by Linda Byler
Finally, “Matthew?” It was an awkward sound, a squeak, a balloon releasing the air.
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Oh, nothing. Nothing.”
“Well, then?”
“But, they just broke up.”
“It’s not a date.”
“I know.”
Strangely, then, silence returned, the line quietly humming in their ears but sizzling with the unspoken instruments of hurt wedged between them—truth unable to be spoken on Melvin’s side, defense rearing its shield on Sarah’s.
His voice drained of any bravado, Melvin finally said, “Well.”
“What?”
“Well, I guess that makes you happy.”
“Yes, it does.”
“Good for you.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“But I do, Sarah.”
She laughed, a short expulsion of disbelief. “No, you don’t.”
Melvin hunkered down on the hay bale he was sitting on and decided the fat was in the fire now. If she was going to act like that, then he’d just tell her, swimming along in her total blindness, swept away by that current named Matthew.
“Alright, Sarah. I’m only telling you this because I care about you. I worry about what will happen to you. You’re my favorite girl in the whole world. You know that.”
He stopped, allowing the dramatic statement to claim her.
She wiped her mouth with a thumb and forefinger and grimaced. Thinking what a complete professional Melvin was, she felt the first twinge of unease.
“Matthew is a nice guy, but he’s likely using you to make Rose jealous.”
The truth in his words came down on her like a whip, slicing through the inner most region of her conscience, that place that vibrated with tiny blue, pulsing lights, so irrelevant they were once easily covered up by her own beautiful words of love and longing, the yearning piled safely on the entire mass of her own security. Now a hot anger shot through her, alarming in its resonance. She almost hung up on him, but the training in good manners she had received from her parents restrained her.
“I’m sorry you have to feel that way, Melvin.”
Melvin shook his head. Her words were as artificial, as slyly sweetened, as deplorable, as any he had ever heard. Enough was enough. Touché, Sarah.
“Well, I’ll see you there, okay? I’m looking forward to it. You know the oldies team is going to win, don’t you? We’re going to whip everyone!”
This was pure Melvin, enthused, back on track in his unbridled zest for life, the competition of the upcoming ping-pong games erasing all the bad feelings between them.
Sarah smiled, then laughed, shoving back the ill will, and they chatted happily about ordinary, mundane things, the darker subjects of Matthew and the barn fires behind them now. As always, friendship prevailed, and theirs was a rare and precious thing, too valuable to shatter with the resounding click of a receiver slammed down in anger.
Sarah shivered, drew the sweater tightly across her chest, and leaned forward to warm herself. She glanced at the lowering sky, the world turning from a white gray to a darker gray as the sun set behind the heavy layer of restrained ice and rain or whatever would be released on the cold, brown earth lying dormant now, awaiting its cold winter cover.
Melvin was still talking, but her mind was on the solidness, the new stronghold of Reuby’s barn, just put “under roof” today. How grateful he must be! The ice and snow could assail it now, pound it, and bounce around on it, and the men would have a protected place to complete the job.
She thought of Bena’s reaction to the La-Z-Boy recliners and smiled, remembering her short, round form, her purple kopp-duch (head scarf), her misshapen everyday sneakers of questionable origin, her sagging black socks, the way she dipped her head in true humility after acknowledging that the recliners really were given to them, delivered by this English man.
“You’re not listening.” Melvin whined.
“Yes. Yes, I am.”
“What was I saying?”
“You were talking about this new schoolteacher at the school across the road from your house.”
“But what did I say?”
“That she’s from Perry County.”
“No, she’s not. That’s not what I said. See, you weren’t listening at all.”
“Oh, you said Dauphin.”
“Well, yeah.”
“Don’t act like I’m two years old, Melvin. You know I hate that, when you sound so condescending.”
“I didn’t know you knew what that word meant.”
“Smart, aren’t I?”
“Not so much.”
Sarah laughed and told Melvin she was freezing. There’s nothing colder than sitting in an unheated phone shanty.
“I’m in the barn. I’m not cold.”
“Well, lucky you. See you Saturday night, Melvin.”
“Bye.”
She could hardly open the door fast enough or race back to the house with enough speed, hurling through the kitchen door and moving swiftly to the coal stove in the corner. She shook her hands above it, as chills raced up and down her spine.
Levi observed all this from his chair, where he was patiently waiting on the casserole to come out of the oven.
“You were out there over an hour,” he said dryly.
Mercifully, Mam had her back turned, putting carrots in a dishpan to peel and cut. She pinched her lips into a grim line, her eyes dark pools of worry and hard-earned restraint.
“Yeah well, Levi, you know how Melvin talks.”
Levi nodded, smiled.
So, it was Melvin. Mam relaxed visibly and turned to ask Sarah to peel the carrots. Sarah moved obediently to the kitchen sink. She told Levi about Melvin wanting to be at the meeting and that he should be questioned more thoroughly about the white car.
Levi lifted his shoulders, shifted in his chair, and cleared his throat with great importance. “I’d be glad to go to the meeting. I can answer questions if they put them to me.”
Sarah smiled, noting the gros-feelich (proud) cadence of his words.
“I’m sure Dat will want you to go, Levi.”
“I think Monday night would suit me alright,” he answered, looking across the kitchen at the calendar, his eyes glistening.
Chapter 22
THE PREDICTIONS FROM THE weather forecast proved deplorably accurate. Tiny bits of ice mixed with cold, wet rain drove in from the east, relentlessly battering the new metal siding of Reuby Kauffman’s barn. It fell on the half-frozen debris-filled troughs of mud and water blackened by the charred bits of wood, twisted nails, corkscrewed metal, and chunks of blistered tile and drywall and concrete. It swirled and eddied around potholes in the broken macadam and pooled in deep ruts left by the fire trucks and bulldozers, creating a slick, glistening other-worldliness by the time Reuby awoke the following morning.
David Beiler was one of the first people to arrive, his old wool hat bent and dripping, the droplets hovering on its brim as if undecided about whether to freeze or slide off. He threw the leather reins across the horse’s back, reached for the shtrung (leather straps connecting the harness and buggy), clicked the backhold snap, and looked up to find Reuby striding through the mud.
“Morning, Davey.”
“How are you, Reuby?”
“Good. Good.”
Dat looked out from beneath his hat brim, his gaze warm with the compassion of a person with aforeung (experience). He was shocked to find Reuby’s normally vibrant eyes clouded with fatigue, defeat—and what else? Dat shivered, shaken to the core by the gray pallor on Reuby’s face.
“Reuby, are you sure you’re doing good?”
In answer, Reuby half turned, his mouth working, as he fought to gain control over the debilitating despair that threatened to squeeze the life from his veins. He swallowed, nodded.
Dat came around to Reuby’s side and placed his gloved hand on the wet black shoulder, a gesture of pleasant understanding, of
deep sincerity, and compassion.
“Reuby, it seems impossible now, but it isn’t. You’ll receive help. God will provide. He always does.”
Deeply moved, Reuby’s shoulders began to shake, as the control he held onto so firmly slipped from his grasp. Dat’s hand remained on his shoulder, the other held the bridle of his unquestioning Fred, who stood obediently in the cold wet rain until his master would lead him to shelter.
Reuby’s head came up then. He shook it back and forth, produced a red, wrinkled handkerchief, and blew lustily. He placed it quickly back in his pocket, as if the disappearance would hide his shame at crying when he was, after all, a man who viewed the whole world through rose-colored glasses of love and charity.
“How can a person go on?” he mumbled brokenly.
“God will see you through.”
“But I’m already deeply in debt. So deep, in fact, I don’t know if it’s wise to rebuild. The Amish fire insurance will never cover it all. I feel perhaps I should just give up, rent a small home, get a day job.”
“In the Old Testament, God told the children of Israel to be patient, to stand by, that he would show works of wonder for them. If you rebuild in faith, God will bless you, like Abraham of old. His belief in God was rewarded many times over.”
“I’m not Abraham.”
There was a tinge of bitterness in Reuby’s words, so Dat told him to come to the meeting on Monday evening. A group of men were assembling to figure out a solution of sorts. They would talk about finances as well. Already, there were trust funds established at two different banks, the generosity of the people reaching unbelievable levels.
Reuby nodded and yawned. He peered at Dat with bleary eyes and said, yes, he’d be there. Then he yawned mightily once more. Dat knew Reuby had barely managed an hour’s sleep, the enormity of his situation keeping him awake long hours as the icy rain pelted the shambles of his home and pinged and clattered against the metal roofing of the makeshift quarters in the implement shed.
“The sun will shine again, Reuby. God never makes us suffer more than he gives us the strength to bear.”
Reuby nodded and watched dully as more teams appeared. Dat knew he was tired, discouraged, and moving in a fog of disorientation and would be for a while longer.
“Be thankful no lives were lost,” he said.
“I know, I know. You lost young Mervin, and nothing can replace that kind of loss.”
“Absolutely,” Dat said.
Far from the site of the barn raising, Sarah shivered as she sat uncomfortably in the back seat of the van, wedged between Ruthie Zook on her right, and Anna Mary Fisher on her left. Both were sound asleep, their pillows stuffed haphazardly into the corners of the back seat, their mouths hanging open in the most unattractive manner.
The ride to market was risky, unnerving at best, the driver hunched over his steering wheel, staring into the night at the slick and dangerous roads. Massive dump trucks crawled along, their beds lifted as they swirled salt, calcium, and cinders onto the roads for the edgy motorists trailing behind.
If Ike Stoltzfus would close his mouth for one second, Sarah thought. As if the driver knew he had support from the back seat, he turned and told Ike to keep his opinions to himself. He was the driver and he would decide the speed. It was no big deal to be late; the market wouldn’t exactly be booming with customers in this weather anyway, so just shut it. Ike slouched back in his seat, crossed his arms, and began to brood, glancing balefully at the streaks of ice and rain in the glare of the headlights.
The van veered crazily as the driver swung the steering wheel to the left, then right, but they stayed on course, the speed significantly reduced yet again.
Ike yelped but remained quiet, his eyes sliding to the tense profile beside him.
Anna Mary’s head swung back against Sarah’s shoulder. Her eyes fluttered open, and she gasped. Ruthie’s head slid forward, she righted it awkwardly, and went right on sleeping.
Sarah sipped her lukewarm coffee from the tall travel cup. Anna Mary leaned over and asked if she could have a swallow of it. Handing it over, Sarah grimaced as she engulfed the lid with her heavy lips, slurped, and handed it back.
End of the coffee for me, she thought.
“You can have it.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
“Thanks.”
The ride was stretching into its fourth hour when they finally rolled up to the vast brick building on Progress Street. The Amish had turned the obscure old train station into a bustling, friendly market full of life, sounds, and smells that enticed consumers to buy something from each stand.
Sturdy posts and a mock shingled roof framed Amos Fisher’s produce stand. Piles of fresh tomatoes, green, yellow, and red peppers, towers of cucumbers, zucchini, summer squash, carrots, garden lettuce, and new onions created a feast for the eyes. The bonus attraction for modern shoppers was the organic label boasting that no pesticides or insecticides had been used to grow the vegetables. Customers from the big city paid the price, placing their trust in the bearded fellow and his helpers wearing white bib aprons and coverings on their heads.
Despite the numerous meat counters, some customers only bought from the stand run by a Jewish family. Their meats were kosher, prepared according to the requirements of the Jewish law in the Old Testament. Kosher or not, he had the best salami in the market, and a lively mix of customers, both Jewish and English, Amish and Mennonite, bought from him.
Sarah always viewed the Jewish family with a certain mix of awe and curiosity. What she really wanted was to sit down and compare their beliefs. How different or similar were they? Like the Jews, the Amish derived many of their highly esteemed traditions from the Old Testament. She supposed belief in Jesus separated them, but still. Both groups seemed to have a common love of tradition, and that interested her, although she doubted she’d ever have the nerve—or the time—to start a conversation with them.
The largest stand in the sprawling market was the Stoltzfus bakery, where freshly made pies, bread, rolls, cakes, cookies, and cupcakes rolled off the shelves as fast Sarah and the fourteen others who worked there could restock the spotless white shelves. They covered cinnamon rolls with Saran Wrap before they were properly cooled. But the goods sold rapidly just the same. Sarah chuckled as an overweight lady happily snatched up the fresh buns and scuttled to a nearby table before peeling off the plastic and tucking into the first heavenly mouthful, rolling her eyes blissfully at her companion.
Sarah mixed huge vats of yeast dough and put large mounds of it into the proofer, a machine that produced just the right amount of warmth and humidity to raise the dough to the required size. Then she turned it on a large, floured surface and began forming the quota of bread, rolls, and sweet rolls. Her arms became rounded and well-muscled from plying, rolling, and turning the dough, sprinkling it with brown sugar and cinnamon and walnuts.
There were five sit-down restaurants and many booths where customers could eat food they bought to take out. Leather supplies, a craft stand, and outdoor furniture—all at reasonable prices—catered to many different preferences.
Sarah truly loved her job now, and her devotion showed in her willingness to take on any task. But she was mostly restricted to the “yeast crew.”
Now, because of the inclement weather, they cut down on the amount of dough they would mix for the day. And the workers were allowed a forty-five minute break instead of only thirty. At one o’clock, Sarah still had not taken her break, allowing the other girls their turns, saying she wasn’t that hungry.
Then quite suddenly, she felt dizzy, her stomach caving in on itself. A half hour later, Ike told her to go on break, just when she wondered whether to collapse or eat dough. Of course, she did neither.
Hurrying along the aisle, her purse slung over her shoulder, Sarah sat down heavily and waited at her usual booth for her friend, Rose, who was having a slow day and came over almost immediately to sit with Sarah. As always, she w
as beautiful, her hair gleaming in the electric ceiling lights, her skin flawless, her robin’s egg dress reflecting her perfect blue eyes.
“Sarah!” She reached across the table, grasped both of Sarah’s hands, and squeezed. “I miss seeing you! I could hardly stand not going to the supper on Sunday evening!”
“Where were you, Rose?” Sarah asked, concerned now.
“Oh, I don’t know.” Rose removed her hands and looked away and then back. She cupped her delicate chin in one hand and shrugged.
“Sometimes it’s hard to go to the supper crowd. I mean, I’m happy. Don’t get me wrong, it’s just that…I don’t know.”
“Well, you’ve always been dating,” Sarah said too quickly and much too easily.
“I guess. I don’t know.” She brightened then and leaned forward and said, “You know who is just so attractive? That Lee Glick. See, the reason we never knew of him is that he used to be with the Dominoes, that other youth group, and now he moved down here with his sister, that Anna and Ben. Their barn was the second one that burned. Anyway, I went to the dinner table with him. I was surprised he went in to the afternoon table. He picked me, remember?”
Rose giggled, then looked away. “Oh, what can I get you? It’s almost two o’clock. Haven’t you eaten anything at all?”
Sarah shook her head. “Bring me a bowl of chili. Fast!”
Rose giggled again and hurried off, waving a hand behind her.
The Dominoes? No, he wasn’t.
The Dominoes was the name of an Amish youth group. Because of the many youth in Lancaster County, they were divided into groups with different names, like the Dominoes or the Drifters—any name to mark them as a specific group.
The largest was the Eagles, a parent-supervised group attempting a cleaner, better way of rumspringa, without the smoking and drinking of past days. Concerned parents and ministers, alarmed at the moral decline among the youth, were attempting a new rumspringa, where the ordnung still applied. This caused quite a bit of controversy among Amish wary of anything untraditional. A peaceful truce had been reached, although problems still broke out. But as Dat told Sarah, the problems could be solved when each placed the emphasis on giving in to the other in humility and brotherly love.