apron and turned to greet Mary, the energetic, very large woman who entered her kitchen.

  “Malinda.”

  “Mary. Good morning.”

  Mary’s kindly brown eyes sparkled from her smooth, tanned face like wet acorns. Her cheeks were puffed up and smiling.

  “Ach Malinda, I’m just going to come over there and hug you.”

  This she did, wrapping Mam into a pillowed embrace. Then she stepped back and said with tears sparkling from her dark eyes, “Such a blessed day. Oh, I felt so much joy as we drove in the lane. I told Sam, these people have been through so much. It gives me goose bumps to think of the blessings pouring out on you now. God has truly brought you through.”

  “Oh my, yes!” Mam answered, her own tears reflected in Mary’s.

  “This is a special day. I can feel it in the air. The new barn standing there as if nothing bad has ever happened and was never going to again.”

  Mam nodded, smiled.

  “Well, I came to make roasht (chicken filling). I guess everything is ready for us out in the shop?”

  “Oh, yes. If you need anything, just give us a holler.”

  Mary nodded, eyed the pumpkin pies, and shook her head as she voiced her admiration. No one made better pumpkin pies than Malinda.

  Smiling her acceptance of Mary’s praise, Mam said, “Well, now.”

  Sarah awoke a bit after five o’clock, long before her alarm went off. Then she lay in bed for only a minute, embracing the day’s wonders. This day, the risht dag, was every bride’s anticipated day of joyous preparation for the actual wedding day.

  She dressed carefully in a bittersweet-colored dress, a black bib apron, a clean, fairly new covering. Her eyes shone back at her from the bathroom mirror as she applied the concealing lotion on her scars. She turned her head to assess them carefully, willing herself not to panic.

  He’d said it was okay. She had to accept that. She ran down the stairs, finding Mam bristling with tension, leveling the top of a pie crust before crimping the edges. Her huge bowls of pumpkin pie filling stood ready, and the smell coming from the oven announced that pies were already baking.

  Mam stopped, smiled at Sarah, and said, “Good morning, Sarah,” but her face was flushed, her eyes puffy from lack of sleep. Her hair wasn’t combed quite right, her large white covering was a bit off center, and she had one shoe lace dragging from her sturdy black shoes.

  “Good morning, Mam. What time did you get up?”

  “Three.”

  “What’s wrong with you?”

  “Davey’s mother, Mommy Beiler, is what’s wrong with me. Remember Ruthie’s wedding? The pumpkin pies?”

  Sarah poured a mug of good, hot coffee from the pot, splashed a dollop of creamer into it, and sipped appreciatively as Mam recounted step by step what she considered the failed pies. Sarah hadn’t remembered that there was anything wrong with them, but there was no use saying this to Mam now.

  Sarah wouldn’t give her mother a hug this morning either. It would be the same as hugging a porcupine, with her quills of irritation and tension sticking out all over. A lot of weight lay on Mam’s shoulders this morning.

  “Sarah, when you’ve finished your coffee, you should go check to see if the celery was placed in the washhouse. Just make sure it’s there. There’s not very much laundry, but wash what’s in the hampers. And Sarah, you better hurry. It’s later than I like it to be. Oh, and don’t forget, the rinse tubs Dat brought in? Be sure and scrub them well, with a splash of Clorox before Lee comes to wash the celery. I’d sure feel bad if the taste of Downy fabric softener was in the celery.”

  Sarah nodded, set down the mug of coffee, and ran back up the stairs for the hamper of dirty clothes. She was bent over the rinse water at six o’clock, when she felt two strong hands on her shoulders.

  Lee. Her bridegroom.

  She turned and went straight into his arms, placing her own snugly around his waist. The closeness of him was a homecoming, a place she felt loved, secure, safe.

  “Good morning, my lovely girl,” he murmured against her hair.

  “Good morning, Lee,” she answered, her arms tightening momentarily.

  They stood together by the washing machine, sharing this moment of closeness before the rush of the day.

  Neither of them heard Mary King open the door and peer inside, looking for a plastic bucket. Her brilliant brown eyes lit up at the sight of them in an embrace of true love. Her eyes filled with tears, her shoulders shook with emotion, and she snorted a few watery sobs outside the door as she felt another set of chills across her heavy arms.

  She bit down on her lips and got control of herself, reaching under her black apron for a handkerchief. She honked loudly into it, sniffed, replaced it, and went back out to the shop to make roasht without the plastic bucket. She’d tell them she couldn’t find it. They didn’t have
to know what she’d seen. It was too precious.

  The job of washing celery was to be done by the bride and groom, along with the four people who would be their attendants, their nava sitza (beside sitters).

  Priscilla would be seated with Omar, Lydia’s son, who was closer to Lee than anyone else. He was like a brother and was chosen to be in the bridal party because of that. Priscilla radiated high excitement, being chosen to nava sitz with Omar. It was a long-awaited event, a wonderful duty in her life, being Sarah’s sister. She was chosen by tradition but felt extra fortunate to be allowed to sit beside Omar.

  A cousin of Lee’s, Marvin Stoltzfus, would be seated with Rose Zook, Sarah’s special friend. To her knowledge, they had never met, but, hopefully, it would work with them being seated together at the bridal table for one day.

  Lee and Sarah broke the celery into individual stalks, washing them well with cold water, and stacking them into large plastic dishpans. The full pans were whisked away by happy aunts and sisters. Ruthie and Anna Mae descended on them, furiously animated into whirling dervishes of excitement, teasing, and laughter. They splashed Sarah with cold water, batting their eyelashes at Lee and acting like twelve-year-olds who had a crush on him.

  The risht dag was something, wasn’t it?

  The kitchen was alive with happy chatter, punctuated with peals of laughter. Mam’s sister Emma was cooking “cornstarch,” a creamy vanilla pudding cherished by the Amish.

  Mam acknowledged Emma’s skills at making cornstarch. She just had a way of producing the creamiest pudding, not too thick and not too thin.

  The celery chopping began as the two grandmothers seated themselves at one end of the extended kitchen table, wooden cutting boards in front of them, paring knives flashing as they sliced and chopped their way through the mountain of celery. They talked quietly, their shoulders periodically shaking softly with laughter.

  They needed three sixteen-quart kettles full.

  “Unfashtendich, vee feel leit henta (Nonsense, how many people are invited)?” Emma asked, adding that there would be way too much celery.