by Tricia Goyer
Another song started and the others around the fire sung with gusto. Marianna felt a stirring in her gut. They shouldn't be gone too long. It wouldn't look right.
"Aaron, listen, even if I have known, there's nothing I can do about it. But my father and I have made a deal. He talked to me after church. If I don't like it after six months, I can return and live with my aunt."
"That old maid who always has her nose in everyone's business?" He slapped his hat against his leg. "I won't be able to come around without everyone from Ontario to Kentucky knowing about it. She'll write up all our comings and goings in that Budget column she prides herself in."
"It's better than me being a thousand miles away, isn't it?"
Aaron scrunched his face, as if he wasn't quite sure about that, and Marianna punched his shoulder with a soft fist. It was the first time she touched him—well, at least in the last ten years, and not counting that time she'd joined the softball game and he'd tagged her arm with his mitt as she approached third base. Marianna felt warmth spread through her.
"But Mari—" He focused his eyes on hers. She could read questions there. Fears. "What if you find another guy? Maybe there's someone out West who's already ready for a wife?"
Laughter burst from Marianna's lips. "You can't be serious. They're all mountain men from what I hear, and that's not interesting to me at all."
Aaron lifted one eyebrow, as if unsure he believed her. Then returned his hat to his head. "Ja, well, it would make me feel better if I could see you at Christmas. I can come to Montana. I suppose I'll be busy building our—my place until then."
He looked to the fire, where the others were gathered, and then back to her again. The pain in his eyes was clear. "I'm worried about you, out in the Englisch world. There are people that will take advantage of your kindness. Men who will see your beauty."
Her stomach flipped as he said his last word, and she pressed her hands down her apron, as if trying to smooth an invisible wrinkle. "You're talking nonsense. We're going to another community. I'm sure it will be very much like here, only smaller. All Amish live the same types of lives. I bet there will be no real difference at all."
"Not from the way your uncle was talking. The people there don't pay as much attention to the Ordnung. I heard their women are allowed to work in woodshops along with the men, not just as school teachers and store keepers. My mom said she heard women were allowed to take communion even if their cape is sewn instead of pinned. And . . ."
"And what?" Marianna shook her head, Aaron should know better. She'd never sew her cape.
"And they hire drivers every week to take them to town. That seems like a lot of interaction with the Englisch if you ask me. They let Englisch worship with them, too. Ike said some even attend Englisch prayer meetings. I told my father and . . ." Aaron paused and looked at her. Then he lifted his hand and stroked her cheek.
His hand was warm and strong from work. He took a step near her and a million needles pierced her skin, moving from her neck down through her arms. She felt the rising and fall of her chest, and she told herself to breathe. Aaron's breath was warm on her forehead and she knew if he dipped his head just a bit more their lips would touch. The tip of her tongue licked her lips and her knees quivered. He ran his hand from her temple, down her cheek, stopping just at the corner of her lips. A burst of laughter carried from the other young folks who were still at the fire but they no longer concerned her. Nothing concerned her beyond Aaron's touch. She'd never felt more joy, like hot flames in her chest, than to see the way he looked at her. Then, just when she was sure he would kiss her, Aaron took a step back.
"My father said he's worried about you. About your reputation."
The emotion that had been building in her throat tightened into a knot. She cleared it away, her forehead folding, her eyebrows lowering. "Excuse me?"
"Who knows what type of community is there. What if they are wild? What are you going to do, Mari, stand up to all of them?"
Anger replaced the joy of a moment before, heating her. She balled her fists, feeling her nails dig into the almost healed cut on her palm. "Your father said that, did he? And how did you respond? Did you agree with him, Aaron?"
Aaron looked away, gazing up at the dimming sky as if it held the right words there. But Marianna didn't know if there were any right words. She turned her back to him, crossing her arms in front of her, pulling them tight. Then she stepped away a half-dozen steps. Away from the singing, the fire. Away from him.
"I know how things work, Aaron. I was six years old when I realized that eyes were on me every moment. It was my first week of school and I felt so independent. It was just Levi and me walking to the schoolhouse, and I ran and shouted down the lane, just because I could. Just because my mother wasn't around to tell me to act like a little lady.
"One day that first week, I was trying to knock a birdhouse out of a tree when one of the rocks cracked a window on an Englisch house down the road. By the time I reached home my mother knew. My father's discipline was firm. I—" Tears pooled in her eyes and the fields that stretched beyond the barn blurred. She felt his presence behind her, nearing, but she didn't turn. She couldn't turn. She was sure if she looked in his face she wouldn't be brave enough to say the words she needed to.
"My whole life, our whole lives, everything we do, say, wear is under the scrutiny of others. We must be sure we are proper and kind. We dress like the others and work together. But just because you can't see me, does that mean that I won't obey? My parents are there, Aaron. God can see me, too. Unless you believe they are incapable of their job. God is incapable."
"It wasn't me, it was my father. You know how he is."
"He's an elder. His job is to help watch over the flock, yes, I know. It's not like I'm becoming Englisch. It's just a new place, an adventure."
Even as she said the words, Marianna wondered where they came from. She hadn't liked the idea of moving until Aaron said that his father—and no doubt others in the community—worried they would stray. Worried about their eternal souls. Well, he hadn't said that last part. No one had said that, but it is what they meant. And Marianna understood. She'd thought the same about others when they'd decided to move out of the community. I wonder what they're running from? I wonder what they want to hide?
She turned to him, ashamed of herself—of her past judgments—just as much as she was angry with him. She would have the same questions and concerns if the roles were reversed.
"So maybe it would be best if you rode home tonight with the Lapps. They're heading right by your house." There was more to his words than he was saying. By taking back his offer for a ride, he was also pulling back the reins on the idea that their friendship would grow into something more in the near future.
Marianna felt tears rim her lower rids, and for the briefest moment reconsidered the conversation she had with her father. Maybe she could stay with her aunt now. Maybe . . .
But she could see from the firm set in Aaron's jaw, his mind was made up. Even if she stayed, there was a rift between them that would take a while to mend. And she was sure his father would have his own opinion of his son's involvement with a girl from a family whose crazy uncle was leading them astray.
"Ja, fine. I'll ask the Lapps." She cupped her hands together and then blew into them, for the first time realizing how cold she was. How tired. "I think I'll return to the fire."
"Can I sit by you?" Aaron's voice held a hint of apology.
She shrugged. "If you'd like. If you think your father would approve." She said the last words with a tone sharper than she meant and from the corner of her eye recognized a pained look on Aaron's face. Marianna opened her mouth to apologize, but before she could he turned and headed toward the fire.
She cleared her throat again, lowered her hand, and pressed her fingers to her eyes, telling herself not to cry. A new burden settled on her chest, adding to the bricks of worry that were already there. She was angry at her parents for making her l
eave, and now the anger had seeped out, contaminating her relationship with the one person she wanted to stay most for.
If she could just talk to Levi. On many nights when they couldn't sleep, she and her older brother would slip out of the house, finding themselves in front of the raspberry bush, eating the ripe fruit under the light of the moon as they talked about their friends, their future, their parents. It was during those nights her brother had told her about a time when their home had been filled with laughter and fun. Even though he was just three at the time of their sisters' deaths, he could remember Marilyn and Joanna. He could also remember the night of their deaths, the same night Marianna was born.
She'd always wondered if her birth had ever eased the pain of her sisters' deaths. One daughter to replace two. She could never replace them, of course. But that didn't mean she didn't long for a home filled with laughter and joy like Levi spoke about with fondness. Of course, that was the old Levi. He'd changed. He no longer cared for home and family as he used to.
One by one those she'd been closest to were being led away. Why? What was so wrong with staying? With belonging?
She rubbed her arms, and with slow steps headed back toward the fire, realizing that maybe it was better to go to Montana after all. Maybe this would be the very thing to bring back the joy in her family that Levi had told her about. It was worth a try. Her parents deserved to feel happy, settled. And when she returned to Indiana, she'd do so knowing she'd honored her family. Then she could start again with Aaron and, hopefully, he would have forgotten her harsh words.
Dear June-Sevenies,
Next time you receive a letter from me, it will be from the new address I've enclosed. My family is moving to Montana, and I have no choice but to go. For as long as we've been doing this chain letter, I figured that change was to come sometime. Clara was the first to get engaged. Wynne was the first to travel to a foreign country—even if it was Canada. I suppose I'm the first to move far way. I'll try to write from the train, although it may not be legible. It's a mighty long ride. I'm not sure what to expect in Montana. Dat says there is a dozen families, and I picture twelve little shacks clinging to the side of a mountain, sort of like in the book Heidi. I suppose I'll soon find out.
You may wonder what's going to happen with Aaron. I wonder that too. Last night I dreamt I was in Montana and Dat told me I could return to Indiana. I left the house on the way to the train station, and I somehow got lost in the woods. I was wandering around in the dark trees. It was a very scary dream! Then, in the distance I could see water—like a pond—down the hill, and someone calling to me. I woke up thinking of Aaron, wondering if he'd come for me in Montana and then chiding myself for that notion.
Rachel, that's exciting about your cousins visiting from Pennsylvania, although I'm not sure how your house could hold so many people. And, Beverly, to answer your question I'm still working on my quilt. I have the panels sewn together, but I have a lot of hand stitching work to do. I'm taking the quilt with me. Hand-stitching takes forever when I'm up and down with the kids. Still, I'm determined to finish it by the time I return to Indiana in six months.
Have to go. I hear Ellie and Josiah rustling about. I imagine they'll need some breakfast and then need help packing. Much to do today.
With care,
Marianna
CHAPTER TEN
She was a stranger in her own bedroom.
The bed was made with an old sheet set. The closet was empty, her clothes and bedding now in one of two boxes. Her books had been boxed up and were stacked on top of the cedar chest her grandmother had given her the year she turned fifteen. Inside the chest her grandmother had included a set of kitchen towels and a cookbook of recipes. Marianna had added to that over the years—sheets, towels, dishes—things she'd need for her own house some day. All of it would remain except the cookbook. She'd packed that with her clothes. Maybe her mother was right. Maybe she did need to spend more time in the kitchen, honing her skills in preparation for caring for a home. Or rather, a husband.
She placed her hands on her hips and turned, scanning the room, checking to see if there was anything she'd missed. Not that she had more room for anything else. They were allowed two boxes each, and one of hers was taken up with her half-finished quilt. She assumed she'd have plenty of time to work on it seeing as she wouldn't know anyone. That would mean no social gatherings to attend. She pictured many lonely nights sitting and sewing under the light of Dat's lantern.
The sound of sniffling carried from her open door and Marianna turned to find five-year-old Josiah with red, puffy eyes and a dripping nose. He wore a hand-me-down nightshirt that hid his arms in his sleeves. His dark hair stuck up in the back and his bare toes peeked out from under the hem of the long shirt.
"What's the matter with you? Are the bed bugs biting?" Though she joked with him, she opened her arms and allowed him to scamper into her embrace.
"Mem says we can't bring Fred." He pushed up his sleeve and wiped his runny nose with the back of his hand.
Marianna led him to the water basin on her side table.
"Well, no, that would be too confusing. He's an Indiana rooster. I've heard there are big mountains in Montana. The sunlight comes over them, but the sun doesn't peek over till hours later. Do you know how confusing that would be?"
Josiah allowed her to wash and dry his hands, and then she led him back to the doorway. "Now, scamper back to bed because Fred still has a few mornings left to wake you, and I can imagine he's going to do a good job tomorrow. Bright and early."
Josiah nodded, but just as he turned what sounded like hail hitting her window filled the air. Marianna's heart leapt, and she turned in time to see a bit of gravel fly through the open window, hit the floor, and skitter under her bed.
Josiah rushed back into her room, eyes wide. "What's that?"
Marianna knew what it was, but who was beckoning from below? Maybe Aaron coming to talk. To apologize for not giving her a ride. Or maybe Rebecca—not in her right mind. Or . . .
She looked to Josiah again. "Oh, it's just some bugs wanting in. They must see the light. Now hurry to bed." With his eyes still filled with sadness, he did as he was told, and Marianna shut the door and then scurried to the window. It was dark out. A narrow wedge of moon hung in the sky, and she could make out a man's form. He wasn't wearing the typical Amish hat and clothes, which gave him away.
Levi stood in the yard near the cottonwood tree. Close enough for her to make him out, but far enough that he couldn't be seen from the house unless someone knew where to look. She waved to him and then tightened the belt on her bathrobe. She turned off her bedroom light and made her way downstairs with slow, soft steps. With bare feet, she exited the door and crossed the cold porch and then hurried over the moist grass toward the tree.
"What are you doing? You scared me. Josiah was in the room, and he heard the noise of the gravel hitting the window."
She had to look up to him. Her brother was tall, like her father, and the top of her head barely reached his shoulders. But the look on his face reminded her of Josiah just a few minutes before—tired, scared, afraid—even though he tried to hide all three.
Levi shrugged. "I had to talk to you." He didn't say anything about Josiah, but peered over her shoulder to the house as if watching for an unwanted visitor.
"So you're moving? All of you?" He kicked his white tennis shoe against a clump of dirt. His shoe laces were undone and the hems of his pants were ragged and torn near the heels. Even though it wasn't the first time, it seemed strange to see him in non-Amish clothes. Marianna thought about all the things she'd wanted to tell him. All the harsh words she'd poured out in her journal, but seeing him here . . . sadness replaced anger.
Marianna nodded. "Yes. To Montana."
He pushed up the sleeves on a gray sweatshirt that looked two sizes too big and then sank his hands into jean pockets. Even stranger was his haircut. Buzzed short on the sides and spiked up on top.
"T
hat seems like something Dat would do, leaving, but I'm surprised Mem is going. I'm surprised you're going."
"It's hard, Mem being here." Marianna moved her gaze in the direction of the two trees, planted in memory of her sisters. She didn't mention that his life choices were just as hard as their deaths had been. She didn't have to. She could see in his gaze he understood.
"It's wrong, you know. The decisions you are making talking Naomi into—"
"I didn't talk her into anything," he growled, "and you can save that conversation till it happens."
"What did you expect me to say? You came here after all." She touched her head, adjusting her thick, starched sleeping kerchief, holding in a yawn, and also pushing down her annoyance that he'd come to her like this. That he'd make her defend a move she didn't believe in.
He shrugged. "Guess I expected to hear as much, considering yer feelings for Aaron, still I wanted to tell you I'm surprised you're leaving, that's all."
"We wouldn't have to go, you know, if things changed."
"You mean if Aaron Zook proposed tomorrow?"
She blinked. "No, I'm afraid that wouldn't stop them. There are other things our parents are running from. Heartbreaks."
"You might as well say it. They're leaving because of me."
"Mostly." She reached for his arm, but then pulled back when she realized touching him was like touching a stranger. It wasn't Levi . . . more like a shadow of him. Even in the moonlight his gaze seemed empty. His voice flat.
"I'm not coming back into the community. Don't you see? I didn't come this far just to return."
"This far? You make it sound like a good thing. Like you've accomplished a lot. What do you mean by that?" Her toes curled on the grass.
"Do you know how hard it's been? How hard I've worked? I have an eighth grade education. I've been building houses making half as much as the other guys. And I'm lucky to have the job."