She’d held her silence for years, never saying what really ailed her. Her complaints ranged from not liking the way he breathed to not understanding how he could get so dirty during a workday. If he dared to hum, she’d walk out. But, contrary to how he’d felt over the last few years, he wasn’t a fool. When one person picked apart everything about another, the things being mentioned weren’t really the problem. They were the side effects.
He understood the grief that had captured her when she gave birth to a stillborn son. He’d mourned the loss deeply, but it’d been three years since then. Did that painful time still cling to her? Her response to burying their second son hadn’t seemed much different than her reaction to Ivan’s birth. Perhaps that’s how she dealt with pregnancy hormones, or maybe it was just her ways. Without them talking, he had no way of knowing.
When he tried to unravel the binding that held them prisoner, she grew more distant, more quiet. So as she carefully and yet sharply plunked his plate in front of him, he wasn’t going to ask what was wrong. It could be that she wanted the work done before he went fishing, or that she resented that both Ivan and Grey would return with dirty clothes smelling of fish, or that he’d leave some fish scales in the yard after cleaning them. Even if he asked or tried to prod her to talk, they’d land in the same place they always did—only with a little more deadness between them each time.
No matter what or where they were right now, he still held on to hope that one day they’d really talk and she’d decide to accept her disappointments in being married to him, own up to her part of where they were and why, and be willing to start from there.
It’d taken him a long time to be willing to forget blame and simply start from where they were, but he’d done it. Could she?
“Daed!” Ivan stood in the doorway to the kitchen, a huge smile on his little face. His feety-pajamas covered all but his neck and head. One sleeve hung empty from his elbow down.
His little boy ran to him, and Grey scooped him up. “Ivan.” He ruffled his hair and pulled him close, whispering good morning and his love in the only language the little boy spoke, Pennsylvania Dutch.
Ivan hung on tight. “Du bischt daheem!”
“Ya, witt fische geh?” Grey agreed that he was at home today and asked Ivan if he wanted to go fishing.
Ivan turned and slapped the table with his one hand, yelling, “Ya!”
“Ivan,” Elsie scolded him. “Net im Haus. Is sell so hatt zu verschteh?”
Grey flinched as his wife fussed, Not in the house. Is it that hard to understand? “He’s just excited.” Grey aimed to keep his voice even as he spoke to Elsie in English. Ivan hadn’t been taught much English yet, but even a child years younger than Ivan could pick up on tone.
“There are rules, Husband. Even for a little boy without an arm. You’re not helping by indulging him. When will you see that?”
Ignoring her, Grey sat Ivan on the table facing him. “Bischt hungerich?”
He nodded, letting Grey know he was hungry.
“Gut. Mir esse un no gehne mir.”
Ivan’s eyes lit up when Grey told him they’d eat and then go. Without looking at Grey, Elsie set a plate of food for Ivan on the table and returned to the sink. He studied his wife. “Elsie.” He waited until she turned to him. Except for the dullness in her eyes, she looked much like she had the day he’d married her nearly six years ago. “Go with us. You could sit on a blanket and watch. Or pick wildflowers. We could share a lunch and maybe even a laugh.”
Instead of her usual shake of the head and mumbling a “no thank you,” her eyes welled with tears. “And then what will we share? Lies? Dreams we know can’t come true?”
His heart quickened. Had she just shared a hint of what separated them? He stared at her, trying to understand what she might mean. “Lies?”
A cold, hauntingly familiar look covered her face. Silence suffocated his hope, but he held her gaze. “Surely believing in dreams would be better than this reality we’re in.”
The hurt in her eyes was clear, but he thought he caught a hint of her wanting to say more. From the moment he’d seen her in the hallway, she seemed less distant than usual. Did something in her want to open up? Wouldn’t that be as vast and high as the heavens—for them to talk and plant some type of seed that didn’t grow discouragement and sorrow?
He put Ivan in his chair and placed his food in front of him. He walked over to her, standing so close he could smell the lilac soap he’d given her for her birthday. “Talk to me,” he whispered.
She grabbed a cloth and started wiping the counters. “You two go.”
“We will.” He took her by the arm, and she gazed up at him. “Why do we live like this, Elsie? Even if you married me for all the wrong reasons, why can’t we let that go and embrace life as it is?”
Fresh tears filled her eyes. How long had it been since he’d seen her care?
“Please, talk to me.”
Ivan finished the food on his plate, but Elsie remained still, staring out the window. The fact that she wasn’t pulling away gave him more hope than he’d had in ages.
“You’re wrong.” Her words were barely audible. He waited, longing for her to say more, but she didn’t.
“Okay,” he whispered. “But why and when and how? And how do we fix it?”
“Loss uns fische geh!” Ivan declared loudly.
“Ya, in paar Minudde.” Although Grey assured Ivan that they’d go fishing in a few minutes, he kept his eyes glued to Elsie.
She shook her head, tears falling gently.
“Can’t you just tell me some piece? I can’t understand without words.”
“I … I know. I … think about saying things.” She laid her hand on her heart. “Words move through me like fish in a pond, but my pole has no hook, and I own no nets.” She turned the water on, washed her face, and dried it on a kitchen towel.
Those few words were the most insight she’d given him in years, and now it was over. He could see it in her face. “We need help, Elsie.”
“No.” She stiffened, eyes wide, staring at him in horror. He’d never hinted at bringing in the support group before. She was such a private person that it’d tear her up inside to share with others their awful, ugly truth. He knew that about her, but wasn’t the way they were living ripping her apart too? She probably took the idea of the council as his threatening her, but he saw it as the only option left. “Grey, please. Everyone will know everything if you do that.”
“You know it’s handled as privately as possible. Only the church leaders, the three chosen couples, and a few others would have to know. But even if the whole community learned of it, we need help.”
“You have the right to tell on me, and God is your witness that I deserve it, but … please.”
He stared out the kitchen window, wondering if being married would always be like this—no way to win, no way to forfeit, only a way to carry on.
Six
Standing beside the sink, Deborah counted out the last of the cash and shoved it into an envelope. The propane tank had to be filled early next week, or the gas stove would stop working. Thoughts of using the money Mahlon had sent tempted her. But how could she allow herself to use his money? He’d left them. Probably considered them a burden. Then he sent money?
Feeling caught in a thorn patch, she placed a stamp on the envelope and headed for the mailbox. She’d taken only a few steps when the back door opened. Ada smiled as she entered, but there was no happiness inside her greeting.
Deborah squared her shoulders, wanting to look strong for Ada. “You’re done with deliveries already?”
Ada moved to a kitchen chair and sat. “Afraid not.” She wiped perspiration from her forehead. “It was so much easier when the bakery sent a courier to pick up and deliver our goods.”
“What happened?”
“Rosie went lame. I knew she was favoring her right front leg when I hitched her this morning. Anyway, I got our first delivery made and was hal
fway to the second when she refused to go any farther. At first I thought she was just being her usual obstinate self, but when I checked her out, I realized she’d thrown a shoe at some point, and her hoof is split pretty bad. It felt hot to me, so it’s probably infected.”
Deborah’s skin tingled as stress crawled over her. Mahlon always took care of Ada’s horses. Deborah hadn’t even thought to look at the creature’s hoofs, and they’d been taking the poor girl on paved roads to make deliveries and to go to Dry Lake and back. No creature deserved that kind of treatment. “Where is she?”
“Tied to a tree about a mile before Select Bakery. After she refused to go any farther, I made several trips back and forth, carrying as many boxed desserts as I could to the bakery. I took the most expensive and perishable ones, but cakes and pies get really heavy when toting them for a mile. I couldn’t keep it up and knew we had to come up with a better plan, so I came on home.”
Home. The reality around her didn’t match the hopes she’d once had for this place.
Ada wiped another round of sweat from her brow. “Before leaving the bakery, I called Stoltzfus Blacksmith Shop. I know it’s an hour away by carriage, but it’s the only blacksmith I know. I didn’t reach anybody, so I left a message.”
“Okay, that’s a start.” Deborah poured Ada a glass of ice water. “Couldn’t someone at the bakery drive to where the carriage is parked to pick up the rest of our goods?”
“That would only solve getting our goods to them. I haven’t made the drop at Sweet Delights either. I asked the folks at Select Bakery if they could help me out. But two of their people always walk to work, and the other one’s car is on the.… She called it something. I didn’t recognize the word, but someone dropped her off at work, and clearly her car doesn’t work any better than my horse.”
“Fritz,” Deborah offered. “Cara uses the word.” She wouldn’t say it aloud, but the truth was, everything about her and Ada’s lives was on the fritz. Was that how Mahlon felt? Like he’d never get ahead but was too trapped to do anything about it?
“Where is she?” Ada asked.
“Hmm?” Deborah looked up, wondering how long she’d been lost in her own thoughts. “Who?”
“Cara.”
“Oh, ya. She and Lori are doing some yard sales. She called it window-shopping. I’m pretty sure she packed them a picnic lunch too and plans to spend the afternoon at Willow Park.” Deborah reached her hand across the table. “I’ll find the pushcart and get our goods to both bakeries. At least you made most of the deliveries to the farthest one out.”
“I guess it’s good they open first and want the items earliest.”
“Maybe if I unhitch the mare and walk her slowly, she can make it to the barn without the need of borrowing someone’s horse trailer.” She slid the envelope with the money to pay the propane bill to Ada. “I better not pay that bill. Looks like we might need that cash today.”
Ada took a sip of the water. “We made a few dollars today from what the bakeries sold yesterday but only enough to cover food for the next couple of days and fresh supplies for our next round of baking. I’ve got that birthday cake order for tonight, and I can’t wait any longer to get started on it. If you can get the goods to the bakeries and the horse back home, we’ll figure out everything else when you return.”
“Ya, you’re right. First things first.” Deborah went to the barn, found the pushcart, and started walking toward Select Bakery.
The sting of feeling overwhelmed and incapable pricked her like hundreds of bees. Before Mahlon left her, she’d had confidence. She missed soaring on the winds, feeling strong and beautiful and hopeful. Had those feelings been a lie? Lately she messed up everything she touched, from making cakes to tending to their horse.
If this business failed, she hated to think what that would do to Ada. She’d lost her only child to the world.
The now-familiar questions started pounding at her again. Why? Why didn’t I know Mahlon wasn’t in love with me? Why did life have to become so hard, so humiliating and lonely?
She didn’t hear anything from God. Maybe He couldn’t be heard over the river of her own whining. As much as her bellyaching disgusted her, it didn’t begin to express how she really felt. She wanted her life back. The one … the one Mahlon ran from?
It didn’t make sense to want that.
She spotted the horse under a tree, waiting patiently to be rescued. Rosie had her right front hoof barely touching the ground. Deborah set the legs to the pushcart on the ground and moved to the horse, caressing her head and nose. The poor thing nuzzled against Deborah’s touch. What an awful price Rosie was paying for Deborah and Ada’s negligence.
“I can’t seem to get anything right, Rosie.” Deborah placed her forehead against the horse’s, waiting on a peaceful thought or answer to float down and rescue her. It didn’t.
She took a step back, longing to hear a whisper within her own soul. Something faint brushed her awareness. She knew this feeling. In the past this sensation swept over her when Mahlon was nearby, usually when he was watching her from a distance. She’d had it many times, but she didn’t think she’d felt it since he left.
She stepped out from under the tree and looked up and down Main Street. A couple of women milled about, going nowhere in a hurry, and one man stood at the automated-teller machine outside the bank.
Mahlon wasn’t there. Part of her wished he was. As much as he’d done to her, the biggest part of her still loved him. How is that possible?
“Hey, Deborah.”
She jolted and looked behind her. Jonathan Stoltzfus, Mahlon’s cousin, was astride his chestnut stallion, riding it bareback.
She wondered how she hadn’t heard his horse coming up the side street behind her. “What are you doing here?”
Jonathan slid off his horse. “Ada left a message at the shop about an hour ago, saying you guys had a lame horse.” He grinned and straightened his straw hat. “It took me about two, maybe three, seconds to realize there was a wagonload of desserts that needed rescuing.”
The feeling of being caught in a briar patch eased. “I’m glad to know that I can always depend on you—as long as free desserts are involved.”
“Never ever forget that, Little Debbie.” He passed her the reins and moved to where Rosie stood. Within moments he had the horse’s knee bent and part of her leg resting on his thigh while he inspected her hoof. “Ya, it’s split and infected. She’ll be out of commission for a while. I should’ve thought to check her shoes when I was at Ada’s three weeks ago.” He stood straight. “So, we need to connect Rosie’s wagon to my horse without making the desserts slide into one another. Up for it?”
She doubted it. She’d do something stupid and mess everything up again.
Jonathan ran his hands down Rosie’s shoulder and slowly moved past her fetlock, looking for other signs of injury.
“Ya. I guess.”
Jonathan turned to face her. “If Rosie could talk, even she’d sound more confident than that.”
She shrugged, trying to keep tears at bay.
He moved closer. “You want to talk about it?”
“There’s nothing to say that you don’t already know.”
He lifted her chin, making her look him in the eyes. “We go way back, Deborah. I’d guess I realized you weren’t so bad when I was in eighth grade and put a frog in your dress at school. You must’ve been in third grade at the time, just a little kid, and you didn’t even tell the teacher on me.”
“Ya.” She remembered feeling the creature wriggle against her back, and she’d run out of the classroom without permission and danced around outside until that frog fell to the ground.
“Of course”—Jonathan folded his arms—“the day before, you’d used the backside of my homework to draw a picture on.”
“You’re the one who put it on my desk.”
“I was busy and just set it down.”
“And I made it more beautiful with swirly things and
hearts and rainbows.”
“Just what I wanted while standing in front of the class reading the report—the part facing them filled with girly stuff.” He laughed, but she only shrugged. “Come on, Little Debbie. That image is worth a chuckle.”
“How can I laugh about anything? All of me believed that Mahlon loved me. I thought he wanted a life with me … and every bit of that was a lie.”
He rubbed his fingers across his shaven face, making a light sandpaper noise as he did. “Like you, I’ve known Mahlon my whole life. He loved you. You’ve got to know that’s true. He was just … too immature and confused to deal with life.”
When she didn’t answer, he began fastening the rigging to his horse. That odd sensation washed over her again. She went to the sidewalk and studied the old town.
Across the street, more than a block away, a man stood watching her.
Is it possible?
The hair on her arms and neck stood up. Mahlon?
Emotions pounded at her like hoofs from a dozen horses. What should she do? What did she want to do? Was it even him?
If it was …
Silence fell inside her, and emotions waited on the edge for an answer. Her own soul wanted to know, if it was him, then what?
When he left her, she quickly moved from beloved fiancée to the “humiliated one,” and now she understood something about herself—she’d slipped from shock and mourning into a really bad place. And she had to fight her way free before she gave Mahlon the power to destroy even more of her life than he already had.
Jonathan peered in the direction she was staring. “What are we looking at?”
I have no idea. Even if the man was Mahlon, she still wouldn’t know who she was seeing. “A creation of my imagination.”
The man took a few steps toward her, and Deborah’s heart went crazy. If it was Mahlon, she didn’t want to face him. Not today. Not while she was a walking heap of … of … failure. He strode toward her, but his walk didn’t look like Mahlon’s slow, easy gait. Still, it could be him.
The Bridge of Peace Page 5