by Linda Byler
She stopped working when the hulk of a man named Reuben Troyer threw a look in Bappie’s direction as she hawked the merits of her fine vegetables, as usual.
“Someone should tell her to go home to the kitchen where she belongs. No woman should be allowed to sell things in that manner.”
Hester smiled. “Oh, she’s very good at selling vegetables.” She looked at him directly, humor flashing from her dark eyes. His mouth slid up into a wobbly smile, his eyes becoming soft as they caught Hester’s goodwill.
“Ach, yes. So she is. Yes, yes.”
He moved on, graced by the most beautiful smile he had ever encountered. He told his wife that Hester was like an angel, so beautiful was she. Luckily, the large, big-boned Rachel agreed with him, and he whistled the whole way to the barn to do his chores.
Hester mollified any displeased customers with pleasant words and a frequent smile. When her teeth flashed white in her dark face, two dimples appeared in her cheeks. Her eyes laughed pleasantly as she spoke, universally warming everyone who saw her.
She stored the beet tops in a crate out of Bappie’s sight. At the end of the day, she told Bappie she was going to the poor section of town to take some of the day’s leftovers. She didn’t say what she was taking, just leftovers.
Bappie was exhausted and drained after her long day’s work, hunched over her money bag, counting coins, so she waved a hand, and Hester went on her way, triumphant.
For once she did not need to make a decision. For once she could pursue the passion she had so often dreamed of. She carried the crate on one hip, balancing it with an arm flung over top. She walked fast, her long strides taking her down Market Street, then left on to Vine where the street became more narrow. A row of squalid houses sat at the bottom of the incline like blobs of mud someone had thrown.
Strangely, there were no children racing around in the mud, no youth lounging in doorways. An eerie quiet pervaded the street. Hesitant now, Hester set the crate beside the first house, where the door swung crookedly on leather hinges, its wood darker and smoother from so many grimy hands pulling it shut and pushing it open.
Placing her fist on the door, she rapped, loudly.
Immediately, a white face appeared beside her, a mop of tangled brown hair above it, the mouth covered in dirt, the neckline of her dress torn, exposing painfully thin shoulders. The small child glared, her eyes as alert as a chipmunk.
“Hello. May I come in?” Hester asked.
Like a flash, she disappeared.
Hester waited.
Another white face appeared, almost level with her own, blotched and with swollen cheeks protruding below sunken dark eyes. The woman wore a dark dress, matted hair clung to her head, and a thin baby rode on her hip, sucking on a questionable item.
“Vot? Vot you vont?”
Hester smiled, which brought a black look of suspicion from the woman. “I have some greens here from the vegetable seller at market. I thought you might want to cook them for your supper. They don’t cost anything.”
“We don’t eat that stuff.”
“Oh, it’s good, cooked with salt, a bit of vinegar.”
“Couldn’t eat it.”
Hester sighed. How could she begin if they wouldn’t accept her offer? From inside the house, the sound of crying rose to a crescendo until Hester thought she must break down the door to find the cause. “Is something wrong?”
“Oh, my boy stepped on a rusty nail, and his foot swole up so bad I don’t know vot to do viss it.”
“If you’ll allow me, I’ll take a look at it.”
Reluctantly and offering no other welcome, the woman stepped aside, leaving only a narrow passage for Hester’s entrance.
The smell was the worst. Always, from her first step into these dwellings, the odor of grime, spoiled food, unwashed bodies, and earthen floors was the hardest. Breathing as lightly as possible, her head bent, Hester entered the dark room. On a wooden pallet in a corner, she found the source of the agonized wailing. A small boy clutched both hands around a grotesquely swollen foot, angry red streaks reaching almost to his knees, his mouth open in wails of pain and anger.
Hester fell to her knees beside him. She gripped the foot and uncurled the filthy little hands as his wails turned to terrified screams.
“Don’t. Don’t. Here, don’t cry. I just want to see if I can help you. I won’t hurt you. Sshh.”
The small boy lay back, attaching his gaze unwaveringly on Hester’s face.
“I need a light,” she said, crisply.
“Don’t haf von.”
“Yes, you do. Get it.” Hester was angry now. She knew they had some source of light, even if it was only the stub of a candle.
Sullenly, a sputtering candle was placed in front of her. She held it to the foot. Instantly the screaming started anew. She had seen everything she needed to know. An angry, festering wound with pus pushing against it, desperately needing to be lanced, drained, and then treated with a fresh poultice of scabious.
She could see the plant, its heavy, soft, whitish-green leaves, their edges ragged, the clumps of pale blue flowers. It grew in meadows and old fields left untilled. She knew where a fine clump of it grew close to the road leading out to Bappie’s patch of vegetables.
She rose, her eyes seeking the mother’s face. “I will return tomorrow, if you will allow me. The wound needs to be opened and crushed leaves of the scabious plant applied to draw out the infection.”
“You aren’t no doctor.”
“No, but I know about healing with herbs.”
“If you come, make sure it’s not when my husband is home.”
“Please don’t tell him if he will become angry.”
“No. No.” Agreeable now, the woman’s eyes sought Hester’s face. “Vill my Chon die?”
Hester looked at the sniffling child, his flushed face, and wondered if another day would mean his condition would deteriorate to the point of no return. “No,” she said.
The woman nodded stoically, as if any emotion would be her undoing. Life was what it was, and she could do nothing to alter it. To stay alive, to keep her children alive, took all the energy she could muster.
Hester looked around the dim room. Two small windows let in a minimum of light. The small fireplace was black with smoke, soot, and damp air. Cold ashes were piled in a wet-looking heap.
Bits of string, twigs, and pieces of stone lay scattered across the floor. A table, small but sturdy enough, with benches pulled up on each side, a few more pallets covered with colorless blankets, a cupboard, several washtubs hanging on nails, and odd crates containing what Hester guessed were towels or rags or extra clothing, furnished the room.
Where was the food kept? Was there food?
She sat down quickly when the door was flung open and a large dust-covered man entered the room. His heavy eyebrows were drawn down over his eyes, which were only slits in his face. A bulbous red nose stood above a mouth that held a constant snarl. He walked over to Hester and told her to leave, now, in a voice that was both grating and wheezing.
“Heinz, no. The lady vants to help our Chon.” The voice of his wife seemed to hold surprising authority. He looked at her, and only for a moment, Hester saw the glint of acknowledgment.
“How is he?”
“Not goot.”
Hester spoke. “If he does not get help, he will die of the infection. Do you see these red streaks?”
Going to the child, she lifted the leg, pointing to the angry red marks. “That can turn into poison of the blood. If he turns feverish overnight, he will die.”
The big burly German named Heinz turned his eyes on her, mere slits of blue, flashing now.
“Git. Git out. If we need a doctor, we will fetch one. Git.” He raised an arm, his long, thick finger pointing in the direction of the door. The ragged edges of his filthy sleeve shook with the force of his anger.
Hester looked at the threatening hulk of a man, then down to the boy, who had curled into a
fetal position, whimpering like a hungry puppy. The sound brought an explosion of unnamed emotion in Hester.
She faced Heinz squarely and told him in a level voice ringing with authority that she would be back, and there was nothing he could do about it. His son would die if he did not allow her to help. They had nothing to pay a doctor.
She had heard Emma’s tales of the town’s doctors treating the less fortunate without pay, perhaps a sack of potatoes, or a chicken, at best. But after years of going into the squalid conditions of these streets, they would no longer venture there. In turn, all sorts of strange practices, old wives tales, myths, mysterious chantings and wailings could now be heard among the sick in this part of town.
Heinz’s shaking finger stayed. He shifted his gaze to her face. Slowly he lowered his arm and turned away. The boy on the pallet moaned.
Hester left the red beet tops and the bits of potato, as if she’d forgotten them. She lost no time hurrying home, looking neither left nor right, her long steps taking her to the stable in the back yard.
Bappie called out the back door.
Hester waved but quickly disappeared into the small stable. She yanked a surprised Silver from his stall and without bothering to brush his matted coat, flung the harness on his back, adjusted the buckles, put the bridle on his head, and backed him between the shafts of the serviceable black buggy. She was unwinding the reins when the back door clunked shut and Bappie strode across the yard.
“Hester! Stop! Where are you going?”
“To the meadow to get scabious.”
“Can I come, too?”
“Suit yourself.”
Bappie attached the britching and traces to the shafts on her side, then climbed into the buggy. She sat forward tensely as if Hester’s driving made her nervous, as it should have, the way Hester guided poor Silver. She was requiring the utmost speed from the dependable animal who was never given to fast trots, only a contented clopping along, a regular old farm workhorse.
“What do you need?” Bappie asked finally.
“Scabious.”
“What is that?”
“A plant.”
“Why?”
“A boy will die if I don’t have the chance to treat his infected foot.”
“Just one plant?”
“No, if I can find nettles, I’ll use them, too.”
“Nettles are all over the place.”
“Good.”
Hester watched the fast sinking sun. She shivered in the cool evening breeze. She hoped the scabious plant would be where she thought she remembered seeing it.
Bappie’s lips were grim. For Hester, the knowledge of herbs and their uses was a direct golden thread to her past. A redemption. Proof that her history was retrievable, worthy. She was not only the illegitimate daughter of an outcast young Indian maiden, she was shamed many times afterward, abused by her stepmother, lowered by her husband and mother-in-law. Lowered until she had no idea who she was. More than ever, the passion to pursue the dream of healing rose within her.
Hester turned her face to Bappie. “I want to do this. I know it works. You would, too, if you had met the ancient old grandmother, her face like wrinkled leather, her eyes containing an inward light, so brilliant was she. She knew every plant, every tree, she could name all the barks of the trees, all the mosses, all the mushrooms.
“Every plant has been put on God’s earth because of its vital use to us. An important part of life is vanishing as Indians flee Lancaster County. You don’t have to agree, Bappie. Just give me a chance to honor my ancestors. It’s all I can do.”
Bappie was shocked to see Hester’s chin wobble, then observe a quick dash of her hand across her eyes, as if when the emotion came, it was unwelcome.
Bappie looked straight ahead, blinked, and swallowed, then cast a sidelong look at Hester, lifted her nose and sniffed. She blinked furiously, before she said, “If you let me, I’ll help what I can. Not that I know very much.”
“Whoa!” Hester drew back on the reins. Silver lifted his head to release the pressure of the bit on his mouth, lowered his backside, and slid to a stop.
“There. There it is,” Hester breathed, handing over the reins. In a flash, she was off the buggy and across the overgrown grasses. Her foot caught on the undergrowth, and she fell headlong, fell flat into the waving grasses as clumsy as on ox.
Bappie lifted her face and howled with glee.
Hester didn’t look back, just waved a hand above her head, got up, and kept going. Her face was alive with energy, an inner light radiating from her dark eyes as she held up a clutch of strange-looking mint-green plants with red roots, a passel of limp pale blue flowers on top. “Perfect.”
“I thought you needed nettles.”
“I have some.”
They drove back wordlessly. Silver lifted his head and trotted briskly, as if he got the message and meant to do them proud.
Walter Trout was watching across the backyard fence like a great nosy dog, his liquid eyes filled with love and trust, his face shining pink in the glow of the setting sun. His great slabs of arms lay across the top of the fence, his fingers entwined like sausages below his face. Bappie and Hester both knew he was a cauldron of unsatisfied curiosity. They winked at each other, smiled, and ducked their heads.
Silver, loosened from the shafts, walked obediently away, the sweat staining his silver hair to a dull gray. He lowered his head to drink thirstily from the long cast iron trough that rested on a stone base.
“Hello, ladies.” Shrill and energetic, Walter voiced his presence.
“Good evening, Walter.”
“Nice evening, now, isn’t it?”
“Indeed.”
Silver lifted his head, water dribbling from his mouth. He smacked his lips, making the funny sound horses do when they have almost drunk their fill, usually returning their mouths to the water for a few more swallows.
“Too nice for you ladies to stay home, then?”
“Oh, yes.”
Hester led Silver through the barn door and into his small box stall, as Bappie turned to close the door to the harness cupboard.
“Market went well, I gather.”
“Yes, we had a good day.”
“That’s good.”
Hester reappeared.
“You were off in a bit of a hurry, I saw.”
“A bit.”
“You got what you were after?”
“Oh, yes.”
Without further words, Hester and Bappie headed for the back door, leaving the herbs in the safety of the buggy.
“You’ll be over later?” Poor Walter was slowly accepting that he could not extract a sliver of knowledge about where they had been or why.
“Maybe.”
With a wave over her shoulder, Bappie opened the back door and held it, allowing Hester to go before her. They laughed freely, deliciously, knowing they would relieve poor Walter’s insatiable curiosity later.
Their presence in the Trout home was lauded with many grand bows of welcome. Walter all but ran back and forth, bringing them cups of tea and fresh slices of custard pie sprinkled heavily with nutmeg. He brought a plate of cheese, yellow and pungent, a bowl of popcorn, salted and buttered lavishly.
The two boys, their faces freshly washed, and wearing thin homemade nightclothes, sat up to the table, their eyes bright and alert. The oldest one nodded and shook his head now, Emma informed the women proudly. He did not speak, but at least he was communicating something.
Clearly Emma was in her element. Her eyes snapped with sparks of energy; her face was as pink as Walter’s. She bent to the boys, crooning, placing the palm of her hand on their cheeks, brushing back locks of hair that had never been out of place.
She cut their custard pie in small pieces. Walter placed a tin cup of buttermilk at each plate, then watched joyously as each child lifted it carefully and drank thirstily.
They talked of market, about going to church on Sunday. They spoke of William’s passing,
the time that had already elapsed.
Walter hovered, refilled teacups, inquired whether one small slice of custard pie was enough. Yet his English manners would not allow him to ask them where they had gone earlier.
Emma spoke around a mouthful of custard pie, which Hester could see made Walter cringe to the point of carefully wiping his own mouth daintily. “We have named the boys now. We called them One and Two for so long, until we decided a pet would be named long before these dear ones.”
Proudly, Walter said their names were Sebastian and Vernon. Sebastian began to cry, a weak mewling sound at first, which rose to sobbing and hiccupping, sending Emma to his side in great distress. “What? What?” She kept repeating the word, seeming to try to relieve her own guilt, yet taking the blame for his crying entirely on herself.
His voice was only a croak, an unoiled piece of machinery, but they heard his words clearly, in spite of it. “My name is Richard.”
Emma’s face turned a shade darker, and her small eyes seemed to grow from the folds of her cheeks. She clapped a hand to her rounded bosom, where the row of tiny pearl buttons creased the gray fabric, and said softly, “Mein Gott! Das kind schprechen.”
Walter put a heavy arm about his shoulders, smiled into his face, and praised him effusively. Richard looked up into Walter’s reddening face, the beginning of a smile forming at the edge of his mouth.
Hester got up. “I must go. I have a few herbs to prepare for the morning.”
Walter looked at her, his curiosity buzzing. “Where are you off to?”
“Home.” She went around to Richard and hugged him. “Welcome to our family, Richard. We’re so glad you are with us.” She kissed the small cheek, which brought a definite widening of his mouth.
“Good thing. Good thing.” Bappie meant Richard’s speech, Hester knew, and accepted her lack of social skill, her inability to convey feelings.
Then Hester nodded to Walter, thanked him for the tea, finally telling him about the herbs in the meadow and that she’d be making poultices, tinctures, and a liquid medicine as well. “I have a sick little boy to tend to in the morning.”