The Healing

by Linda Byler

  He had to gather enough nerve to approach Mam, tell her his hair woes. Not that Mam was a hard person to ask for a favor. No, it was just the embarrassment of being caught caring so much about his appearance. Most boys his age didn’t seem to care about hair and the state of their skin, or whether they had begun to shave.

  He stopped tying a new hook on his line, so deeply was he thinking of his teacher in eighth grade. Lena Zook.

  What if she was at the wedding? He simply had to get his hair tamed. He wondered if you could buy hairspray for men.

  He hooked a fat worm, purple and squiggly, and stood up and drew back his arm, casting perfectly to the far side of the pool. Then he lowered himself on the bank, watched the dizzy whirl of released maple leaves dropping into the water, and was just ready to open his tackle back for a whoopie pie when the tip of his rod bent, the handle jiggling in his grip. Fish on.

  Whoa.

  It felt heavy. A nice largemouth, hopefully.

  The sun was low in the sky when he walked back through the tangle of grass and weeds, carrying a full stringer of shining bass and bluegill. It was a heavy weight slung across his shoulder, a long walk across uneven fields, but John was powerful, with young muscles that didn’t tire easily.

  He swung along, hoping to fillet the fish and persuade his mother to fry them tonight. Cleaning fish was one job Mam never attempted. She wrinkled her nose, pronounced them slimy creatures, hated the feeling of scales all over her hands. But she would beat the eggs and ground saltines in a Ziploc bag with the rolling pin, and add the salt and Old Bay seasoning. She would heat her largest frying pans, pour canola oil with a generous hand, dredge the fish in egg and cracker mixture, then drop them in sizzling oil. Put the fried fish on a roll with some tartar sauce and ketchup and it was the best thing in the world. Fresh-caught fish were better than cheeseburgers or probably pizza or French fries.

  Plus, he figured tonight Mam would know he deserved it, after peeling all the pumpkin.

  “Oh yes,” she said. “You go ahead, clean them.”

  He showed the whole stringer to his father, who raised his eyebrows and said, “My, oh!”

  Abner looked out from the forebay, where he was shoeing a horse, and said he was quite the fisherman.

  John had planned to clean the fish in the forebay, attaching a hose to the hydrant at the watering trough, but not with Abner shoeing a horse. It wasn’t merely the thought of Abner taking up all that space, it was the odor from the trimmed hooves.

  “How long till you’re done?”

  “It’ll be a while.”

  Abner’s face was purple, his shirt stained dark with perspiration. A pile of fresh horse manure steamed beneath the horse.

  “You stink.”

  “Thanks.”

  John stood, watched Abner crouched, holding the horse’s foot, the veins in his forehead sticking out, his nose purple. He was alarmingly homely looking. And here he was going around thinking he could have Malinda.

  It was well past nine o’clock when his mother served the fish on a paper toweled platter, yawning, saying, my oh, she didn’t know what was wrong with her, she could hardly stay awake. Not too many, there, Daniel, John caught them. Two apiece. They were as delicious as John anticipated. Better, if possible.

  Mam called over her shoulder as she headed for the shower.

  “Church at Benji’s tomorrow. No skipping. Elmer, did you remind Samuel and Marcus? Those two weren’t in church last time.”

  Dat peeped over his half-mast glasses, nodded. “I reminded them.”

  “Good. They get away with whatever they can. Where did Amos go in such a hurry around seven?”

  Noncommittal shrugs. Ketchup bottle turned down, tartar sauce squeezed.

  “Hey, the tea’s all gone,” Allen called.

  “Drink water, then. I’m tired. It’s bedtime.”

  John rooted around in the spice cupboard till he found an old packet of red Kool-Aid, mixed it with a cup of sugar, added ice, poured some for Allen, and continued his feast.

  “What is this stuff?”

  Allen lifted the glass, grimaced.

  “Kool-Aid.”

  “Does anyone even drink this stuff anymore?”

  “We do,” John said, tearing off a sizable portion of his fish sandwich.

  “Gross.”

  “Drink water, like Mam said.”

  John sat on the hard, wooden bench, dressed in his new white shirt, black Swedish knit trousers and vest, and the hand-me-down black dress shoes. His hair was smoothed, pomaded with the stolen hair cream.

  He felt handsome in the crisp white shirt. He sat up straight, listened to the minister’s voice, but stole glances in the girls’ direction.

  Like a flower garden of myriad colors in blues and reds, purples and lavenders, white capes and aprons, black coverings signifying unmarried, the white of the capes and aprons a purity, the meek and benevolent spirit of a young girl.

  Girls were so odd, though. They never looked at you in church. That was considered well mannered, he supposed, but it would be nice to know one of them noticed you every once in a while, at least. So starting to like a girl in church was out of the question, which was just as well, being as it was God’s holy place.

  That’s what Mam said, anyway.

  Wherever there were two or three people gathered in His name, there God is, she said. So don’t sit in church and get all fidgety and irreverent. Sit up and listen, because God is in the room, she said.

  John listened to the minister, thought of a great white figure with His whole being stretching from one end of Benji’s shop to another, enveloping everyone with a serious holiness and grace. He took notice of two boys on the bench ahead of him, chins upended on palms, elbows on knees, fast asleep. They were probably out last evening.

  A baby whimpered, then began to yell without restraint. A harried young woman rose to her feet, her wicker kaevly bumping on her arm, a toddler clinging to her skirts.

  She was still making her way along rows of seated people when the minister called the congregation to prayer. Everyone turned to kneel, leaving the mother to scuttle red-faced out the door with her crying brood in tow.

  John felt a stab of pity for her. The minister could have repeated a phrase, waited till she was out the door. He was ashamed to feel a prick of tears, an indignation at the abrupt minister. He could hardly bear the thought of Eli sie Linda having to make her way across the gravel drive with two crying children, knowing she should have waited.

  He felt the same stab of tender sympathy when Henry Lapp’s little boy fell backward off the bench, his head hitting the floor like a chunk of wood. He immediately set up an awful howl after holding his breath far too long, resulting in a shaken Henry hurrying his bawling son outside, blinking furiously in embarrassment.

  He saw his wife hand her baby to one of her friends, leave quickly out the side door, glowering. He pitied Henry all over again, having to live with the humiliation of allowing your son to fall off the bench, plus be chewed out by an irate spouse.

  Misery flowed through him like a heavy torrent, unbearably potent, a scalding drink that seared his throat. He tried to rise above this too strong emotion, but sank beneath it, tears rising, pooling, sliding down his cheeks.

  Quickly, he lowered his face, sunk his chin to his chest, in desperation. What was wrong with him? He was distraught, tired. This numbing pity was too much to be borne.

  He just needed more sleep, he guessed.

  They were invited to his parents’ friends’ house for a late supper of roast beef. A fresh cow had gone down, a hasty butchering followed.

  The children played volleyball, John the tallest, at his best, spiking the ball, jumping, yelling, his energy boundless.

  He knew he was impressing the girls. Barbie, for sure. She was cute, in a frizzy way. He thought they had one thing in common: misbehaving hair that had a mind of its own. Her hair made no sense, either. It was a mousy color of nondescript brown, and kinky,
as if a too-hot sadiron had been dragged across a nylon handkerchief, creating ripples.

  “No fair, John,” she wailed, red-faced, exhausted, after retrieving yet another spiked ball.

  “You’re tall, and too strong. You don’t know your own strength.”

  “What do you want me to do? Play on my knees?”

  She grinned up at him. She was a good sport, and tiny, for a fourteen-year-old. He’d known her all his life. They’d played kick-the-can, prisoner’s base, baseball, volleyball. She was good at all of it—tiny, but quick.

  Maybe he could marry her and they’d have a pile of children with hair like Brillo pads. Or alfalfa.

  “Stop spiking. OK?”

  “Come on, Barbie. All of it’s fair.”

  She laughed, bounded off to the corner of the set to send the ball in the air with a mighty wallop from her small fist.

  Later they filled their plates and sat together at the children’s table, plastic folding tables covered with white tablecloths. John got up to get her a drink, after she said she needed one. She thanked him, smiled at him the way she’d done easily, a hundred times. It seemed to him that her smile contained something more, though, or was it her eyes? They were green as a new leaf.

  “You should get rid of those glasses, John.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, they’re terribly thick. You must be as blind as a bat, with those lenses. They make your eyes appear only half as big, I bet.”

  “I never gave it much thought.”

  “Yeah, well, you should.”

  “If I take these glasses off, I can’t even see your face. It’s just a blob.”

  “Really? Do it.”

  He obliged by yanking his glasses off his nose.

  Eleven-year-old James giggled. “Boy, you look different.”

  “You should get contacts,” Susan said, the pale sister to James.

  “No way. I don’t think so. I don’t care that much about my looks. I will not slide a disc of plastic in my eyes, thank you very much.”

  “Maybe so. But your glasses are ugly.”

  “Thanks. I appreciate the compliment.”

  Barbie laughed again, got up, and went for dessert.

  The following morning, John had a dull ache in his shoulder. He winced as he pulled a polo shirt over his head, rubbed the spot with the palm of his hand, and thought no more of it. He fed the calves, shivering in the gray October morning, his teeth chattering.

  Perhaps there would be an early, harsh winter. It certainly seemed cold for October. He welcomed the warmth of the cow stable, the steaming hot sinkful of soapy water in the milkhouse, and forgot about the pain in his shoulder.

  For breakfast there was chipped-beef gravy and stewed saltine crackers with fried cornmeal mush. Plus fried eggs like miniature suns, melting in his mouth, grape juice, and coffee. The brothers were tired, quarrelsome.

  “I have an ulcer in my mouth,” Daniel grumbled. “It hurts to eat.”

  “Your driver’s here,” Mam called from the sink.

  “He can wait. I didn’t eat yet.”

  Dat spoke sternly. “Daniel, go. You don’t make a work driver wait, even if it’s Monday morning.”

  Daniel took a few mouthfuls, forced on his work shoes, and stomped out the door.

  The rest applied themselves to their breakfast, then sat back, yawning, scratching chests, shoving elbows into ribs.

  “Did you ask Cathy last night?”

  “Course not.”

  “Why not?”

  “What makes you think I’d ask anyone? Let alone her.”

  “Well, you found her pretty interesting at the singing table. Either that, or the calendar on the wall behind her head was extremely entertaining.”

  “Shut up.”

  “Nobody can ask a girl out before I do. I’m the oldest,” Abner said, grinning like a hyena.

  Snorts and guffaws sounded all around.

  “If we wait on you, we’ll all be grizzled old bachelors, thumping our canes at the sisters’ children. Nieces and nephews, only.”

  Mam choked on a swallow of coffee, ran for the sink to deposit a mouthful of the hot liquid, before dissolving into girlish giggles.

  “You guys!”

  Dat grinned widely, asked his wife if she was all right. Mam shot him a loving look.

  A sly expression crossed Abner’s face.

  “I wish to make an announcement. I have seriously asked a girl for a date next Sunday evening. To your total disbelief, I’m sure, she said yes. Now guess.”

  Abner sat back in his chair, his thumbs hooked beneath his suspenders, his chest expanded with self approval.

  John mentally flipped through the older girls in his group. All of them were unsuitable, somehow. Amid girls’ names being dropped like hailstones, he ducked his head and ate his shoofly pie soaked with milk.

  “Driver’s here. Marcus. Samuel. You know you boys need to get your shoes on before you sit down for breakfast. Now he’ll have to wait till you have those big clodhoppers laced up.”

  “They can leave without us. I know. Martha. Dave Lapp’s Martha. Martha Lapp. She works in the office at Hillside.”

  “Not her. Not Martha.”

  Come on, Samuel, John thought. Being blessed with good looks was OK but Martha Lapp was at least forty. And single. The kind of girl who would likely marry a widower, or someone much older than Abner.

  But John didn’t say it. He hardly ever contributed to the conversation when the subject was an important one. Too much age and experience, too much prestige hanging over the kitchen table like a dense fog.

  “Just tell us,” Dat said quietly.

  “Is she from this area?” Mam asked, serious.

  “Why sure. I can’t believe you can’t hit the right one.”

  John’s voice was gruff, quiet. “Ruth. John King’s Ruthie.”

  “You got it!” Abner shouted, shoving his chair back, spying his driver from the kitchen window.

  Mom gasped. Dat shook his head.

  “Why, of course. John, good for you. Why couldn’t we guess her?”

  “She’s much prettier than you,” Allen said, grumpy.

  “I’m not supposed to be pretty.”

  He slammed open the door, burst through it exuberantly, walking cat like in all his victorious procuring of a date with John’s Ruthie.

  Dat whistled low, the minute he was out of earshot.

  “She’s shy,” Mam mused. “Those girls don’t think highly of themselves. But she is . . .” His mother stopped, shook her head.

  Amos grinned. “She must have pitied him.”

  This remark tickled John, for some reason. He threw back his head, roared with laughter, then cut another slice of fragrant shoofly and doused it with milk.

  One by one they left to their jobs with drivers, leaving John to help his mother with the dishes. A warm glow suffused the kitchen on this cold morning, Abner’s announcement creating an expectant glow of the future.

  Mam scraped grease into the trash can, shook her head, muttered to no one in particular. Dat pointed his chin in Mam’s direction, silently, his eyes twinkling. John caught on, grinned back. Man-to-man.

  Poor Mam. She’d never be able to handle this. As stressed as a moth to the allure of lantern light. They both knew she’d suffered with Abner at his frustration of being unable to win Malinda, and here he was, on his high horse, asking John King’s Ruthie.

  She was nineteen at the most, and neat as a pin. She was a bit plump, perhaps, but good looking. A sweet girl, by anyone’s standard. Goodness. What if she told him off, had a few dates and decided he was no Romeo? Well, he wasn’t.

  Mam’s thoughts were churning. Abner certainly didn’t stand out in a crowd. Mr. Mundane. Oh, she had to stop these thoughts about her own son. Looks weren’t everything. She would pray.

  She tried, but her thoughts were scattered by a fresh wave of anxiety. Abner was not getting any younger. If Ruthie got bored with him, and moved on, she’d h
ave to suggest Martha Lapp, maybe. She could do that.

  “Mam, you put the orange juice in the pantry.”

  “Ach, so I did. John, what do you think? You think Ruthie will regret it, and tell him off? She probably will, denkscht net?”

  “I have no idea.”

  He rubbed his shoulder, grimaced. “Ouch.”

  “What? You have a sore shoulder?”

  “From playing volleyball.”

  His mother didn’t hear him, already living in a world with the rebuffed Abner, comforting his heartache as best she could, so John let himself out the door and into the milkhouse to finish up washing the milkers, then hitched up the two Belgians to rake corn fodder.

  Back and forth, their heads nodding in time to the placing of their gigantic hooves, the faithful horses moved across the field, a cloud of brown dust rolling behind them, the gray sky like dirty wool, gathering into bunches, churned by blasts of air from the Arctic.

  John shivered in spite of the heavy black sweatshirt he wore. He wished he’d worn a stocking cap. And he should have taken Advil for the shoulder. Seemed like every lurch of the cart sent icy pain through the joint. Not really icy, more like sandpaper grating between the socket and ball.

  Lunchtime would be a long way off, being so cold, with the shoulder pain to boot. Be a man, he thought. Toughen up.

  He watched a wedge of geese flying south, heard the thin high honking as they moved along, propelled by muscular wingbeats. He always thought flying geese sounded hysterical, as if they were stuck in a traffic jam and had a plane to catch.

  Unbidden, his heart rate accelerated, as if someone had stepped on the gas. His breath came quick and fast.

  Stop thinking about the geese. Duh, focus on the rows of corn.

  He took a deep breath, then another. Everything will proceed as normal, he assured himself, as he licked his dry, chapped lips.

  CHAPTER 5

  ON THE MORNING OF NOVEMBER FOURTEENTH, AT THE LONG-AWAITED community wedding where John was to be hosla, there was a cold north wind accompanied by a gray, penetrating drizzle. He woke from a thick blanket of sleep, ignored the cloying shoulder pain, did his chores, ate breakfast amid the clatter of Mam’s stainless steel kettles and roasting pans. She was yanking them from cupboards and off shelves and inspecting them under her eagle gaze, checking for initials written on the side in Liquid Pearls, a small bottle of squeeze paint that adhered to any surface. It was a handy way to mark kettles, bowls, Tupperware, those containers that shifted among the Amish community bearing cheese spread and peanut butter spread for church, fruit salad and cake and cornstarch pudding. Having the initials on the side assured a safe return.