by Linda Byler
For the first time in his life, Jerry experienced Hannah’s face alight with approval and happiness. She was so beautiful. So unreal. Like an untouchable photograph.
“I can’t believe it!” she said.
“You can. It’s real! If this warm weather holds, we’ll be the proud, new wheat growers of the county. The best winter wheat.”
“How high does the new growth need to be to survive the winter, do you think?”
“Oh, a couple more inches. It’s well-established. If you look across this whole field, you can already see the drill rows.”
Hannah nodded. “The whole field has a green haze, like a veil.”
“It’s a promise. If all goes well, we’ll have a strong stand of rippling, golden wheat by next summer. With rain, of course. And the Lord’s blessing.”
Hannah chewed her lower lip. “And, no hail, fire, or any other natural disaster.”
“You’re worrying, Hannah.”
“No, just thinking out loud.” The wind tugged at the black scarf on her head, tossed her apron away from her dress skirt. “It just makes me sad for my father.”
“Why?”
“Oh, he had the same dream we do. The same goal. He just didn’t have the resources, the horsepower, nothing. It seemed like all he had was a firm determination, a rock-solid faith that God would help him out. I used to get so mad at him and he knew it.”
Jerry grinned. “You know, if you don’t stop getting angry with me, I’ll have an accident, and you’ll regret it.”
“Stop saying things like that!”
“You don’t need me, only my money.”
Hannah felt the furious blush of color rise in her face. She tried to speak, opened her mouth to deny his words, but it would be hollow, false, if she tried to answer him otherwise. The truth was what he had just said. It was exactly the way it really was.
“You married me for better or for worse. So, I’m worse.”
Jerry laughed outright, a burst of pure glee, bent over and slapped his knee. “One thing about you, Hannah, you are the most honest person I know.”
“Not always.”
“When aren’t you?”
Hannah shrugged and turned to go. “Time to check the creek bottom for more firewood.” Jerry turned to follow, wondering what exactly she had meant.
They had a good supply of firewood and more than enough hay. The longhorns roamed the homestead, growing fat and lazy, contentedly chewing their cuds, luxuriating in the never-ending supply of cold, fresh water pumped into the tank by the whirring windmill. When the wind took on a decided bite and temperatures lowered each week, Hannah’s eyes turned to the young blades of green wheat, wondering what, if anything, would keep them from being destroyed by the frequent heavy snowfall, the plummeting temperatures, the wind shrieking and moaning as it blew walls of ice particles around like miniature darts.
How could a whole field of tender new wheat withstand those natural calamities?
There was a mild day, when the wind stilled, strangely, leaving a deep quiet that Hannah felt in her bones, a solitude that took away her calm and shoved her through the house with manic energy.
She cleaned the pantry, a bucket of soapy water by her side, yanking out barrels and bags of flour, salt pork, cornmeal, tins of lard, scrubbing and wiping until her hands burned from the strong soap. She rearranged the containers on the shelves, scrubbed the floor to a deep shine, then stood back to survey what she had accomplished.
Deciding she could not take the strange stillness, she began cleaning the kitchen, yanking everything out of the cupboards, wiping down shelves and doors and the bottom of drawers, washing utensils and dusty pans and bowls her mother had frequently used to make pies and cakes, a duty Hannah refused to do. If her bread was like slices of lumber, how could she hope to bake a decent cake? Pies were completely out of her range, so she may as well not even attempt it.
In the hours before dinnertime, the house took on a strange yellow glow, as if the sun was shining through a veil of smoke. Putting down the cleaning rag she was wielding with so much energy, she straightened, pushed back a lock of dark hair, then stepped out on the porch to cast an anxious eye from one horizon to the other. She tried to recall when she had seen a sky like this. Wasn’t it before the blizzard that had kept them all housebound for almost a week, when they used a rope to ensure their safe return when they went to feed the horses in the barn?
She licked her forefinger and held it up to the open air to determine the direction of the wind. As calm as it appeared to be, the right side of her finger felt cooler, so she decided the air was from the north, perhaps a bit to the east. Her brows drew down. October, though. The last week in October was too early for a snowstorm. So, she imagined there was no real danger. She calculated the amount of firewood stacked on the back stoop, the plentiful hay, the leathery resistance of the new breed of cattle, those skinny creatures with long horns that ran a close contest with the mules in a race for ugliness!
She snorted her derisive, dismissing sound from her nostrils. She couldn’t believe she’d been such a pushover, allowing Jerry to get rid of those beautiful Black Angus cattle. Here they were, no better than the Jenkinses, with a herd of weird-looking cattle that would bring a poor price at the cattle market in Dorchester. They may be sleek now, but till spring, when they dropped their calves, they’d be nothing but leathery, long-haired hides stretched across bony skeletons. They wouldn’t make any profit on them.
She heard the dull sound of hoofbeats, swung her eyes in that direction to find Jerry riding in on King, Nip and Tuck bouncing along by his side.
She turned and went into the house to resume her work, not wanting him to see her standing in the yard as if she was eagerly watching for his return.
When he came into the house, whistling, a spring in his step, his dark eyes alight, she went back to her cleaning, vigorously applying the rag to the cupboard doors, ignoring him.
“Hannah!”
She didn’t answer, so he went on.
“It’s a great day to ride over to the neighbors’. There’s no wind and it’s mild. Do you want to ride with me? Just to see if anyone moved in?”
She hadn’t told him what she had seen, and he didn’t ask, so he wouldn’t know that the place was swarming with strange, white-hatted men. She stopped wiping cupboard doors, straightened her back, and looked at him. “I don’t like the looks of this weather.”
“What’s wrong with it, Hannah? It’s a gorgeous fall day. Like the Indian summer in Pennsylvania.”
“The atmosphere is yellow. It’s too still.”
“Oh, come on. It’s October.”
“The last week in October.”
“Have you ever seen snow this early?”
Hannah wanted to say yes, but she couldn’t say it truthfully, so she went back to her cleaning, shrugging her shoulders.
“Let’s eat lunch real quick and then ride over. We can take the dogs.”
Hannah said nothing, just picked up her pail of soapy water and disappeared through the washhouse door, flinging the water across the backyard. She set a pot of salted water to boiling, threw in a few handfuls of cornmeal, and went to the bathroom to come her hair and wash her face. She’d go. The lure of the horseback ride and the open plains was too strong to refuse.
To wear a white covering or not? That was the question. She knew Jerry loved to see her dressed in the traditional white head covering. But what if there was a nip in the air later in the day? She’d need her black headscarf, tied securely beneath her chin.
No, she’d wear her head covering. With the green dress, she would look more attractive. Not that she cared what Jerry thought, though. But there were new people to meet, and they may as well know from her first appearance that they were different, saving themselves the explanation that would eventually have to be given.
She tied her good black apron over the green dress, pinned her covering to her head, and made her appearance, going straight to the s
tove to stir the boiling cornmeal mush.
“You always look so nice in your white covering.”
Hannah didn’t give him the satisfaction of an answer, simply got down two bowls, the sugar and milk, a few slices of leftover salt pork, and a loaf of bread.
They sat down together, their chairs scraping loudly on the wooden floor. Without looking at her, Jerry bowed his head, and Hannah followed suit, as they prayed silently, or Jerry did anyway. Hannah was thinking about the neighbors being so white and forgot to pray.
She often did that, a habit formed in childhood. She told Manny once that God knew she was thankful for her food, and if she remembered to tell Him once a week or so, that was probably all right with Him.
If she watched Jerry, though, his bowed head, his closed eyes, his lips moving in the most devout manner, she felt guilty, and quickly offered her own thanks. Formal prayer was not always her way, but living with Jerry, for whom she had to carry at least a bit of respect, was different somehow, than her own father, who was given to long and pious prayers, silent or otherwise. He often read the old German prayers from the small black Gebet (prayer) book, his words rising and falling in a tearful, emotional cadence that only brought a hardness, a rebellion in Hannah.
He had been so absolute in his devotion to God, and so hopelessly muddled in his way of providing for his family, unable to accept defeat, without a clear vision for the future, expecting a miracle from the God he felt would accept him as superior, special.
And He may have, Hannah thought. Who was she to judge? She just knew there was a difference in her own father and Jerry. (She never thought of him as her husband; it was too personal.) Their marriage was a partnership for the saving of the homestead. Nothing more.
They rode out, deciding at the last minute to leave the dogs at home. They’d had plenty of exercise, running with Jerry when he was checking the cattle. They set up an awful, pitiful whining and yelping, clawing at the wire fence that enclosed them, their brown eyes begging, pleading with all the power of children not wanting to be left alone.
Hannah looked at Jerry. Their eyes met. Hannah watched the crinkles appear on his face, watched the slow smile spread his lips, and she knew he felt the same empathy for their dogs, and opened the gate.
They tumbled out, falling over each other, wriggling and giving short, ecstatic yelps of happiness, then ran circles around Jerry, Hannah, and the horses. Hannah laughed outright, that short, deep burst of sound that came from deep within, a sound heard so seldom that it never failed to shock Jerry.
They mounted their horses, still smiling as the dogs catapulted themselves ahead of them, streaks of brown, black, and speckled gray, their legs almost invisible, they pumped them so fast.
Hannah laughed again. “Those stupid little dogs. They’ll wear themselves out,” she said.
Jerry was busy holding King back from running with the dogs. His head was up, his neck arched, his haunches lowered as he danced, stepped sideways, fought the bit. He shook his head and snorted, then came up, his front legs leaving the ground. Jerry leaned forward, kept his seat, and told him to settle down.
Hannah kept her own horse in check, scanning the sky with anxious eyes. She did not like the feel of the atmosphere, the yellow light, the sun a hazy blob of illumination, like a bobbing lantern in the distance, or the headlight of a car. It wasn’t normal, the stillness, the complete lack of even the faintest breeze.
She kept her worries to herself, knowing Jerry would think she was being too cautious, which she supposed she was.
Where had this come from, now? This lack of speaking her mind. Surely, she wasn’t changing that much. She used to tell Jerry anything she wanted, she didn’t care what he thought. Why didn’t she do that now?
She watched his back, the way he rode his horse, that certain skill that always amazed her when she saw it in the Jenkins boys. When had Jerry acquired that same skill? It was unsettling, this grudging admiration she felt. She had to do something about it, but how?
She trained her eyes on her surroundings, choosing to watch the emptiness, that vast expanse of nothingness where you could not see anyone or anything, yet you often had the uncanny feeling of being watched.
God’s eyes, she reckoned. God was everywhere, a fact she’d accepted from her birth, one of her earliest memories. Hearing her mother speak of da Goot Mon (the Good Man) was as natural as breathing, so whenever Hannah had the impression of being watched, it was all right with her.
The dogs had chased up a prairie hen, the poor fowl running in zigzags like a rabbit before finally having enough sense to take wing. Of all the creatures of the plains, those prairie hens had to be the dumbest.
She watched the chicken’s awkward flight, flapping its wings furiously, squawking in wild-eyed alarm. The dogs’ faces lifted, tongues lolling from wide mouths, before giving up the chase and finding another scent to follow.
A flurry of dickcissels rose from the swell of grass to the right like a burst of thrown wheat seeds, their shrill cries telling of their alarm. A larkspur sang its plaintive song from a hiding place, probably somewhere on an extra-large tuft of grass, the bird blending into its native background in much the same color.
They arrived at the corner where the dirt road led off to the right, a row of aging fence posts held up by their hidden length in the dry prairie soil, rows of sagging, rusted barbed wire strung between them.
No one seemed to know anything about this short length of useless fence, or cared about it, so Hannah always used it as a road sign, the right turn to the Klassermans’. It seemed strange to think of them being gone, having put all the hard work into the homestead and then deserting it.
They were no longer young, and certainly not the tough, sinewy type like the Jenkinses, the Moores, and dozens of other natives that dotted this land. Descendants of the pioneers, proud, unflappable, despising change, suspicious of strangers, harboring entire textbooks of knowledge in their brains, their hearts filled with a deep and abiding love of the land, a fierce loyalty to the plains and the elements.
Hannah was proud to be one of them. She believed she carried the same spirit of optimism within, the way the Jenkinses rode with the ebb and flow of the seasons, the extreme weather, the loneliness of being on the prairie for days on end.
The wind, though. She knew well that sometimes the wind was hardest to take. It blew hard for days and nights, on and on without ceasing, moaning around the corners of buildings like unhappy ghosts, ruffling grasses, blowing dust only days after a miniscule amount of rain, drying out any small amount of moisture that fell from the skimpy clouds.
And so she rode behind Jerry, never beside him, to avoid conversation. She liked it this way, her thoughts her own, the solitude a gift, not having to answer to anyone, only the horse beneath her and nature around her.
The road went to the left, then curved right and the sight of the ranch was immediate. No horse trailers. A few cars parked by the house. No activity. Everything strangely quiet. What had happened to them all?
Jerry rode on, never imagining that Hannah had ever been here before or knew anything about these people. She kept her distance, observed without saying a word.
They rode up to the familiar barn, stopped at the corral, dismounted, and looked around. Nip and Tuck were told to stay while they tied the horses to the hitching rack beside the closed barn doors.
Hannah thought that seemed odd, on a balmy, quiet day, to have all those doors closed. There were no white horses to be seen anywhere. No cattle or dogs.
Jerry looked at the parked vehicles, long, low, gleaming in the dull, yellowish light of the semi-dreary day. He gave a low whistle, admiring the teal green color of the Oldsmobile, the brilliant, earth-shaking opulence of the red Ford.
“Obviously, there are no people of poverty here!”
Hannah nodded. “Should we go to the house?”
“I guess. No one seems to be out here.”
Together they walked to the house, the
dear ranch structure that had housed Sylvia Klasserman and all her eccentric German ways, her florid pink face and enormous girth, the baklava and croissants, cinnamon rolls and raisin bread. Hannah swallowed an unexpected lump in her throat, realized she was blinking furiously to keep back unwanted tears.
No one came to the door, so Jerry knocked again. Hannah felt terribly ill at ease, when the door was pulled open from inside by a man who seemed to be about their own age and size.
From behind the screen door, his face broke into a grin of friendliness as he shoved open the door and spoke in a quiet, well-modulated voice. “Come in. Come in. I’m assuming you’re neighbors?” The sentence rose at the end, making it a question. His way of speaking was completely foreign to their own, although the words were spoken in English.
Jerry stepped back to allow Hannah entry before him, a hand laid lightly on the small of her back. She went ahead quickly, so he’d drop his hand.
It was still the Klassermans’ house, only it smelled different, the furniture was different, the rugs and pictures changing the living room into something more structured, neater. Gone were the crocheted doilies, the figurines and artificial pink roses, replaced by wooden chests, serviceable trays, green ferns in ceramic pots, throw pillows and blankets in neutral colors, all done tastefully and expensively.
The young man introduced himself. “My name is Timothy Weber. I’m from Salt Lake City, Utah.”
Jerry proffered a hand. They shook firmly, met each other’s gaze directly. “I’m Jeremiah Riehl and this is my wife Hannah.” Hannah nodded, shook hands, and asked, “How do you do?”
“I’m doing well, thank you, Hannah. And you?”
“Good.”
Timothy Weber stood back to survey them with curious eyes, taking in Jerry’s straw hat with the strip of rawhide circling the crown, his denim coat without pockets, his broadfall trousers, as well as Hannah’s skirts and head covering. “So you’re …?
“Amish. From Pennsylvania.”
Timothy whistled softly. “Never heard of them. A religious sect?”