Recalling that his attempts to rein in this son had always failed in the past, he realized anew that Derek was a boy whom he had never been able to truly influence or oversee. Not at all like conscientious and honorable Robert, but to a certain extent similar to Henry himself, who had been rather reckless in his youth. No one, not even his father, the Reverend Schwartz, could manage him in those days.
Subsequently, like father like son. For Henry to acknowledge the fact was one thing; living with it on a daily basis was quite another. So he would wait for a more opportune time to sit down with Derek. If that moment presented itself at all.
It was the custom of the People to gather for Preaching at nine o’clock sharp on a Sunday morning. The day before, the menfolk removed the partitions that divided the front room from the big kitchen, creating an enormous space, enough for as many as one hundred fifty, give or take a few. Throw rugs were removed, decorative china washed and spotless. Furniture downstairs was rearranged and stoves polished and blackened. In the barn the manure had been cleared out and, in general, the stables cleaned up. Preaching service usually lasted three hours, ending in the common meal at noon and a time of visiting afterward. A day of great anticipation, to be sure.
Ida sat on the backless bench between Lizzie on her left and Leah on her right. Sadie and the twins sat squarely in front of them, and Ida was taken yet again by the striking beauty of the girls’ hair color, so similar to her own growing up. Hannah and Mary Ruth could scarcely be told apart when viewing them from this angle; the curve of their slender necks was nearly identical. Sadie, just a bit taller, was similar in build to her twin sisters, still mighty thin for being this close to the end of her teen years. Even so, Ida admired her girls lined up all in a row, when she should’ve been entering into an attitude of prayer in preparation for being a hearer of the Word.
She recalled that Leah had been much quieter than usual on the walk down their long lane and out to the road. As usual, Mary Ruth had been the one doing most of the talking, though Sadie had mentioned how awful perty the clouds were this morning. “All fluttery, they are,” she’d said, which made Ida wonder what was really on her firstborn’s mind, seeing as how she’d bumped into Sadie coming in the kitchen door at nearly one o’clock this morning. Ida had gone downstairs, suffering from an upset stomach. She didn’t know why, really—hadn’t eaten anything out of the ordinary. She was pouring herself some milk and nearly dropped the glass, startled to hear someone opening the back door at such an hour.
When she turned to see who it was, she gasped. “Sadie, ach, is that you?”
“Jah, Mamma. I’m home” was all Sadie said.
“Out all hours,” Mamma said reprovingly.
Sadie was silent.
Now was as good a time as any to remind her daughter what the Scriptures taught. “ ‘What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? And what communion hath light with darkness?’ ”
“Still . . . it’s my rumschpringe,” Sadie muttered, then skittered past and hurried up the steps.
A faint timberland scent mingled with a fragrance Ida couldn’t quite place as Sadie nearly fled from the kitchen. Ach, if only Abram had gotten their eldest a domestic permit, keeping Sadie home from the wiles of public high school after she finished eighth grade. Both Ida and Abram had erred and were paying for it dearly, exposing Sadie to higher education, her consorting with worldly teachers and students and all. After Sadie they’d gotten wise, requesting a permit for Leah to keep Abram’s farmhand separated from the world once she turned fifteen.
Though, hard as it was not to rush after willful Sadie, Ida had just let things be. Her mother heart longed to interfere, if only for Sadie’s well-being. Yet it wasn’t the People’s way. Better for her eldest to experience a bit of the world now, before her baptism, than to be curious about it afterward. So she didn’t persist on the night before Preaching. No, the house was dark and still, and should remain so, even though she’d feared Sadie had been out wandering through the woods that late at night. And not alone, more than likely.
Then, of all things, Sadie had commented on the sky and the clouds as they’d strolled to church. Ida couldn’t remember having heard her eldest talk thataway, as if she had suddenly come to appreciate the handiwork of Creator-God after all these years. No, it wasn’t like her Sadie to pay the heavens any mind; she never had been as conscious of nature as either Leah or Lizzie.
Since the church meeting was just next door, so to speak, she and Lizzie, along with the girls, had all walked down the road together. Ida had taken her hamper of food over to the Peacheys last evening in the carriage, so her hands were free. Early this morning, after milking and a hearty breakfast, Abram had gone to help the smithy with last-minute details.
Here they sat, the women and young children on the left side of the room, waiting to sing the first long hymn, while upstairs the ministers counseled amongst themselves, planning who would preach the Anfang—the introductory sermon, Es schwere Deel—the main sermon, and Zeugniss—the testimonies.
All the while Ida couldn’t keep her eyes off the back of Sadie’s dear head—the strings of her white prayer cap hanging loose over her graceful shoulders. Soon, jah, very soon Sadie would be making her covenant with God and the church. Ida caught herself sighing audibly. Sadie was so much like Lizzie had been during her youth, it seemed—though Ida hoped and prayed her eldest would tread lightly the path of rumschpringe, not follow its fickle corridors as far as Lizzie had. Ach, there was ever so much more than met the eye to the late teen years. For some it was the devil’s playground—wild parties and whatnot. “A sin and a shame,” Preacher Yoder often said in his Sunday sermons, admonishing the young people to “stay in Jesus.” She must see to it that Sadie finished instructional classes for baptism and obeyed the Lord in that most sacred ordinance come September.
Lizzie gave Miriam Peachey and her daughter, Adah, a hand with preparations for the picnic on the grounds. She and several other women worked in Miriam’s kitchen, arranging great platters of cold cuts, cheeses, and slices of homemade bread, all the while conscious of the growing number of young people milling about the barnyard; many were coming into the age of courting and their running-round years. She was a practical woman who had learned early on to curtail any lofty expectations for the youth of the church, not put hopes too high on certain ones in particular, knowing what she did. Keenly aware of human frailty, she’d stopped focusing too much on the future, rather concentrating on the present. The here and now. After all, what you did today, you had to live with tomorrow. Ach, she knew that truth all too well.
Silently she observed girls like Sadie and that buddy of hers, Naomi Kauffman. Lizzie could tell them a thing or two if they’d but listen. Yet they would pay her no mind. Not now. They were basking in the giddy blush of youth, along with many others, delighting in their youthful heyday. Oh, how she remembered having narrowly survived those years herself. And sadly, after those disturbing days, nothing had turned out the way she’d ever hoped. Goodness knows, she’d dreamed of marrying and having at least a handful of children by this time. Instead, the prospect of her own family was fading with every passing year.
Yet, in spite of it all, Lizzie was the last person to dwell on disappointments. She tried to live cheerfully, bringing as much joy into the lives of others as she possibly could. Take Ida’s quartet of girls, for instance. Now, there was a right happy group of young women, especially round the dinner table when she was invited, which she was quite often. She wouldn’t think of turning down a chance to spend time at her sister’s place. Oh, how they laughed and told stories on each other, Ida in particular, recalling their girlhood days, growing up with a batch of siblings—one sister over in Hickory Hollow, who at the age of thirty-eight already had ten children and another on the way.
Sometimes Lizzie wished all her siblings had settled closer to Gobbler’s Knob, where—from her midteen years on—she had such wonderful-gut recollections. Memories of dewy gre
en Aprils and gingery Octobers, though such memories soon became entwined with painful ones, the way quilting threads of jade, sapphire, and cranberry interlock with strands of ebony and ash gray.
But on such a perty day as today, what with the sky the color of Dresden blue, Lizzie pasted a smile on her face, made her way outside, down the steps, and out to the long backyard, where picnic blankets were already being spread out in the shade of the linden tree, its thick heart-shaped leaves crackling in the heat of the day.
She refused to waste a speck more energy on feeling sorry for herself. Time to call the menfolk indoors to dish up, then the women and girls to follow soon after. She’d sit down on the large Ebersol blanket and eat lunch with Ida, Leah, and Hannah, too, while Mary Ruth ate and played with the little children, and Sadie and some of the older girls sat in a cloistered cluster a stone’s throw away, clapping out their botching game. She would enjoy the fellowship, such a merry time, surrounded by so many folk who managed to be happy, come what may.
Chapter Five
The train that ran between Quarryville and Atglen could rarely be heard this far away from Route 372. Occasionally, though, in the dark morning hours, before the birds began their enthusiastic refrain at first light, its rumblings along the track traveled deep through the terrain, across the miles to Leah as she rose out of bed, stepping onto the wooden floorboards. She heard the faintest whistle, ever so distant and just now almost eerie, as the air was particularly still, with nary a breeze to speak of.
Preparing to slip into her brown choring dress and apron, Leah was still aware of the far-off train whistle. Dat would be surprised if she hurried out to the barn and got busy before he did on a Monday morning, but she felt strangely compelled to get an early start. She had an urgent, almost panicky feeling, wanting to get out of bed, remove herself as quickly as possible from Sadie, who slept peacefully now after yet another late night. How her sister managed to attend to daily chores with only a few hours’ sleep, Leah didn’t know.
Oh, how she missed the carefree days she and Sadie had enjoyed as little girls. Such fond memories she had of playing hopscotch on a bright summer day, spending the night at Aunt Lizzie’s, and playing hide-the-thimble on cold, rainy afternoons. They enjoyed pulling little wooden wagons round the barnyard with their faceless dollies wrapped in tiny handmade quilts no bigger than a linen napkin, extra-special things Mamma had sewn for each of them. And they’d promised one day, on a walk over to the Peachey farm, to be best friends for always; “No matter what,” Leah had said. And Sadie had agreed, her deep dimples showing as she smiled, taking little Leah’s hand.
Leah longed for the days when they shared everything, holding nothing back. But Sadie was sadly “betwixt and between.”
On Monday mornings it was customary for Mamma and Sadie to get the first load of laundry washed and hung out on the line before they even started cooking breakfast. But from the barnyard Leah could hear Mamma calling for Sadie to get up. Then, a short time later, through open bedroom windows, similar pleas for Hannah and Mary Ruth to “rise and shine” came wafting down to Leah’s ears.
Returning to the kitchen, she poured some freshly squeezed orange juice for herself. Then who should appear in the kitchen, ready to go down to the cellar to lend a hand, but her twin sisters.
“Sadie’s under the weather,” Mary Ruth volunteered as Leah gawked, surprised to see them doing their older sister’s chores.
“Either that or just awful tired,” Hannah said softly, her scrubbed face still bearing the marks of sleep.
Leah wasn’t too surprised to hear it. She wondered when the time would come for Sadie to simply refuse to get up of a morning. And this the day Aunt Lizzie was coming to help Mamma with gardening.
Hurrying down the cellar steps, she announced that Aunt Lizzie would probably be here for breakfast perty soon. “Did you remember, Mamma?”
Looking a bit haggard herself, Mamma nodded. “Lizzie did say something at Preaching that she’d come over and help. She also said you girls had stopped by the other day. Wasn’t that nice?”
“Jah, Sadie went,” Leah said.
“And I took some raisin-nut loaf up there,” Hannah said rather sheepishly.
“So that’s where my sweet bread ended up,” Mamma said, getting back to work sorting the clothes but without her usual chuckle.
“It’s been too long since Aunt Lizzie came for breakfast,” said Leah. “I wish she’d come more often.”
“Well, now, your auntie practically lives here . . . most days,” Mamma replied.
That was true. Still, Leah felt right settled round Lizzie. It was like the calm sweetness after a spring rain. Jah, Lizzie was more than just an auntie to her; she was a close friend, too.
Leah sat on the long wooden bench next to Aunt Lizzie at the eight-board table. Usually, their aunt, if present for a meal, would sit to Mamma’s immediate left, with Dat at the head. Today Lizzie sat farther down the bench, between Leah and Mary Ruth. Sadie came dragging down the steps scarcely in time for Dat’s silent blessing over the food and sat across the table, next to Hannah. Dat gave Sadie a stern sidewise glance before he bowed his head for prayer.
Such unspeakable tension in the kitchen now, and all since Sadie had come into the room. Dat and Mamma weren’t totally ignorant of Sadie’s behavior, Leah was fairly sure.
Not only was Leah uncomfortable, she was unfamiliar with this sort of strain, especially with someone seated at the table who wasn’t part of their immediate family. Mamma’s other siblings lived farther away, some over in Hickory Hollow and SummerHill, others in the Grasshopper Level area, but it was Lizzie they saw most often, since she lived just up the knoll, so near they could ring the dinner bell and she’d come running. Thankfully, Lizzie brought a joyous flavor to any gathering, and on this day Leah was more than grateful for her mother’s youngest sister sharing their eggs, bacon, waffles, and conversation.
Over the years her aunt had taken time to introduce Leah, all the girls really, to God’s creation, particularly the small animal kingdom. But it was Leah who had soaked up all the nature talk like a dry sponge. She recalled one summer afternoon long ago when Aunt Lizzie had shown her what squirrels could do with their tails. “Look, honey-girl,” Lizzie had said when Leah was only three or four. “See how they fold them up over their little heads like an umbrella?” She was told that the umbrella-tail protected squirrels when the steady rains come, “which happens in the fall round here.”
Lizzie continued as they sat in the shade of her treed backyard. “Squirrels use their tails another way, Leah. They settle down onto their haunches and toss their tails over their backs like woolen scarves to keep them warm while they sit on the cold ground and eat.”
Young Leah had found this ever so interesting, wanting her aunt to go on and on sharing such wonderful-gut secrets. So she pleaded for more while observing the many squirrels scampering here and there, up and down trees, over the stone wall.
“Well, now, have you ever felt lonely . . . in need of a hug?” Aunt Lizzie sometimes asked Leah peculiar questions, catching her off guard.
“I guess, jah, maybe I have,” she’d replied, though it was hard to think of a time when she’d actually felt alone, what with three sisters in the house and more cousins than she could even begin to count.
“Squirrels get lonesome, too, don’tcha think?” And here Lizzie demonstrated with her own arms how squirrels used their tails to hug themselves, so to speak. “Ach, such a comfort it is to them.”
At the time Leah wondered if her aunt was also a bit lonely. After all, she didn’t have a husband to hug her, did she? She lived alone in the woods, well . . . not quite in the woods, but perty near. “You must like squirrels an awful lot, ain’t so, Auntie?” Leah had said after thinking about the special things a squirrel’s tail offered.
“Who wouldn’t like such cute little animals? They look so contented with their bushy tails high over their heads or dragging behind them,” Lizzie said qui
ckly. “But the dearest thing is how their faces look like they’re smilin’.”
Leah had never thought of that. And every time she spotted a squirrel from then on, she noticed not only what their tails were doing but also the humorous half smile on their furry little faces.
Just now, sitting next to Aunt Lizzie, Leah couldn’t help but wonder if her aunt could use a nice hug, maybe. How long had it been since she’d spent time with her, just the two of them? Much too long it seemed. Goodness’ sakes, Mamma was always one to hug her girls, and Dat and Mamma often embraced each other when Dat came in the house for supper. Surely Auntie needed hugs, too—maybe more so than all the rest of them put together. She didn’t know why she would think such a thing just now, but she did. Which was why Leah decided then and there she’d take it upon herself to squeeze Aunt Lizzie’s arm or hug her neck, for no particular reason today. Jah, she would.
Sadie felt her father’s eyes on her throughout breakfast. And Mamma’s, too. Had they heard her coming home late again last night? Did they suspect something?
Breathing in, she held the air a second or two, then exhaled, wondering if Leah had broken her word and talked to Mamma. Or maybe it was Dat who’d learned first from Leah the wicked secret they shared.
She was so tired she scarcely cared; in fact, she could hardly pick up her fork. So weak she was, nearly trembling as she sat at the table, the smell of the food turning her stomach. How many more hours before she could lie down and rest, take a quick nap? This afternoon, maybe, while Mamma, Hannah, and Mary Ruth headed down to the general store in Georgetown. Leah and Dat would be busy outside, so she’d have the house to herself, if Mamma didn’t mind her staying home. She must have some time to herself here perty soon. A good solid hour or so of sleep would help a lot.
The Covenant Page 5