Sadie’s Montana Trilogy

by Linda Byler

  The Caldwells asked Reuben to come to work with Sadie and help with the vast amount of yard work that needed to be done around the large house. Bertie always kept the plants and shrubs looking their best, but this was a special evening, and he had more work than usual to do. Besides the ranch hands, all the wealthy ranchers and their wives, the Caldwell’s business associates, and even the physicians from the hospital were to be together as friends for one special evening.

  When she saw the large, red riding mower whizzing along at an alarming rate, Sadie wondered what in the world had come over Bertie. Taking a closer look, she was horrified to find Reuben hunched low over the steering wheel, his elbows lifted, clearly pretending he was driving something other than a lawn mower.

  Now he was coming into the homestretch, zipping around a low lying willow tree. He straightened his back as he jammed on the brakes, slammed to a stop, and took a long drink from the red-and-white Igloo thermos Mam had filled with his favorite fruit punch.

  Back on the mower, Reuben lurched off at high speed, and to Sadie’s chagrin, loud singing ensued.

  Shall we gather at the river?

  The beautiful, the beautiful river!

  Sadie held her breath as he sped around a tall blue spruce, leaning way over to steady himself. She dropped the dish towel she was holding and ran outside to talk to her brother about his lack of driving skills.

  Her pink dress rode up as she ran, an annoyance to every Amish girl who wore a dress with a pleated skirt. She slowed to a walk and pushed down the unruly skirt, waving her hand. She gasped as he spun around the pillars at the entrance, narrowly missing the famed roses climbing the trellis beside it.

  “Reuben! Hey!”

  She hoped he’d hear her before he overturned the mower and pinned himself beneath it. Her shoulders slumped as he took off in the opposite direction, leaving her standing at the edge of the lawn with nothing to do but watch him go.

  A tall form emerged from the barn, closing the distance between them in long strides. Now who was being nosy enough to come and help her out? She didn’t need help. This wasn’t exactly a dilemma; Reuben just needed to be warned a bit.

  “Need some help?” a familiar voice called.

  Sadie turned, a cool answer on her lips, to find a hatless Mark Peight, his hair disheveled, his short-sleeved white shirt stuck to his body with perspiration, and a streak of dirt across his tanned face.

  The cool answer fizzled away into despair, the feeling when you know you were wrong and there’s not one thing you can do about it. She despaired of seeing him and not being able to catch her breath, leaving her thoughts completely scrambled, nerveless fingers fumbling at an apron that had been straight in the first place. She marveled at his deep brown eyes that crinkled at the corners, and his mouth so perfect she could only stare at it, wondering why she had ever thought another person existed.

  She lifted her hands in a helpless gesture. “Looks like it.”

  Reuben was in his own world of imagination. The mower buzzed up an incline. At the top Reuben leaned over, twisting mightily on the steering wheel, then racing back down, practically airborne.

  “He’s going to throw that thing over,” Sadie said between clenched teeth.

  She began walking quickly toward him. Mark laughed as he watched Reuben’s antics. Just as Reuben went whirling around a yellow bush, his song caught Mark’s ears, and he bent over double, laughing even harder.

  “He will be gathered at the river!” he gasped.

  Sadie glanced at Mark before spasms of her own laughter overtook her. The longer they watched, the funnier and more absurd the whole situation became, until they were caught in a helpless tide of laughter.

  Finally, Sadie caught her breath. “Richard Caldwell would not be happy. We have to stop him.”

  They both walked quickly toward Reuben. When he finally saw them, he shut the mower off, sat back, and beamed, clearly pleased with himself and happy to show off his expertise as a lawn-mower driver.

  “Hi, Mark! How are you?”

  “Good. I’m good. Looks like you’re enjoying yourself.”

  “I sure am. This is totally cool.”

  Sadie cringed at Reuben’s rumspringa language. She glanced sideways at Mark, who was clearly enjoying Reuben’s company.

  “Reuben, you have to slow down. You’re going to flip that lawn mower.”

  Reuben leaned way back in his seat, turned his face to the side and yelled, “No way! These things don’t flip over.”

  “Reuben, they do. All you know is pushing our reel mower. You have never driven one of these, ever. You have to slow down, please.”

  Sadie was serious. She was afraid for Reuben’s safety, although she assured him he was doing a good job and that Bertie would be pleased about how soon the mowing was done. Reuben grinned, waved, and was off without reducing his speed one bit. He zipped around the corner of the corral and lurched across the cement walkway with a clatter.

  Mark began laughing again.

  “It’s not funny.”

  They walked together across the lawn, and Mark asked Sadie if she wanted to see the horse he was shoeing at the stable.

  Sadie stopped, looked wistfully in the direction of the barn, but said she should help Dorothy, since she was all in a stew about the coming cookout.

  “You going?” he asked nonchalantly.

  “Dat doesn’t really want me to go. He says it’s no place for me.”

  “It probably isn’t.”

  She looked up at him, surprised. That sounded rather strict, coming from Mark. However, when their eyes met, everything else vanished. His dark brown eyes were warm, caring, wanting, a conveyor of his longing, an insecurity bigger than the ability to speak of his love. She could not look away.

  A thousand questions crowded her mind until she felt caught up in a whirlwind of emotions that shook her entire being. This was her Mark Peight, the one she met on that snowy road with Nevaeh so long ago. Before the questions. Before the partial telling of his life’s story. Was he just shy? Or was he hiding something?

  “Don’t go,” he murmured, his voice catching.

  “I have to help Dorothy with the food.”

  “Is there no one else?”

  “No.”

  He nodded and looked off across the corral.

  “Well, come in and see this horse. It won’t take long.”

  He was a magnificent animal, no question. Gray, with dapples across his rump, he stood tall and regal, heavy in the shoulders, his mane and tail a shimmer of light, grayish-white hair.

  “Wow.”

  “One of the best horses I’ve ever seen.” Then, “How’s Paris?”

  “She’s doing well.”

  “Even after the runaway?”

  “What do you know of the … that day?” she asked with accusation dripping from every word.

  “I passed you. Remember?”

  She whirled, her eyes flashing with anger and disbelief. He caught her arm and held onto her with a vise-like grip.

  “It wasn’t me. I didn’t shoot.”

  “How can I know that for sure? You disappear for months at a time. You … you …”

  There was a scraping of boots as a small, swarthy figure burst into the shoeing area. He held a whip aloft, ready to bring it down on Mark’s head, or rather, up, as it would seem to be the case with this short person.

  He stood behind Mark, his feet planted squarely, his heavy shoulders stretching the fabric of his shirt. He was a picture of righteous indignation and chivalry, rescuing the damsel in distress.

  “You!” he yelled in thunderous tones. “Let her go. Release the lady!”

  Mark stepped back, his face registering surprise.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean anything. We were…”

  “You let the lady go. I am Lothario. My name is Lothario Bean. You do not treat ladies this way. You Americans are such … such baboons. You must learn to take care of your women. They need protection. They need your d
evotion and aid at all times. My Lita. I do not grasp her arm or talk harshly to her. Now you go back to shoeing your horse, and I will assist the beautiful lady back to her kitchen.”

  He drew himself up to his full height, emphasizing I with great pride and dignity. Then stepping up to Sadie with his head held high, he offered his arm and bowed his head.

  “Come,” he said, in a heavy Latino accent.

  Sadie smiled with a quick glance at Mark. Lothario escorted her out of the barn, across the drive, and to the kitchen door.

  “Now, if you ever have any problem with that man who shoes horses, you just call on me, Lothario. I do not stand by and let any lady become a victim of bad treatment. No. No.”

  “Thank you, Lothario. I appreciate your help. Give my regards to Lita and the girls.”

  His dark face shone with love for his family.

  “God has blessed me. God has been good. I thank him all the time. I sing to Jesus in praise. Someday, I play my guitar for you. Not him. Not him.” He jerked his short dark thumb in the direction of the barn.

  Sadie was ill at ease the remainder of the day. She constantly ran to the windows to check on Reuben’s lawn-mowing progress. Dorothy was impossible to deal with, so Sadie stayed out of her way as much as possible. When Barbara came into the kitchen yet again, Sadie was afraid for her, knowing Dorothy’s temperament was a pressure cooker of suppressed frustration.

  “Why them fancy kabobs? Why not hot dogs and hamburgers and homemade beans? Fiddle falutin’ people!”

  Sadie thought as she read over the menu. Shortcakes. Peaches. Real whipped cream. Tamales. Shish kabobs. No wonder everyone was in a tizzy.

  Sadie and Dorothy worked together quite well preparing for the cookout. Dorothy miraculously calmed down, becoming efficient and making every step count until the evening of the cookout. The mound of food that was prepared was remarkable. Richard Caldwell—jovial, wearing a tall white chef’s hat, talking in his usual stentorian tones, waving his spatula wildly—handled the grill by himself, producing perfect strip steaks.

  Dorothy and Sadie carried out tray after tray of delicious sides. The cabbage slaw was crisp and chilled, the thick rolls warm and crusty. There were mounds of twice-baked potatoes that had almost been Dorothy’s undoing, mixing the cheese, bacon, and chives to the right consistency.

  Dat had asked Sadie to come home after the food was served, which she planned on doing. Lita Bean would help Dorothy finish up. As Sadie untied her apron in the kitchen, Mark Peight appeared at the door.

  “Do you have a way home?”

  Oh, Mark! She shook her head, unable to speak one word.

  “Could we walk? I know it’s … four miles?”

  “More like five.”

  “Then I’ll get someone to take us.”

  “No. No. We can walk. We have all night.”

  They thanked their hosts and wished everyone goodnight. The warm feeling of belonging to a large family of workers and friends followed them.

  Their footsteps were the only sound, except for a dog barking somewhere in the night. The stars hung low over Montana, like a black dish of night with holes punched in it, the stars a beautiful wonder.

  “You tired?”

  “I’m okay. The stress was almost worse than the actual work. Cooking for ranch hands and dumping the food onto a steam table is entirely different from cooking for the … well, wealthy people who are used to chefs and unusual food.”

  “It was delicious, Sadie. I’ve never had better cabbage slaw.”

  “Thank you.”

  Their steps were the only sound for a length of time until Mark cleared his throat.

  “So, did Mr. Bean escort you to the house okay?”

  Sadie laughed. “Isn’t he something? You know, many Latinos are staunch Catholics. A very strong, dedicated faith. He’s a good man.”

  “Isn’t that the church we supposedly came from?”

  “I guess. Hundreds of years ago.”

  “You think we’re better than they are now?”

  Mark’s words were heavy with bitterness, hatred almost. Sadie stopped involuntarily and turned to face him. She wanted to question him, but thinking better of it, she turned to walk on.

  “What?” Mark asked.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yes. What did I say that upset you?”

  “It’s just the way you said it. You don’t like plain people, do you? Why did you join the Amish faith if that’s how you feel? You don’t even like us much, let alone have faith in a group of people to help you travel through life.”

  Mark sighed, a long, deep sound expelling from his chest.

  “I guess I’ll always carry the burden of my past on my back, waiting to explode at the slightest opportunity.”

  Sadie did not speak. What he said was true. He was a walking tinderbox of buried hatred. Why did she keep trying?

  Her thoughts whirled. Suddenly, she became weary, her head heavy, her feet dragging. It was no use. This man was scarred for life. She felt trapped in a situation she had very little control over. The only way out was to stay completely away from him.

  Before she could follow her weary thoughts, he caught her hand in his.

  “Come, let’s sit down. I want to talk.”

  And he did. He talked for hours, as Sadie listened, crying at times, amazed at others.

  His mother was excommunicated for her sins, the promiscuous ungehorsam life she led. His last memory of his mother was her waving out the window of a red car, her hair streaming behind her, wearing heavy black sunglasses, leaving with that real estate man. His father cried and cried and cried.

  “You know, Sadie, his crying seemed so … final. The depth of his loss is stamped on my heart forever. He was so … so pitiful. I held the baby. I remember the smell of her filthy dress that hadn’t been washed for who knows how long? Dat never recovered. To this day, it haunts me. Why didn’t I do more? Maybe I could have prevented his death.”

  “No, Mark…” Sadie began.

  She was silenced by his harsh words, torn from his tortured mind. “Yes! I could have. I was so busy with the children. If I would have kept closer watch, he wouldn’t have died.”

  He sighed, and a torrent of words followed. “The men, the elders of the church, they came often. They blamed Dat. They said he was going to hell. Anyone who couldn’t keep his family in line was not worthy. What did they mean? Worthy of what? Heaven? God? So is my father suffering in eternal flames for the wrong my mother did to him?

  “I hate my mother. I hate her so much I can’t tell you. If I would see her again, so help me, I don’t know what I’d do.

  “Why didn’t any of the church members take us children? They could have tried. Nobody did anything. We were basically cast out.

  “Dat must have gone to look for my mother. I remember him dressing in English clothes, cutting his hair, shaving his beard. He would go English for her. He left me alone at night with the little ones.

  “The baby would cry and I’d get up to fill her bottle with water. There was no milk. She screamed and cried. I flavored the water with strawberry Jell-o. That hushed her for awhile. Good thing we had strawberry Jell-o.

  “Dat gave up then. He stopped searching for Mam. His hair and beard grew back. He got a job at a welding shop. We had milk. I learned to make soup with beans and tomato juice and hamburger. The only thing I couldn’t do was sew. Our clothes were torn and much too tight.

  “I thought my father was doing better. He read his Bible a lot. He sang to us. One time his parents came. They cried. Mommy Peight brought us food, clothes. She hugged us. I think they weren’t allowed to be there and came in secret because I didn’t see them until last year when I went back.

  “That day…” he began, then hung his head.

  A shudder passed through him. His head stayed bent. Sadie put a hand on his shoulder and kept it there.

  “Dat didn’t come home. I made soup for the little ones. We slept alone. The next morning, I se
arched the barn, the woods.”

  There was a long pause. Sadie stroked his shoulder as if comforting a small child. Or Paris.

  “He was half sunk in the water, half out of it. He was covered with algae. That’s why I didn’t see him right away. There were dragonflies on his back. Flies.”

  “But, Mark, if he was half out of the water, maybe he was trying to get out. Maybe it wasn’t a suicide at all. Maybe he had an accident.”

  “No. He didn’t want to live. He couldn’t handle all of us children. We were the ones that should have never been born. The counselor tried to tell me differently, but I know how it was. We were a mistake, born to two people who would have been so much better off without us.

  “I imagine my mother was a free spirit, liberal, always rebellious. She gave birth one year after another, the way the church required. Dat was too simple to see it, or too much in love, whatever it was. I spent my whole life wishing they hadn’t had any of us.”

  “Mark, you can’t think that way. There is a purpose for every soul brought into this world. I truly believe that. God wants you here on earth or you wouldn’t be here. He loves you as much as he loves anybody else. Likely more, even.”

  “No, he doesn’t.”

  “Mark!”

  “He can’t. Not after what I did. After Dat drowned himself, the church had nothing to do with us. We were tainted children then. So the authorities put us into the foster system. We were all separated. I was eight.

  “We became English. I went to a public school. The kids were nice enough; so were my foster parents. They drank a lot of beer. Keith became drunk a lot, but not angry drunk, just … stupid drunk. Sharon gave me good things to eat. I found out what pizza was. And cookies.

  “I don’t understand what happened then, but I was suddenly placed in another home. I lived in fear of their 17-year-old son. He … well, I won’t go into detail, but when I was 12, I ran away, alone, at night. I found my way to an Amish home in another community. Betsy, the family’s mother, took pity on me and allowed me to stay. I worked in their produce fields all my teenage years. The Amish man, I think, was bipolar, schizophrenic, whatever. He had vile temper fits. Blamed Betsy for everything, but he never touched her. Never. It was always me. He beat me regularly. Either with a whip or a hammer. The hammer was the worst.