Davey's Daughter

by Linda Byler

  “Priscilla,” Levi said forcefully.

  “What?”

  “You can’t go over there and work with Omar. He’s a boy.”

  “I know. But his sister, Anna Mae, is there.”

  “You’re not going,” Levi said.

  Dat smiled widely and winked at Mam.

  “We’ll see,” was all he said.

  The Widow Lydia came home from the hospital. Sarah and Mam walked through the tender spring sunshine, carrying a freshly baked carrot cake made with pineapple, nuts, and raisins and covered with cream cheese frosting.

  Lydia was propped up on pillows, the fresh, white pillowcases framing her thin, tired face. Without her glasses, she appeared so young. The light in her eyes was genuine now, a small flame of hope burned there, the deadness gone.

  Her mother and father were both present, hovering about, finding her glasses, arranging her pillows, asking if she was cold, bringing a blanket, quietly wiping their own tears.

  The outdoors hummed with activity, as usual, the projects still going on but with a difference since word had circulated of Lydia’s illness.

  Tight-lipped wives packed their husbands substantial lunches, saying enough ga-mach (to do) was enough. They’d cook a good hot supper in the evening, but a packed lunch was enough for today.

  At the end of the day, many of the wives raised their hands in dismay after finding all the food still in the Zip-loc bags. The men sheepishly admitted that the dinner had been catered again by the folks at Kentucky Fried Chicken.

  There was no contest between a cold lunch or that chicken. All this, however, was spared the Widow Lydia. She remained in bed and talked, shared, and cried with her parents asking her forgiveness over and over. They had no idea it had been so bad, they really didn’t, and Lydia believed them. They made an appointment to go for extensive counseling at Green Pastures in Lebanon County, at David Beiler’s request.

  Mam and Sarah left the cake, their hearts immeasurably relieved to see the healing in Lydia’s eyes. Again, the Amish folks as well as many of their English neighbors had rallied around the poor, the needy, the hurting, and the wounded in spirit, and life resumed its normal pace.

  The trust fund at Susquehanna Bank grew to mammoth proportions, but Lydia did not know. She went back to her duties slowly, but she sat and cuddled little Rebecca and her thin, small Aaron most of the time. She thanked God for David Beiler, though he did not know that he had done anything at all.

  The wind was a bit chilly when Mam asked Dat to hitch up Fred. She wanted to pick up her sister and go to Ez sei Mamie’s (Ez’s wife Mamie’s) quilting, over along Route 897.

  Dat did his duty, and Mam sat happily on the driver’s side of the preacher’s doch veggley (carriage), took up the reins, and thanked her husband.

  “Be careful,” Dat said. It was the same thing he always said, and Mam smiled.

  The preacher’s carriage had no front, just a heavy, black canvas duster that those in the front seat pulled up over their laps. There were doors on either side to slide closed when the weather was inclement, but today Mam kept them open and enjoyed the brisk little winds that flapped the gum blanket and swirled about her face.

  She wondered if all Amish carriages had been preachers’ doch vegglin in times past. Probably, the way most things changed over time, the storm fronts (windows with a sturdy dash) were a new and modern addition at one time. That had probably followed on the heels of the market wagon, the heavy, versatile carriage used to haul produce or baked goods—wares of all kinds—to open air markets in Lancaster City.

  Mam adjusted her black bonnet and was grateful for her shawl. The black, woolen square of fabric pinned securely around her shoulders guarded against the chill in the wind.

  Turning into her sister’s driveway, she noticed the new growth of her hostas. The wide green leaves pushed the mulch away, new life springing from the earth everywhere, although Davey had told her it was still plenty wet to plant peas. She had the cold frame filled with early lettuce, onions, and radishes. She had checked them herself this morning and was surprised at the growth.

  “Whoa.”

  Fred stopped obediently and then pulled on the reins to loosen them. Mam watched the side door, eager to see her sister, Miriam. She emerged, pulling the door shut behind her, one hand going to her covering. As usual, she wore a black sweater, but no shawl or bonnet.

  Lifting the gum blanket, Mam exclaimed, “Where’s your bonnet?”

  Miriam plopped down on the seat, wiggled her shoulders, and said, “Boy, we fill up this front seat pretty snugly.”

  Mam smiled and thought, you mean you do.

  Miriam weighted a bit over two hundred pounds and frankly stated that fact to any who inquired. She’d been heavy all her life. She was who she was, she carried it well, and tough if someone thought she was fat.

  “Where’s your bonnet?” Mam repeated.

  “You know I hate bonnets.”

  “Now, Miriam.”

  “Sorry, Malinda. But I’m not a preacher’s wife.”

  No, you’re not, Mam thought wryly, knowing her sister was undoubtedly not cut out to be one.

  “Well, alright. I like my shawl and bonnet on a chilly day.”

  They had gone a few hundred yards when Miriam said, “Poo!” and reached for the gum blanket, pulling it up well above her waistline.

  “Should have worn your shawl and bonnet.”

  Miriam shrugged and said the good, thick buggy blankets would keep her warm.

  Fred trotted briskly. The two sisters talked nonstop, catching up on community news, family gossip, the highs and lows of raising large families, clucking, lending listening ears, always sympathetic, understanding. It was the way of sisters everywhere, confiding in each other, the trust so complete, so cushioned with unconditional love, that conversation flowed freely, unrestrainedly.

  “How’s Sarah doing with her Matthew?” Miriam asked.

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “You don’t sound too enthused.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Ach Malinda. Come on. He’s quite a catch, and you know it. You’re just trying to be humble. Duh!”

  “Miriam, I think looks is about as far it goes with that one.”

  She held up one hand to hush Miriam.

  “Let me have my say. I can’t talk like this to anyone else, not even my husband, who is always a pushover where Sarah is concerned.”

  Mam stopped, looked at Miriam.

  “Isn’t a pushover a baked item?”

  “You mean a popover?”

  They laughed heartily, rich chuckles of shared humor. Then Miriam told Mam if she didn’t watch her horse they were going to have a wreck, and she meant it. Mam said no they weren’t, she was a good driver, but Miriam didn’t really think she was. She just didn’t say it.

  “Anyway, you were saying?”

  “Oh, Matthew Stoltzfus.”

  “Yes.”

  “You know I think the world of Hannah. She’s my best friend. But she had those two boys long after her girls, and…” Mam’s voice became strong, forceful. “They’re both spoiled rotten!”

  Miriam gasped. “Malinda! I can’t believe you said that!”

  Mam sat up straight.

  “Yes, I said that, and it feels good to be completely honest. She caters to those boys. She thinks they can do nothing wrong. And Matthew is less than ambitious. He flirts with any girl who will look at him, and there are plenty of them. I’m not convinced he loves Sarah at all. She’s just second best because Rose doesn’t want him.”

  “Wow!” Miriam mouthed.

  “Yes. It’s that bad.”

  “Are you sure you’re not being too hard on Sarah?”

  “No.”

  “Boy, Malinda. You sound like someone I don’t know.”

  “Well, don’t know me then. I’m just so sick of tiptoeing around Sarah and turning a false face decorated with an artificial smile. I know it’s not going to make a lick of differen
ce what I say. She fancies herself in love with him.”

  “Malinda! She is! That poor girl has always wanted Matthew.”

  “Wanted and loved are two very different things.”

  Miriam nodded.

  “You are absolutely right.”

  “I know I am.”

  “Let’s not talk about this anymore. It makes me sick to the stomach. Your Sarah is such a nice girl. I know she deserves genuine happiness with an extra nice guy.”

  Mam flicked the reins across Fred’s back, urging him on. They’d be late for the quilting, and Mamie made the best filled doughnuts in Lancaster County.

  Ez sei Mamie had pieced the plum-colored quilt by herself, a new design, she thought, until the contrary Emma Blank informed her that the Courthouse Steps pattern was as old as her grandmother’s grandmother.

  “Well, it’s new to me.”

  So began the day at an Amish quilting. The colors of the quilt in question were called plum and sage, whereas years ago, they would have been called green and purple. They still were by the older generation.

  The fact that Mamie made the best filled doughnuts was widely discussed and finally accepted, after weighing the pros and cons of using doughnut mix or stirring up batter from scratch.

  “You can’t beat the ones made from fresh ingredients. And you have to have real mashed potatoes in the dough, not potato flakes,” Mamie said, her cheeks like ripe apples, her eyes popping. The overwhelming pressure of having all those talented women in her house automatically cranked up the volume that was loud to begin with.

  “I don’t believe it,” countered Emma Blank.

  “Me either! We make thousands and thousands of them for bake sales and auctions. Every single one of our doughnuts comes from a mix. We buy it in fifty-pound bags,” another voice chimed in, “And they are amazing.”

  Mamie’s eyes snapped, but she smiled and, with a grand gesture, set a beautiful glass tray of perfect filled doughnuts in the middle of the table, surrounded by carafes of coffee and vissa tae (meadow tea).

  Much oohing and aahing followed. Eyes rolled, and exclamations of “Siss net chide (it isn’t right)” and other approving statements mingled with giggles and outright laughs of appreciation. Hands repeatedly reached for more doughnuts, everyone knowing full well that they were unbeatable.

  Miriam whispered to Malinda that she guessed she’d have to stick a bag of pretzels in her pocket to keep that cloying sweetness from staying on her tongue till lunchtime. Then she admitted she’d eaten three doughnuts.

  “Not three!”

  “Three.”

  The women set to work. Their needles were plied expertly, up and down, in and out, the sturdy off-white thread pulled between the layers of fabric and batting.

  Thimbles flashed, silver or gold. Occasionally naits (thread) was called for across the frame as the spools lay in the middle of the large quilt out of everyone’s reach.

  Someone would quickly press down on the quilt, allowing a spool to roll toward a hand where it was snatched up and thrown to the person asking for it.

  Inevitably, the conversation turned to the barn fires and the latest victim who had been unable to face her life anymore. It was spoken of quietly, reverently, and without malice. Mam knew the most. She knew the truth as the well-informed minister’s wife. Yet she spoke only what was necessary and then passed out post-it notes with Lydia’s address written on them.

  Women blinked back tears of sympathy, blew their noses surreptitiously, and avoided eye contact, each one bearing the news stoically. The poor, poor woman. Oh, it hurts to hear it, they said.

  Mam assured them all that healing was well underway, and her counselors were well pleased with her progress.

  “You know she always was quiet. I suppose we just accepted her as that. She hid so much.”

  “What do you think became of Aaron?” Emma Blank asked, her words falling like rocks on macadam.

  No one answered.

  Mam finally spoke in a quiet voice, reminding Emma of his long and painful battle with lung cancer, the suffering that provided opportunity for him to repent.

  Miriam said nothing but thought her sister had such a nice way about her, always soothing ruffled feathers, looking for the good in people, no matter what the circumstances.

  That’s why she was more than a bit surprised by her dislike of Matthew. Well, time would tell.

  The men of Leacock Township held another meeting about the fires, this time speaking at length about the need to either get large dogs or sleep in their barns. It had to be one or the other. Mastiff. German Shepherd. Doberman. Whatever it would take.

  Some farmers installed alarms with wires encased in durable rubber stretched across their driveways, but they needed electricity, so only a few actually used them.

  Dogs were acquired, or sleeping bags and air mattresses. But sleeping in the barn lasted for only a few weeks for many as the meticulous housewives turned up their noses every time the well meaning boys of the household came in the house after spending a night in the barn.

  Men tilled the fields as the sun shone and birds wheeled their ecstatic patterns in the sky. Tulips pushed the soil aside and grew tall and stately, tossed about like hula dancers in the spring breezes.

  Women bent their backs in their gardens, purple, blue, green, and red skirts tossing about them as they planted fresh, new onion bulbs and wrinkled, grayish peas, tiny radish seeds, and lettuce seeds so fine they threw them in slight indentations in the soil and figured at least half of them would grow.

  Children skipped through the fields, holes in their school sneakers, longing to go barefoot, but their mothers remained adamant. The earth was too cold. They must wait for the first bumblebee.

  The children searched the fence rows for new dandelion growth and picked the greens joyfully. They carried them to their mothers, who washed and steamed them. Then they fried a good bit of fat bacon, stirred flour into the cooked and crumpled bacon, added chopped hard-boiled eggs and the steamed greens, and had a fine supper.

  The Widow Lydia walked carefully among her new shrubbery, unable to take it all in. She marveled at the bulbs that had produced wonderful red tulips, a gift from Royer’s Greenhouses.

  And then because they were so red, and the leaves so green, and the fresh mushroom soil around them so brown—everything a rainbow of vibrant color—she folded her arms on the new PVC fence surrounding her house and cried.

  She cried because she was grateful that she could. She could let great, wet tears flow down her thin, pale cheeks and never once feel any guilt. It was alright to cry. In fact, she was supposed to cry. They said it was healing.

  The barn stood at the bottom of the small incline below the house, new and shining, as if it grew from the earth itself, sprouting from a bulb like the red tulips. In a sense, it had. A bulb was a small thing, but with God’s power, it grew to a much larger thing of indescribable beauty. The men had been tools in His hands, bearing the ability to wield a hammer, operate a saw, read blueprints, all the while their hearts holding goodwill toward their neighbor.

  So the earth bore its new life, and the barn stood solid and charming, one complimenting the other to form a picture of beauty, as hearts that are hidden from sight grow by the Master’s Hand, in love, in forbearance, and tender pity.

  Sarah kicked her bare foot against the moist, new grass below the swing by the grape arbor and thought about the words Matthew was saying. She rolled them over in her mind, trying to decipher their meaning, but none of it made any sense at all. He wanted to go away. He wanted to travel, see the world. He needed to get away on a spiritual quest.

  Sarah felt herself becoming hysterical, imagining his perfect profile with the dark hair and brown eyes climbing a tall mountain with no trees, just grass and a small, wizened little man sitting on top.

  A spiritual quest? He hadn’t committed himself to the Amish church yet, as she had done the previous year. But how could he want to seek anything other than the
faith of his fathers? She simply could not grasp what he was saying.

  He’d be gone for a few months. Months? Not weeks. Or days. Months. The time was too long, the distance too great.

  Feebly, she tried to explain that she couldn’t allow this. They’d never make it apart, but she floundered, wallowing in the misery of her useless explanations and refusing to accept his words, hoping her refusal would keep him from leaving her.

  He took her willing body into his arms. He kissed her with the usual enthusiasm and promised her he’d be back if she’d be patient with him. She traced his face with her fingertips and tried to memorize the exact dimensions. Her heart was already aching with the pain of missing him.

  He was going with a single man from the Charity group, one of the other Amish youth groups, he said just before he left. Lester Amstutz. She nodded dumbly and stood up woodenly. She was surprised her limbs didn’t creak and clank, as if made from tin, when she turned to go inside.

  She stood with her hand on the doorknob for a long time, unable to face the suffocation her bedroom would subject her to. Turning, she reached out a hand and whispered, “Matthew?” It was a question, as if she was unsure about what he had told her. She wanted to run after him, hold him, keep him from going anywhere without her, but she could only stand on the front porch and whisper his name again.

  What was that about loving something and setting it free? If you loved something and set it free, it would return? Or “he” would return. Not “it.”

  Reality finally reached her senses, and Sarah turned the knob, made her way up the stairs, and lay on her bed, fully clothed. Sleep eluded her and the night stretched out long and black and filled with sorrow.

  Somewhere inside, she knew Matthew was trying to be gentle. He did not want to be Amish. He didn’t appreciate the heritage of his family, the old linage of conservatism, the traditions, the way of life.

  Well, when he returned and had made a decision to leave his family and join a worldly church—was there such a thing?—she’d go with him.