by Gayle Roper
Englisch clothes made you want to be pretty or stylish or unique, all things she’d been trained against her whole life. She was used to looking at clothing as one way of yielding herself to the Gmay. Could she make Max understand how looking the same as all the other women was a good thing that fostered humility and unity?
“Do you know uffgevva?” she asked Max.
Max shook her head. She was seated as usual in Buddy’s recliner. She pointed at a chair for Rachel who sank to the edge of the indicated seat.
“Uffgevva is the concept of giving up your rights, giving up yourself, and yielding to the community. It applies to many things and dress is one of them. The Ordnung tells me what I can wear, and I yield my right to disagree because the community is more important than my wishes. I want to be humble and please God, so I wear the prescribed wardrobe just as I submit myself in other ways to the Gmay.”
Max lowered the footrest on Buddy’s recliner and sat forward. “I understand the concept of submitting to others. It’s a command of Paul’s in Ephesians. It’s one of the ways the Body of Christ keeps unity, something else the Bible tells us to seek.”
Rachel blinked. An Englisch woman who believed in uffgevva? “But it seems to me that you Englisch make a big thing about your rights and being independent. We Amish are working to lose ourselves to God and to the Gmay. We have no rights but rather the duty to love God and serve each other.”
“I agree we English love our individuality. But speaking for myself, I recognize my responsibility to yield my rights for the greater good, whether it’s for my country or my church or my family. I try to honor others and accept others. I try to remember not to think of myself more highly than I should.”
“But—” In many ways that sounded like the Amish way.
“Consider,” Max said. “We both believe in dressing modestly since this is what Scripture says. You—your people—define how to be modest differently than I. You don’t want to call attention to yourself within your community, so you dress alike. But if I dressed like your community in my community, I’d draw that unwanted attention.”
Rachel knew what Max meant because that was why she didn’t wear her regular clothes to class. Her mind whirled. She’d always thought of the Amish and the Englisch as totally at odds with each other. The Amish were modest and correct, those who gave up self, and the Englisch were immodest and incorrect, those who cherished self. She hadn’t even thought about a third group out there, Englisch who believed in uffgevva. She knew there were lots of Englisch who called themselves Christians, but Englisch Christians who believed in giving up themselves?
Max studied Rachel. “John the Baptist said that Jesus must increase and he must decrease. Is that uffgevva?”
“John the Baptist made following Jesus his whole purpose. Part of following Jesus in that way is uffgevva. It’s losing individuality, giving it up.”
“But didn’t God make us individuals with different personalities and gifts?”
Conversations with Max often made Rachel think beyond herself. She liked this stretching of her faith.
“We certainly recognize people are different and contribute in different ways,” she said. “But we should be willing to give up our personal opinions and agendas. We should be humble, serving one another, yielding to each other.”
Max nodded. “I believe that. I do. I also believe God gave us different gifts and personalities, that being different is good.”
“But self is dangerous.” If uffgevva taught anything, it taught that.
Max nodded. “Self can be dangerous. I agree. But are being different and being full of self the same?”
They couldn’t be the same. She was different from everyone she knew, but she wasn’t full of self. Or was she? Wasn’t this whole getting an education thing her being full of self? Or was it just her being different?
“I need to think.”
“Okay, you think. In the meantime, do you want to go shopping or not?” Max asked.
Rachel realized that in spite of all her talk about uffgevva, she did. She wanted to fit in. Gott Vader, am I becoming Englisch? What a scary thought.
“How will I know what to buy?” she asked Max.
“You buy whatever makes you comfortable.”
Max sounded so reasonable, but it was beyond Rachel’s experience to buy ready-made clothes. She’d been sewing her own things on her mother’s machine as soon as she was old enough to reach the treadle. She could manage that homemaking chore because it was easy when you followed the same pattern every time, and Mom was always there to correct her mistakes.
On Wednesday after she passed her driver’s test with no problem, she and Max went shopping.
“I don’t want to spend much,” she told Max. Buying Englisch clothes did not mean she would forget her Amish frugality.
Wearing her white blouse and denim skirt, Rachel followed Max into a consignment shop. Racks and racks of clothes filled the room. Colors and patterns shimmered on every hanger. It was blinding and bewildering. Overwhelming. How was she ever to select?
“You need a couple of sweaters,” Max announced, taking charge.
Rachel obediently followed her to a counter where sweaters of every color lay. She felt panic rise in her chest.
Max looked at her, then at the sweaters. She began pulling out cardigans in several colors.
Rachel reached for a pale blue Max hadn’t selected. It wouldn’t attract attention and it was a pretty shade.
“No, no.” Max took it from her hand and put it back. “With your dark brown hair and eyes, that color would wash you out. You want stronger colors.”
She did?
Two hours later, she and Max carried her purchases inside Max’s house. The bags filled the large chair in front of the fireplace.
“We bought too much, Max. I need to take some back.”
“It’s not too much. If you want to see too much, you should see Ashley’s wardrobe.”
“But I’ll only be wearing them twice a week.”
“Four outfits that you can mix and match isn’t much, Rachel. Believe me. Which outfit will you wear Friday to class?”
Rachel’s eye went to the cranberry top. It was the brightest shade of red that she’d ever had, and she loved it.
Max picked up the knit top. “It’s a wonderful color for you. Brings out the roses in your cheeks.”
Rachel flushed. Did she want roses in her cheeks?
“You should wear it with the long gray skirt we found.”
Rachel looked at the skirt. She’d seen girls in class in ones just like it.
“I’m glad that I’m only playing Englisch two nights a week. It’s too nerve-racking to do more often. Look. My hand’s trembling.”
“Go change. You’ll feel more like yourself.”
So she did. And she did.
Friday evening she dressed for class in her new gray skirt and cranberry top.
“Whoever would have thought I’d be dressed Englisch in a longer skirt than I wear dressed Amish?” she said to Max who was busy in the kitchen microwaving her dinner. “I won’t be too late coming home.”
Max smiled. “You’ve got a key, so it’s not a problem. Come home whenever you feel like it. I’m a night owl. I’ll probably be up. If I’m not, come on in.”
Driving without Max in the seat beside her was scary for the first few miles, but by the time she pulled into a parking spot at Wexford, she felt confident. At least she had made it this far without being spotted by someone from the Gmay. Or worse, from her family. She also felt safer in her car than she did in her buggy, especially on the main roads. The suction from the big trucks didn’t make the car shudder as much as it did a buggy. She also didn’t have to worry about a horse being frightened and acting on that fear. But if she got a flat tire, she was in trouble.
After class, as was becoming their habit, Rachel, Amy, and Rob went to the Star. Patsy showed them to a banquette in the corner instead of a booth. Rachel slid in from
one side and Amy from the other. Rob didn’t hesitate; he slid in beside Rachel.
Not that he sat close, but it was obvious he deliberately sat by her, not Amy. When Betts came for their order and Rob’s attention was on her, Amy not too subtly socked Rachel on the thigh and mouthed, “I told you so.”
Rachel flushed. The last thing she wanted or needed was an Englisch guy interested in her. There was no way she could juggle one more thing.
“How’d you two do on your papers?” Amy asked after she ordered a grilled cheese sandwich and Diet Coke.
“Okay,” Rachel said noncommittally.
“Sea of red.” Rob, looking unhappy, fiddled with the salt and pepper shakers.
“What went wrong?” Rachel asked quickly before Amy asked her how she did and she had to confess she’d gotten an A.
“According to Dr. Dyson, no emotion, no involvement, all facts. ‘There’s no you in here’—you get the idea.”
“What did you write about?”
“I wrote about the need for rescuing pets.”
“That’s a great topic. How’d you personalize it? Did you write about rescuing Charlie?”
“I wrote about the need to rescue animals.”
“Okay, but—” Rachel hesitated. She was in danger of falling into teacher mode, and Rob might not appreciate her telling him what she thought was wrong.
“But what?” Rob looked like he really wanted to know. “Come on, Rachel. Help! Otherwise it’s going to be a very long and painful semester.”
Rachel pulled away a piece of her hair that had somehow gotten stuck in the corner of her mouth and brushed it back over her shoulder. She never had trouble with hair when it was contained in her kapp or a scarf. “Why did you write on that subject?”
“Because it was something I’d just done, I guess.”
“So the fact you’d just done it is what makes it personal to you. Personal is the key word for this assignment.”
He nodded. “According to the ASPCA, there are thousands of animals put down every day because of the expense of caring for them.”
Rachel put up a hand. “No, that’s not what she wants. What makes this general topic of rescuing animals personal to you?”
Rob frowned as if she’d asked him a trick question. “Charlie, I guess. When I saw him sitting in that cage, his tail wagging and his eyes pleading, I knew I couldn’t leave him. In fact I hated leaving any of them.” He talked for some time about the poor dogs in cages, all looking so forlorn, and about the little kid who was picking out a dog.
“ ‘I want that big one,’ the kid said, pointing to a dog three times his size. And his father said, ‘You’ll never be able to take him for a walk. He’s too big. He’ll take you. Pick a small one.’ ” Rob smiled. “They left with a harlequin Great Dane.”
Rachel smiled back. “Did you write any of that?”
He looked gobsmacked. “That’s what she wanted?”
“That’s what she wanted.”
“You mean I spent all that time researching things for nothing?”
“Statistics about animals being abused and in need of rescue, about organizations that do that work, that’s not what she’s looking for though you could probably slip some of that info in here and there.”
Amy agreed. “This isn’t a history class or a science class where you spit out facts. It may be a basic comp class, but you have to go deeper. You go into your emotions and thoughts, not just facts. Anyone can find facts. Only you can write your reactions.”
Rob ate half his tuna melt before he spoke again. “You mean I have to explain that I wanted companionship? Someone who didn’t demand unreasonable things from me? I have to admit I was smitten by a dog’s lolling tongue and sad eyes asking for help?”
“Lolling tongue,” Rachel said. “She’d like that.”
“What’d you write about?” he asked.
“Why I’m taking this class.”
Amy pointed a French fry at her. “And I bet you didn’t write about the statistics that people who go to college get better jobs and make more money.”
“I wrote about my heart’s yearning for more education, my consuming passion to learn.”
“And I wrote about my need to leave my small narrow home for a larger world,” Amy said. “Not about the finances of leaving home or the dangers or the resulting independence. I wrote why I had to get away or die.” She grinned. “Got a B.”
Rob shook his head. “So she wants us to rip out our guts and write in blood.”
“You got it.” Amy patted his hand like a mother who was proud of her son.
“I’m going to be a money man. Numbers. Markets. A plus B equals C. I do facts and probabilities, not feelings.”
“What are you writing about for next Friday?” Rachel asked. She felt impatient that she had to wait a whole week for the next class because of Labor Day. “We can brainstorm with you.”
“I don’t know.” He grinned that adorable grin of his. “It’s not Thursday night yet.”
Chapter 14
The banging on his trailer door made Johnny Miller feel his head was inside one of Datt’s old milking pails while someone beat on it with the equally old milking stool. Not that anyone had used a pail and stool for years. Sanitation laws and all.
“Open this door, Miller!” Mick Morrison’s temper burned in the words, and Johnny wouldn’t be surprised to see scorch marks on his front door—if he ever got to see his front door again. “I know you’re in there!”
There was an extra loud bang on the door, and Johnny pictured Mick using his baseball bat.
“It’s the end of another week, Miller.”
As if Johnny didn’t know it was Friday evening, and he owed Mr. Sherman another thousand dollars. He hadn’t been able to pay the original five thousand. How could he pay an extra thousand? Where was the logic?
But it wasn’t about logic. It was about power and fear.
What would happen if Mick broke in and found him cowering here in the shower stall like a spooked mouse? His humiliation would be total, his reputation, such as it was, unredeemable. Johnny wrapped his arms more tightly around his legs and burrowed his head into his knees.
“You should have seen him,” Mick would say, laughing as he told everyone where Johnny was. “All that stupid Amish sissy stuff always comes out in the end. Wusses, all of them!” And a whole lot of uglier words. If Mick wasn’t beating someone with his fists or his bat, he found whipping them with words almost as satisfying.
Johnny shivered and hugged himself tighter. Being called a coward was better than being beaten or killed. Besides, what else could he do but hide? He didn’t have the money to pay. He’d never have the money.
A vivid picture of Mick shooting off the front door lock and storming the place raced through his mind like an action scene from a movie. Or maybe Mick’d just race down the side of the trailer with his automatic, trigger depressed, spitting fire as he laughed maniacally and Johnny jerked in slow motion as the bullets ripped through him.
He whimpered at his imagined demise, then slapped a hand over his mouth to keep any more sound from escaping. God, help me! Please?
Not that God was likely to listen to him.
And not that Mick needed a gun. All he had to do was ram the door with that massive shoulder of his and the lock would pop. Johnny shuddered.
The mildew stench of the unwashed and poorly vented shower stall tickled the inside of his nose and made him want to sneeze. He buried his nose in his arm to stifle the urge. He couldn’t afford the noise. The flimsy trailer shell was no protection against being heard.
Or being shot.
The banging continued in spite of the lack of lights on inside. Why didn’t Mick just bust his way in? Get it over with?
“Miller! Come out here and be a man!”
Johnny cringed at the words. The man terrified him. There was something seriously wrong with the guy, something missing inside, that inner whatever-it-was that kept people from harmi
ng others. Mick gloried in hurting those weaker. That would include Johnny.
Usually Mr. Sherman kept him under control, but every so often he let Mick loose.
“You’re a dead man, Miller,” Mick yelled. “A dead man!”
Johnny felt his stomach heave, and he swallowed mightily. It wasn’t the shame of throwing up all over himself that made him fight the nausea and flood of saliva. It was fear of the noise he’d make as he heaved.
Another sound made Johnny go cold all over. His cell phone was playing.
But it wasn’t his. It was Mick’s. He could hear Mick bellow, “Yeah?”
His voice immediately grew respectful, and Johnny knew it must be Mr. Sherman. What did the fat man have that made the Micks of the world respect him? It was a mystery. If he could figure it out, he’d never cower in a stall again. He’d make others cower.
The murmur of conversation reached him through the flimsy trailer shell, but not words. There was a moment of silence as the call seemed over.
Then Mick slapped the side of the trailer again, making Johnny jump and his bowels turn watery.
“I know you’re here, Miller. And I know I could get in there without breaking a sweat. I got my gun.” The affection in Mick’s voice when he spoke of his weapon sounded obscene.
A loud crack! sounded as Mick pulled the trigger. Johnny put out his hands and, fingers splayed, braced himself against the far shower wall to keep from collapsing in a quivering heap.
“I’m just playing with you.” Mick laughed. “Think about that, Miller. I’m only playing with you. This time.” He laughed again and Johnny felt goosebumps all over his body.
Footsteps crunched. A car door slammed. Then another. Someone was with Mick. Thomas? They were a team of sorts. A motor turned over. Tires spat gravel in the drive, and the sound of the motor diminished to nothing.
Johnny lifted his head and rolled his shoulders, but he didn’t stand. Not yet. What if Mick hadn’t really driven away? What if he was crouched, bat at the ready, waiting for a sound, any sound, from inside the trailer? Then he’d force the lock and be inside in a flash. Stress sweat made the mildew sweet by comparison.