by Linda Byler
Mary Stoltzfus watched as the wind tore at the long line suspended between the house and the barn, the towels flapping in a frenzied dance orchestrated by gusts of up to thirty-five miles an hour.
She shouldn’t have pegged them on the wheel line like that, but sometimes on Monday, with every hamper brimming with wet towels and Friday’s work denims, she had to get them into the hot soapy water in the wringer washer and out on the line. It was vital to her well-being.
There was something to be said for the sorting of clothes, the smell of powdered Tide with bleach for that first load of whites, the undulating purr of the air-powered motor, the satisfying job of feeding the wet clothes through the wringer into the hot rinse water turned blue with a cap full of Downy fabric softener.
It was grounding, stabilizing.
To see John limping whitefaced through the washhouse, his eyes blank and dark, living in his own world of misery, was not getting easier.
Although now Samuel eclipsed her fears for John.
Samuel stomped around the place in an ill-concealed fury, slamming doors, refusing orders, just being a pain far above anything John had ever been.
And she knew why.
Lena still had not given him an answer.
Well, at least Abner was happily married. The wedding had gone well, Ruthie’s mother Anna a good manager, a husband willing to manage alongside her, the sermon touching, as she knew it would be, preached by the home bishop, a gifted minister filled with much godly knowledge.
Abner had appeared surprisingly immaculate, his multza wide across the shoulders, his black bowtie straight across the white collar of his wedding shirt.
Even his trousers were exactly the right length, his shoes polished to a high sheen. Not exactly handsome, perhaps, but a presentable young man, who would prove to be a fine husband for the winsome Ruthie.
Here was her firstborn son, flying from the nest to make one of his own. She shed a few discreet tears into her lace-edged handkerchief, but couldn’t help the gleeful thought: One down, six to go.
Ah yes, it had been a nice wedding and the visiting afterward a joy. Tradition required each guest to have the honor of a visit from the couple, a rite that took up most of the winter following the wedding.
Mary had enjoyed this all, pink-cheeked with good food and lots of honor and attention. And now Amos. So fortunate.
Well, one by one they’d leave, and likely it would all happen too fast. In the blink of an eye, she’d be sitting with Elmer in the hollow-sounding house. Empty nesters.
Ah, but the tiny amount of laundry on her tired back.
The cooking reduced to quart-size saucepots.
Then she felt ashamed, having such selfish thoughts. My oh.
Well, if things went on like this much longer, she’d have to stand up to Samuel, no matter how much she dreaded it. She had had it with his foul moods. One thing that boy would have to know was any girl with that kind of indecision was just that, seriously undecided, which all added up to the fact that she wasn’t sure if she wanted him or not. Which, she should know.
Oh, she knew. Mothers usually did. John had been very wise, displaying a maturity far beyond his age to leave Kentucky and Lena. It was the best thing he could have done.
A car pulled up and a middle-aged English man came to the door, struggling with his flapping coat.
Mary opened the door, stepped aside to welcome him in.
“Good morning, ma’am.”
“Good morning.”
“Windy out there. Whew.”
“It certainly is.”
Of medium height, wearing thick glasses, he would certainly not stand out in a crowd, an ordinary working-class man who would never turn heads.
But there was something about him. A light in his eye. A spring in his step. Mary watched him closely, with a keen, measuring eye.
He told her he was in the vicinity, looking for Lyme disease victims. He had a story to tell, if she had time to listen.
She did. Of course she did.
She pulled out a chair, offered coffee. Tea? A drink of cold grape juice? She wanted to call Elmer in.
He had been a very sick man, for years. Pain and inflammation had settled in his heart. He’d had terrible joint pain and numbness. He had his funeral arranged, with the doctors giving him up to eighteen months to live.
Mary leaned forward, listened intently.
He had been taking up to fifty pills a day. His wife introduced him to the pill called “Protandim.” LifeVantage products.
The washhouse door opened, and Elmer appeared. There was a round of introductions, and he was seated, rapt, as the man spoke, repeating his story for his benefit.
Sick, discouraged, at the end of his rope with chronic Lyme disease, he’d waved her away. No. No more pills. Just let me die, to be rid of this pain. His wife begged until he gave in. What was one more pill? OK. All right. And he swallowed it with all the others.
Inexplicably, he began to feel better. In three months, he was back to work, sleeping at night, pain free.
It was a short story, to the point, well spoken, giving God the honor. No gimmick, one pill a day at a cost of forty-five dollars a month. It was all natural, as safe as eating a salad.
He left, leaving two bottles and God’s blessing.
Elmer was unimpressed, but Mam was grasping tightly to the handle of wild hope that rose within her for the thousandth time. Maybe. Just maybe this time John could lead a normal life. Become better.
Could it be?
They ate lunch together that day. Elmer, John, and her, the boys off to their jobs. She made potato and onion soup, thickened with cheddar cheese and hard-boiled eggs. They had celery sticks and baby carrots with ranch dressing. For dessert there was butterscotch pie left over from the weekend.
They talked about cows, the weather, the local news.
John seemed to be vaguely aware of everything—the hot soup, the conversation. He twirled a carrot in dressing, but didn’t actually eat anything. His face was gaunt, gray.
They mentioned the pills, received the reaction they expected—a dull look, minimal comprehension, a shrug of the shoulders.
“Whatever.”
“But did you hear, John? The man was in a bad way. Dying, really. So why wouldn’t you at least give it your best shot?” Dat asked.
“I said, I’ll take them. I just won’t get my hopes up.”
“We’ll try it, then. The way he said, these pills are good for high blood pressure, headaches, other natural calamities,” Mam added.
“Calamities? You mean maladies.” John corrected his mother.
They laughed. Mam forgot what a nice smile John had. It seemed as if he was finally growing into his features, or his hair was controllable, or something. He was not overweight, by any means. He was average weight, considering his height. He really was one nice-looking young man, if you didn’t notice the unhealthy pallor of his face. But so quiet. He never voiced an opinion when his brothers were present, merely sat back and kept his thoughts to himself.
Supper that evening was as tense as always.
Dat wisely omitted the mentioning of Protandim pills. Marcus was still puffed up from his weekend of winning at volleyball, the gregarious Marty at his side. Actually, the only sour grape was Samuel, who had taken to being more outspoken than ever. Mam recognized this as the shoring up of a battered ego, and did her best to receive his opinions in the light of a mother’s love.
John was mostly quiet, but sometimes surprised everyone by gently agreeing with Samuel. Such humility, given how Samuel continued to take jabs at John whenever he could, calling him lazy, a coward, a quitter.
Almost, Mary grasped something that was just out of her reach. Would the time come that she would be thankful for this dreaded disease? Surely, it had given John unusual wisdom and humility, even as it brought waves of depression and what sometimes seemed like self-pity, even to Mam.
God moved in mysterious ways to perform wonders, and wh
o was she to resist?
“Potatoes.”
“Potatoes.” Louder.
“Somebody hand the dish of potatoes to Allen, please.”
“Ew. Scalloped. Why don’t we ever have mashed?”
“Allen, stop it. You eat what is set before you and you’re thankful.” Dat spoke, displeasure all over his face.
“Pass the meatloaf.”
“Hurry up with that ketchup. Dump it all out, why don’t you? Now there’s none left. Go get more.”
“Marcus, go down cellar and get it yourself.”
Samuel watched his brother go, then spooned some ketchup onto John’s plate.
“I don’t want it.”
“Eat it.”
So rather than get into the fray, John spooned the ketchup onto his meatloaf, which did not go unnoticed by Marcus.
“Ketchup vacuums. Every one of you.”
“John isn’t. He has Lyme, remember?”
Eyes to the parents’ faces, followed by silence. John chose not to answer. He could take it. Lena had about hit the nail on the head, saying he couldn’t run from folks, brothers, coworkers, whatever, that disapproved of him for being weak, tired, unable to function the way he had. Dewan had been OK, he just voiced his opinions the same as he did everything else. John missed him, actually.
Now they were discussing the farm.
“Seven boys and not one farmer. Sometimes I can’t believe my hard luck. None of you enjoy it. Not one,” Dat was saying, in a mock mournful tone.
Heads shook.
“You work like a maniac, Dat. If you’d count the hours in a day, you’d be making about five dollars an hour, the way milk prices are going.”
“Aha! You forget. My farm is worth a lot of money. Besides, who can measure the satisfaction of sitting on a plow, watching the sun, the clouds, and the birds, the smell of the wet, freshly tilled soil? You guys don’t know what you’re missing.”
John thought, I do. But he didn’t say it.
He had never wanted to leave the farm. He had always helped, learned by milking, feeding, driving horse-drawn equipment. He knew when to plant and when to harvest. He knew oncoming weather by cloud formations and wind directions. He could treat a calf with runny scours, knew when to call the vet for a down cow. He harbored dreams of produce fields, and most shameful of all, fields of flowers, to cut and sell. He thought of Lena, her upbringing, but cut himself off from imagining her by his side. She was too perfect, he woefully unworthy.
The meal ended with chocolate cake and canned peaches, Mam’s old staple. A chocolate cake could be whipped up in ten minutes, and canned peaches were always in the basement. The boys loved it, so why not?
That night, John dried the dishes for her, without saying anything.
She asked him what his thoughts on the new pills were.
“I probably feel the same way he did. I don’t even want to try them. Like, getting my hopes up is risky business.”
“But you sleep better. Remember, you used to sleep on the living room floor with Dat. So you are doing some better.”
“Yeah, I guess. Anxiety is something you have to overcome, even if it can take a few years. Probably some of the medication helped.”
“Do you ever feel stronger?”
“Sometimes. But I always slide back. It’s worse when I don’t sleep.”
“You’re not sleeping?”
“Not always.”
“Well, we’ll try the Protandim, see how it goes.”
John laid his tea towel aside and went to his room. He lay on his back, stared at the ceiling, his arms crossed on the back of his head, and thought about Lena. This was the middle of March. She’d told him she’d give Samuel an answer by end of January. Evidently, she hadn’t done it yet, according to his moods. Or perhaps she had, and the answer was not what he had hoped.
He had done the right thing, leaving her and coming home, away from the temptation, when she still belonged to Samuel, in spite of her protests.
Or was it only the kindness of her heart?
He couldn’t know, having broken all contact with her.
Being with the youth on the weekends, especially with Ivan, had been like therapy. It made him realize this was not the end of everything. There were good times, fun, excitement, other girls to be around, to get to know. There was Sylvia—tall, willowy, vivacious Sylvia, whose aura of energy and high spirits were like a cold drink of water to a thirsty person. Like Dewan, she drew you from the depth of your own thoughts, the discomfort that dragged down your own optimism. Then there was Susan—small, round, dark-haired Susan who was so shy, she hardly ever spoke a word, but was so easy to talk to, one on one. He could imagine himself seated in a buggy, easily leading the conversation, feeling like a real man, capable of entertaining this quiet girl.
But the winning of a girl’s hand had to be turned over to God. He was the Master, the director of the orchestra of love. John knew that God is love, a deeper, more mysterious love than the initial thrill of first sight, first touch. What, then, had it been, with Lena on the swing, the discovery of hands touching, the homecoming of his heart?
Or was it merely the desire for a young man for the body of a beautiful girl? How did one know the difference? Was there a difference?
He had often touched Marty, even linked her arm in his, threw an arm around her shoulders, high-fived after a game of volleyball. Nothing had ever come close to the touch on the swing with Lena. He sighed. Well, apparently she wasn’t Samuel’s girl, either.
Samuel was a walking thundercloud. Still, John couldn’t blame him, knowing how hard it was to wait for the unknown, unsure of the outcome, wanting a happy ending so badly it destroyed your peace.
No more. He’d given her up.
He fell asleep thinking about how she ate the cheeseburger, the glow of the sun on the finely turned cheek, the satin of her blond hair, the hours that ticked by like seconds every time he was in her beautiful presence.
CHAPTER 21
KENTUCKY IN SPRING WAS THE CLOSEST ONE COULD GET TO HEAVEN here on earth, Lena thought, as she walked down the winding road with Naomi’s hand held firmly in her own.
Overhead, the branches of a maple tree were loaded with buds, a yellow green, the color of the daffodils before they burst into the beauty of their ruffled yellow display. The sky was a deep cornflower blue, with clouds that resembled little cotton balls stuck to the blue at random, the air heady with purple violets and primroses, wild bluebells and early calendula.
Drab brown hills turned into patchwork quilts, squares of dark tilled soil, mixed with the deep green of new alfalfa. Tractors moved steadily along the edge like overgrown red ladybugs, changing the squares as they drew the plow.
Lena was amazed at the view, the ever-changing scenery that fell below her as far as her eyes could see. She never tired of her and Naomi’s daily walk, the air mild and filled with the scent of all the new growth.
A chipmunk skittered across the road, an impossibly swift streak of brown, black marks across the back, a tiny bottle-brush for a tail.
“Chipmunk, Naomi. That was a chipmunk.”
She stopped, bent her knees to be on eye level, tried to make eye contact. But it was not possible today, which was often the case.
“Did you see, Naomi? That was a frightened little chipmunk.”
She kept up the usual chatter, her face bright, but inside, another drop of despair fell into the unstable pool that was steadily widening.
What part of autism was not simply cruel? Why couldn’t the doctors unlock the secret to the troubled mind of a child who had simply retreated from the normalcy of everyday life? So many unanswered questions, such a freefall into her own sense of failure.
She was in awe of her cousin Barbie. She was always patient, mostly hopeful, even on the worst days. Truly there had never been a better mother or caregiver for a special-needs child.
The bedwetting had begun since Lena’s stay, which carried a blame all its own. Thinking she
’d been too hard on the child, she had apologized to Barbie, which was met with a wave of her hand, a refusal to accept anything so ridiculous.
As far as Lena could tell, she was making no progress at all. She may have even worsened the situation. She knew she had to get away, if only for the summer. She felt she needed to educate herself better, in the ways of autism, the nuances and quirks of being a caregiver.
But she knew, too, that that reason for looking forward to summer was only secondary. She wanted to be home with her family, to see the ridges and hills of Jefferson County, where life was simple, predictable meals were on the table on time, food that had been home-canned, frozen, pickled, preserved in the way her grandmother had taught Lena’s mother. The plentiful roasts of beef, the ground meat, bacon, loins of pork, even the chickens were butchered by her parents with the help of her siblings.
Here at the Lapps, provisions came in a dizzying array of colorful boxes and bags, snacks, and foreign-sounding dips and processed meat and cheese.
Lena had learned what salsa was, and the corn tortilla chips you scooped it up with. Guacamole was a dip made from avocados, another new food she had read about but never tasted. Grocery buying was done every week, the bags bulging with all kinds of interesting food that was made into yet another new dish Barbie had found in a cookbook or magazine.
She admired her friends in so many different ways, but this buying of expensive groceries was not one of them. But then, perhaps there was an endless stream of plenty, an overflow of cash, and a few hundred dollars here or there made no difference. Besides, it was none of her business, so she ate the food, the rich desserts and spicy casseroles, and said nothing.
Naomi stopped, pointed.
Alarmed, Lena looked in the direction of the pointed finger.
A flash of brown, the white flag, the underside of a deer’s tail, and it was gone.
A deer! Lena exclaimed, “Good girl.”
Where a normal child would have shown delight, hand clapping or a shout, Naomi merely stood expressionless.