Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  The May sun was warm. It heated the house with its fresh, yellow light. Even the dust turned into specks of gold, floating through the air like bits of magic.

  Hester’s hair was covered in an old kerchief, her dress smudged and torn, the gray apron tied about her waist layered with the dust that clung to everything.

  Walter’s whistling was infectious. She began a tune of her own, low, a sort of humming of an old song Kate would sing to the children. She slapped at the low ceiling with her broom, dragging a net of cobwebs with it, blinking and sputtering as chips of old whitewash fell into her eyes.

  Walter straightened from fixing a hinge on the front door. “Mercy, mercy, child! You’re raising more dust than the cavalry marching through town.”

  Hester laughed, swinging her broom in his direction. “You want to do this?”

  Walter’s eyes twinkled at her, the good humor crinkling them like a fan closing until they were mere outlines with lashes. “Good to see you so happy, girl! Never saw you with a full-size laugh on your face.”

  Hester laughed again, which brought tears of joy to Walter’s eyes. They repaired, swept, whitewashed, scoured floors, and scrubbed cupboards and closets all through the mellow month of May.

  Sometimes William King would appear, his offers to help always met with Emma Ferree’s icy denial, which riled Billy considerably. He genuinely liked William.

  Hester wanted him to help but would not step over the boundaries her benefactor had placed for her. Emma was the authority in her life now, and she respected her requests.

  William caught her alone, scouring the wide oak planks of the small upstairs. She was whistling softly, the hot water reddening her hands as she worked on the floor with a wooden scrubbing brush. She held completely still when he whispered her name.

  “Hester.”

  “Yes, William?”

  “Why did you leave the Amish in Berks County? That question haunts me, keeps me awake at night.”

  “It’s a long story.” Hester placed the brush in the bucket of water, sat back on the wooden floor, her knees tucked beneath her.

  “Tell me. Please. Emma is outside.”

  “She doesn’t like you.”

  “I know. I can’t say that I care much for her, either.”

  “My story is long, a bit complicated. Annie was not a good companion, as you pointed out to me.”

  “Yes, we are in die freundshaft. There is a cruel streak,” William said, saying the words slowly, as if he handpicked them with great caution.

  “The situation became unbearable. She didn’t like Indians.”

  “Well, I don’t either. They’re savage. Wild men that deserve to be pushed west where they can live their uncivilized lives, roaming the wilds like the heathens they are.”

  Hester drew a deep breath to steady herself. Every fiber of her being rebelled against his coarse speech. Was this the same William who held her hand beneath the Amish wedding table, made her heart beat, sent shivers of joy sluicing through her veins? How could he say these things?

  “I am an Indian.” Her words were firm, the syllables deliberate, as if she cast them in stone and held them up for him to see.

  “You may have been born one, but the Amish saved you from being a dirty heathen.”

  William watched her chest heave with the force of her emotion. He watched as one work-reddened hand went to her apron front to still the upheaval she felt. Her eyes became blacker still, widening with the force of her words.

  “The Amish had nothing to do with saving me, as you say. Hans Zug and his wife Annie have clabbered my spirit like soured cream, poured me out to soak into the cracks of their parched Berks County earth, leaving nothing but a smelly odor in God’s nostrils.”

  William shivered beneath the dark truth in her eyes.

  CHAPTER 10

  WALTER HIRED ABE MILLER FROM THE IRONworking shop to plow a large garden. It was late in the season, but that made no difference to Emma and Hester. They stood side by side in the sweet, violet-laden breezes and watched the shining plow blade turn up the rich black earth in glistening layers alive with earthworms and grass roots that would serve to soften the ground.

  An Amish man by the name of Amos Speicher brought wagonloads of manure from his cowshed. Walter decided not to climb up on the wooden bed of the wooden-wheeled wagon because of his age. Emma rolled her eyes and held her hands in front of her own oversize stomach, making meaningful little dips with her eyebrows to show Hester it was his size, not his age.

  Billy wrinkled his nose, but jumped right up and helped Amos fork the manure on to the harrowed ground. They dragged the harrow through the manure again and again, the sturdy Belgian plodding faithfully until they had a perfectly prepared plot of soil to raise the vegetables they’d need.

  They placed onions into rows and sowed tiny carrot seeds in shallow trenches. They planted beans and then prepared poles for them to climb, once the bean shoots broke through the soil.

  One morning Walter’s face became an alarming shade of purple. He spent half the day with his straw hat tipped back, mopping his streaming head with a wrinkled, red handkerchief. Emma shook her head at his frequent lapses of effort, her own perspiration running freely down the side of her pink face. She swiped at it with the tip of her apron, discreetly, as if she could hide the fact that she did any sweating at all.

  Hester heaped the good, loose soil over the seeds, her heart beating strong and sure, the love of the earth infusing her nostrils with a heady scent. She would search the surrounding forest and swamps for the plants in her memory—yarrow and licorice and comfrey, mullen, sorrel, and fennel. She worked ceaselessly, her bare brown feet treading the earth, her spirits soaring with the wings of an eagle.

  Billy remembered nothing of living in the country before his life with Emma, but the small garden they dug by hand in the town of Lancaster had kept him occupied in spring. The house sat beneath two maple trees, squat and weather beaten, but as clean as a whistle, windows gleaming, floors smelling of fresh soap and lumber.

  There was a front porch with a sagging roof that Walter had repaired, balancing his bulk on a seemingly inadequate ladder, until even Hester dreaded the approaching accident. Which, of course, never occurred. It was just his size, Walter said.

  When moving day arrived, they hired the same man to drive and haul their possessions out to the homestead, still being careful about Hester’s Indian blood. They left the china cupboard and some of the folderols they didn’t need. The plank table and straight ladder-backed kitchen chairs fit so nicely by the fireplace, with shelves built along the low kitchen cupboard they brought, that Emma hopped up and down with excitement, spread a clean cloth on the table immediately, and brought out the Schtick she had painstakingly prepared for this long-anticipated day.

  She sliced bread in substantial slices and spread them with pungent, yellow butter, freshly churned and packed into a small, shallow crock. She placed thick slices of salty ham on one slice of bread, topped it with more yellow butter and another slice of bread, then arranged the sandwiches on a pewter plate.

  She fished hard-cooked eggs from the red beet brine that had turned them a delightful shade of red, placed them on a smaller plate with a salt shaker close by, a mound of pickled red beets among the eggs.

  That done, she set out the square pan of gingerbread, the chilled bowl of clabbered cream to spoon on top, and the biggest treat of all, a sparkling jar of spiced peaches from Helen Denlinger, as a gift in appreciation of their Sunday dinner. It was very nice of Helen to present them with the peaches. Helen’s gesture brought great relief to Emma, who had worried about Helen lapsing into heart failure, laced so excruciatingly into her corsets as she was during that Sunday dinner. Emma had given up trying to wear those torture devices as soon as she had snared Enos.

  Now Emma poured hot tea into earthenware mugs and called Walter, Hester, and Billy to her table. Billy reminded her about the moving man and Amos Speicher, which sent her immediately to
the door, yoo-hooing and making other ridiculous outbursts of sound, which served their purpose, bringing both men to the table.

  Hester kept her eyes lowered but felt the curious eyes of both men on her face. Amos tried to engage her in conversation, which brought a quick look from the dark eyes, a nod of the head, but a minimum of words.

  In the late afternoon, lazy, white smoke curled up over the stone chimney, the small cooking fire giving away its existence. The fresh white walls were clean and bright, the floors homey with bright rag rugs, the redware and pewter arranged on the shelves in straight sensible rows so they could be reached efficiently.

  In the parlor, the corner cupboard stood sentry, a sturdy piece of furniture indispensable to their needs, holding anything from tablecloths and towels to buttons and thread. A few comfortable chairs, one armless, were pulled up to the window. A chest containing blankets and coverlets was pushed against the north wall.

  The small bedroom along the back was Emma’s. The sturdy wooden bedstead was loaded with a straw mattress and feather ticking on top. A tall handmade closet held her changes of clothes, high-topped shoes, and hats. Emma hung a serviceable white curtain across the window. You never knew, she said.

  Billy shared the narrow attic with Hester. They strung a sheet of homespun cloth between them, down the middle of the room, for privacy. They set up a narrow rope bed on either side, plus a chest for Hester and a small wooden box for Billy. A window at each gable end let in sufficient light, but Hester knew the approaching summer would bring the stifling attic heat. First they learned to endure it, and then eventually accepted it as the summer days wore on.

  Walter pronounced the reclaimed house and garden unbelievable. He praised Emma’s work with lovely words of approval, holding his straw hat by the tips of his fingers, his freshly wiped head shining pink in the late- afternoon sun. Emma accepted his praise graciously, of course, but the thought ran through her mind that she’d probably like him so much better if he was not quite so pink. But then, bless the man, God had made him so. Or maybe not. All that eating was his own doing.

  She remained unmoved about Walter Trout, being the stubborn, independent German that she was where men were concerned. Enos had won her heart, but it had taken him a while. Walter had always figured perhaps that was the reason for their childless state. Emma tended to be a bit brittle. Certainly not, though, to the poor and the suffering, the orphans and the destitute.

  To Emma, men were an irritation, mostly. Take that William King. Now there was a winner. She’d as soon smack him as talk to him, with his making those sheep’s eyes at Hester, his suave good looks, and a high-minded attitude that irked her every time he opened his mouth. But if Hester chose to allow him to court her, she’d have to let her go.

  Walter rode home in the black buggy with the gold pinstripes, pulled by his fine, serviceable horse. He held the reins loosely in his pudgy fingers, his head bowed, the straw hat slightly askew, the breeze flapping up the front brim.

  Emma Ferree was a hard worker who liked her things in order, but after all these days of labor (which had seemed but one sweet hour of devotion), she had not softened toward him at all. Ah, but wait. Had she made such a fine schtick for only hers and Hester’s benefit?

  He lifted one finger, holding it aloft, as he said out loud, “Now those were the finest, most hearty sandwiches I have ever come across.” And who knew? Perhaps the peaches and the gingerbread and the pickled eggs were all prepared with him in mind. No, the battle to win Emma Ferree’s heart was, indeed, not over.

  Billy was milking the new brown Guernsey cow with Hester giving him instructions. In the adjoining stable, the brown mare gazed at them with her blue-brown eyes, the heavy black lashes blinking slowly as she watched. She was a small horse, but sufficient, Walter had told them, content to let them buy her from him at a low price.

  Hester finished the milking. Billy stood nearby, flexing his fingers with overly exaggerated motions, his mouth open, his tongue hanging from it like a dog. “That hurts!”

  Hester laughed. “I used to milk five cows at home.”

  “Don’t see how you could!”

  “You get used to it.”

  Hester straightened, then bent to retrieve the bucket brimming with frothy milk, when the soulful eyes of the brown cow caught sight of Billy’s red hair. She kicked out with her right hoof, caught the edge of the wooden pail, and tilted it at an angle, spilling all of the good milk into the straw.

  Hester shouted, but she was too late.

  Billy yelled, then bent over double, howling with glee, slapping his legs over and over, as tears coursed out of his eyes.

  The brown cow merely lifted her head, switched her tail from left to right a few times, before placing her cloven hoof in the center of the spilled milk.

  Wiping his eyes, Billy chuckled the whole way to the house, walking beside Hester, who swung the empty pail by its handle.

  They worked in the yard that evening, mowing the grass with a scythe, raking it with a wooden rake, and taking it to the barn for the animals.

  They named the cow Flora, after Billy suggested Kicker or Thumper, laughing uproariously at his own cleverness. The horse they named Frieda. Emma said she’d always wanted a daughter named Frieda, meaning peace, but she’d never had a daughter until now, and she was already named Hester. She held Hester’s hand warmly and thanked her for all the hard work she had done around the place.

  Hester reminded her that they would not have had to move if she had not come to their house in town. Emma said it was high time Billy got away from that tavern. The coins he hoarded in the tin box weren’t worth the danger he put himself in.

  They slept in their clean, new beds that night, the windows opened to the sounds of night insects, the call of the owls, the whippoorwills, and the coyotes. A three-quarter slice of moon bathed the small house in the middle of the clearing in silvery shimmering light, casting black shadows on the north side and under the maple trees. The rectangular patch of newly planted garden needed a fence, but that would soon be done, Walter promised.

  An opossum scuttled out from beneath the porch, poked its pointed snout into the ground, shoveled out a few onions, sniffed them, and let them alone. It moved to the barn, snuffling along the walls of the cow stable, its beady eyes taking in the night landscape, digging up tasty grubs along the back wall. Suddenly, it stopped. Like a stone, it held still, its nose twitching, then flattened itself against the wall of the shed.

  A dark figure emerged from the woods, bent over, as if the person were aged or had an arthritic back. The person wasted no time in crossing the field, still crouched but running. The opossum stayed still, watching. The person straightened, flattening himself against the north side of the house where the shadows were thick and black.

  The moon inched across the sky. A nighthawk screeched his unsettling call. The opossum stayed low against the wall of the shed, scuttled forward, stopped to listen, then disappeared into the thick grass. Still there was no movement from the deep shadow by the house.

  In his sleep, Billy coughed softly. He groaned and stretched. The ropes beneath his straw mattress creaked in protest. Hester slept on, deep and dreamless.

  They discovered a pear tree on the outskirts of the forest. Emma found wild raspberry bushes, then lamented her loss since the fruit had already been eaten by wild creatures.

  “Hembare! Oh, meine hembare!” Over and over she wailed and groaned and recited the recipe for raspberry mush. They found hulla elderberries, but they were not quite the same.

  Hester spent all her spare time in the garden. The onions popped out of the soil, succulent spears growing an inch every week. The wispy little tops of the carrots grew and sprouted like feather dusters, spreading their lacy tops across the fertile black soil. Red beets grew their tender green leaves, the red spines spread across them like blood veins. Emma cut the beets when they were new and heated them with butter and salt. They ate them with hard-cooked eggs and grated, cooked turn
ips.

  Hester was in the garden one hot summer day as the afternoon sun was beginning to slide down the bowl of hot, quivering sky. Her hair was a mess, she was overheated, sticky, and a bit disgruntled at Billy’s refusal to weed. Emma was too easy on him. She grabbed a stubborn dandelion and yanked, breaking off the root with the snap she knew too well, threw it aside with disgust, and stamped her foot impatiently.

  A low laugh behind her made her jump. She whirled around, hating to be caught unaware. She always had thoroughly disliked the feeling of being exposed when she should have been able to discern the slightest movement.

  It was William King. She watched him warily. She felt light-headed now, the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her neck.

  “You don’t like dandelions?”

  She did not smile, just shook her head no, evasive, mistrustful.

  “Why do you dislike me? Am I like the dandelion? A weed that threatens to take over your well-organized life?”

  “I don’t dislike you.”

  “Is it Emma?”

  “No.”

  “What is it, Hester?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “I have asked my father permission to court you.”

  “You didn’t ask mine.”

  “May I come see you on Sunday evening?”

  The toe of her right foot shoved into the loose soil. Her head was bent to watch the earth fall away from her toe’s movement. “I don’t know.”

  “What kind of answer is that?”

  “Exactly what I said. I am not sure.”

  “My father said no.”

  “So why are you asking?”

  “Hester, I have passed my thirtieth year. It is time I think of taking a wife.”

  “But if your father said no?”

  “I’m past the age where he can dictate my choices.”

  Hester nodded.

  “May I come see you?”