Home on Huckleberry Hill

by Jennifer Beckstrand

  Mary Anne lit the propane lantern with the lighter she had stolen from Jethro’s tackle box. She hoped it wasn’t a great inconvenience when he noticed it was missing. He had two others. The propane lamp sat on the small table that used to be in the living room next to Jethro’s chair. She hoped he wouldn’t be too inconvenienced by that either.

  She glanced at the clock that hung from one of the tent poles. Mary Anne had made one irresponsible purchase today. It was a big kitchen clock with five brightly painted butterflies on the face. Each butterfly’s wing was streaked with shiny gold highlights that sparkled in the lantern light. It was the most beautiful thing Mary Anne had ever seen at Walmart. She’d let Jethro keep his fish clock.

  Seven o’clock. Jethro would be sitting in his easy chair right now, reading the newspaper. She hadn’t heard a peep from him since five, when he was supposed to have come home from work. Maybe he had accepted her decision to move out. Maybe he was trying to wait her out, sure she would grow tired of camping and move back into the house soon enough.

  But he didn’t know how determined she was, and he had no idea how nice it felt to be left in peace to do exactly what she wanted—without the expectations and judgments that weighed her down and made it hard to breathe.

  “Mary Anne?”

  She heaved a sigh. It really had been too much to hope that Jethro had given up.

  “In here,” she said, adding a little extra-chipper cheerfulness to her voice. She quickly unzipped the door to her tent and stepped outside. If she invited him in, she might never get him to leave. He could be like that sometimes.

  She froze. Jethro had brought the bishop for a visit. How very nice.

  “Mary Anne,” the bishop said, looking like he’d just been to three funerals. “It wonders me if we could have a talk.”

  Jethro stood next to the bishop with his arms folded across his chest and his mouth twisted into a smug smile. Of course Jethro would fetch the bishop. Mary Anne had been expecting it, though maybe not quite this soon. She had no doubt the bishop would side with Jethro. She didn’t feel clever enough to try to convince them otherwise, and she wasn’t about to bear her soul to either of them. Jethro couldn’t care less about her feelings, and the bishop thought she was just another fussy fraa who needed to be put in her place.

  Why would she even try to make them understand?

  It would complicate things if the bishop had her shunned, but she’d cross that bridge if she came to it. Living in a tent gave her confidence she could do anything she set her mind to.

  Mary Anne’s heart pounded against her ribs. She tried to pull herself taller. “Would you like to come in?”

  The bishop nodded, and his gaze seemed to pierce right through to the back of her head. Who did she think she was? She was nobody, an insignificant, selfish fraa who liked to draw and couldn’t have children.

  Still, moving out of her house had been the first thing in a long time that had felt right, like shrugging off a heavy coat in hundred-degree weather. She might be going against Gotte, but what did it matter when Gotte didn’t even know who she was? How much, really, did Gotte even care?

  Mary Anne led the way as the three of them ducked into the tent. She sat on the end of the cot and motioned for Jethro and the bishop to sit on a small bench she had dragged from the house this morning. It was barely wide enough for both of them, and they had to squish. Mary Anne raised an eyebrow. She’d have to get more chairs if she wanted visitors.

  Jethro pointed to the ceiling, where Mary Anne had hung her first creation. “What is that?”

  She looked up and tried not to smile. She didn’t want the bishop to think she was treating his visit with levity, and she certainly didn’t want to appear proud. “Ach. It’s a potato-chip mobile. I made it this morning. Don’t you think it brightens up the tent?”

  “What is it?” the bishop asked.

  Mary Anne picked up the lantern and held it close to the mobile. She’d poked a dozen bamboo skewers into a Styrofoam ball and hung spray-painted potato chips from each skewer using fishing line from Jethro’s tackle box. She’d spray-painted the chips blue and green and gold, with a little yellow dribbled on for an interesting pop of color. “Ruffles are the best because they don’t break easily, and they’re big enough to drill a hole through. And the ridges make a pretty design.”

  “You shouldn’t spend good money on food if you’re going to waste it,” Jethro said.

  She ignored his criticism. She didn’t live with him anymore and felt no obligation to pay heed to his opinion. “And look,” she said, setting down the lamp and picking up two chips from the table. She held them out for the bishop to see. “I found one in the shape of a tulip and one in the shape of a pig. The pig one isn’t as good, but this really looks like a flower.”

  The bishop smiled. “Jah. You’re right. I’ve never looked at a potato chip that closely before.”

  “Who has?” Jethro said, rolling his eyes.

  That reaction usually hurt her feelings, but because she didn’t love him anymore, she hardly felt the pain. Let Jethro think what he wanted.

  Jethro’s eyes widened as he took a second look around her tent. “That’s my table! And my lamp!”

  Ignoring any references to the furniture, Mary Anne set her potato chips on Jethro’s table and sat back down on the cot, facing him and the bishop.

  Bishop Yoder propped his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “Now, Mary Anne, Jethro tells me that you have moved out.”

  “Jah,” she said, unable to keep her lips from curling slightly. That much should be obvious to anybody.

  Jethro nodded. “I had hoped you’d have everything put away when I came home today, but instead my cooler is missing.”

  “I needed someplace to put my food.”

  The bishop patted Jethro’s leg as if to stop him from saying whatever was about to come out of his mouth. He turned a concerned gaze back to Mary Anne. “Will you tell me why you moved out?”

  Jethro glared at her. “She’s throwing a tantrum because I forgot our anniversary last night.”

  Mary Anne raised an eyebrow. He’d remembered their anniversary—a day late, but still, it was something.

  The bishop gave Jethro the kindly, patient smile he probably used on misguided young people in the gmayna. “I’d like to hear what Mary Anne has to say.”

  “She says I’m boring. A fraa shouldn’t be allowed to move out just because she doesn’t like something about her husband.” Jethro sounded like he was preaching a sermon. If he didn’t have such a difficult wife, he probably would have been a minister by now. He pointed a righteous finger at Mary Anne. “There are plenty of things I don’t like about you, but I’m willing to stay together and work it out. That’s what it means to be married.”

  Bishop Yoder studied Mary Anne’s face. “You think Jethro is boring?”

  Mary Anne looked down at her hands, which she had clasped in her lap. She wasn’t about to tell the bishop or Jethro the real reasons for her leaving. Telling Jethro he was boring was much less painful for him than telling him she couldn’t love someone who could hardly stand to look at her. She truly hated to hurt Jethro’s feelings, but she also wanted to tell the truth—or at least a truth the bishop would be satisfied with. “I can’t live like that for fifty more years.”

  Jethro was like a boiling teakettle. He stood up to keep from erupting. “But you made vows. You made a commitment to me.”

  “Jah,” she said. “I intend to keep those vows. Nothing says we have to live together to be married.”

  “But you’re commanded in the Bible to love your husband. What about that?”

  Jethro had just learned he was boring. She wasn’t about to tell him she didn’t love him anymore. “I can love you from a distance.”

  “You’re supposed to be at home. You’re supposed to be a comfort to your husband. You can’t do that when you’re living in a tent and using my best sleeping bag.”

  She longed
to point out that he never noticed when she was home so why should he notice when she wasn’t. But she’d sound petty and bitter, when she just wanted Jethro to leave her alone and go on with his life.

  “You’d rather live by yourself in a tent?” the bishop said.

  She could tell he wasn’t scolding her. “The woods are wonderful pretty this time of year. It’s warm enough.”

  “What will you do when it turns cold?”

  She didn’t know if she was ready to share her plans, but she sensed that the bishop maybe wanted to help. At least he didn’t seem inclined to lecture her. “I’d like to move into my own place.”

  Jethro scoffed. “You already have a house.”

  The lines on the bishop’s forehead bunched together. “You’re going to need money.”

  Jethro snapped his head around to scowl at Mary Anne. “She stole two hundred dollars from my underwear drawer.”

  Mary Anne couldn’t fault Jethro for being mad. Money was more important to him than just about anything. “I plan to pay you back as soon as I can.” She ignored the ache in her heart. “Do you remember the three quilts I made for the baby?”

  That pulled him up short. “You don’t have to talk about that.”

  “My Englisch friend Pammy has an Etsy shop, and she’s going to sell them for me.”

  “What kind of a shop does she have?” Jethro said.

  “I want to make more quilts to sell, but it won’t be enough.” She looked at the bishop. Would he help her? “I’m going to need to get a job.”

  “You don’t need a job,” Jethro said, all riled up again. “You need to come home. My wife should not live in a tent. It’s embarrassing.”

  Even though Mary Anne was determined to keep her temper, Jethro was determined to push her to the limit. She gritted her teeth and took a deep breath. “If you’re worried about what other people will think, just tell them that your wife is crazy. They can’t blame you for that.”

  Jethro paced around the tent. Two steps forward, two steps back. “You’re not crazy. You’re selfish, and I won’t stand for such wickedness in my home.”

  “Then it’s gute I’m not living there anymore.”

  Bishop Yoder stood up and laid a firm hand on Jethro’s shoulder. “Jethro,” he said, his voice as mild as a summer day. How did he keep his composure? “Sit down, and we’ll talk.”

  Jethro did as he was told, though his agitation couldn’t be contained so easily. He bounced his knee up and down so fast it was almost vibrating.

  The bishop sat down next to him. “These are hard times for husbands and wives. The world is changing, and we don’t teach classes on how to have a gute marriage. No marriage is completely safe because it’s easy to take each other for granted or to expect the other person to be someone they’re not. I hear even your grandparents, Anna and Felty, have been talking about divorce.”

  Mary Anne frowned. “My grandparents?”

  The bishop folded his arms. “One of my favorite passages of scripture is from the Last Supper. Jesus tells His disciples that one of them will betray him. Do you remember what the disciples ask him, Jethro?”

  Jethro’s face turned even redder than it already was. “Nae. Not really.”

  “They asked ‘Is it I?’”

  “What does that mean?”

  “None of them said, ‘Ach, I’m sure Judas is the one who will do it. He’s so greedy.’ Nae, the disciples each examined their own hearts.” The bishop looked Jethro squarely in the eye. “Maybe that is what you both need to do. When you want to blame everything on the other person, you should say, ‘Am I the problem? Is it I?’”

  Jethro turned to Mary Anne. “He’s right, Mary Anne. You have to stop blaming me. Your weaknesses are not my fault.”

  “Jethro,” the bishop said. “I’m trying to tell you that—”

  Jethro focused squarely on Mary Anne. “Instead of accusing me of being boring, maybe you should say, ‘Is it I?’ You could very well be the one who is boring. You never join in Scrabble at Mamm and Dat’s house.”

  “Now, Jethro,” the bishop said, but Mary Anne raised her hand to stop him.

  “Jethro is right. I’m the problem. I moved out so Jethro doesn’t have to be offended by me anymore. I know this is all my fault.”

  Jethro’s mouth fell open like a largemouth bass. There was no satisfaction in accusing her of things she already freely took the blame for. “But you said you moved out because I’m boring.”

  “And that’s my problem, not yours,” she said.

  The bishop smiled that ministerial smile again. “Remember, before you try to change someone else, think how hard it is to change yourself.” He stood up. “Denki for the visit, Mary Anne. I think I understand things better now.”

  Jethro jumped to his feet. “So, are you going to call her to repentance and make her move back in?”

  The bishop chuckled. “I can’t make anybody do anything, and I wouldn’t want to. Gotte will force no man to heaven.”

  That obviously wasn’t the answer Jethro had been expecting or hoping for. “But . . . but . . . she can’t just live out here. She’s my wife.”

  The bishop smiled so kindly, Mary Anne was compelled to smile back. “She is still your wife, and she doesn’t want a divorce. I don’t see how she’s breaking any commandments. I’m tempted to camp in my own backyard tonight. I love sleeping under the stars.”

  Jethro sputtered and fussed like a wet cat as he followed the bishop out of the tent. The bishop had surprised both of them, and Mary Anne was overcome with gratitude. He was a gute man, and Mary Anne would always think well of him.

  It wouldn’t be so easy for Jethro, but he’d get over it. He’d pout for a few days and then go fishing. One good catch and he’d be right as rain. Fishing made him happy in ways Mary Anne never could.

  Chapter Four

  Jethro hadn’t slept well last night. Mary Anne had stolen his favorite blanket, plus he was going on his second straight day without his morning kaffee. Ach, at work today he’d probably swigged a whole gallon of that liquid they tried to pass off as kaffee, but his head still felt as if someone had drilled a hole right between his eyes.

  Randall had offered to pick him up after work for a little fishing trip, but Jethro turned him down. He just didn’t have the heart for it. He hoped Mary Anne was happy. In one swift blow, she had single-handedly killed his desire for the one thing that brought him any happiness—all because he’d missed their anniversary to go fishing. If she had any forgiveness in her heart, she would not be putting him through this nightmare. His only hope was that in a moment of humility, she would remember what the bishop had said and ask, “Is it I?”

  Her answer would definitely be yes.

  Just walking into the house upset him. When Mary Anne was home, the smell of something delicious always greeted him as he came through the door. She would have a lamp lit in the kitchen, and he would tell her time and time again that it wasn’t dark enough for a lamp. She said she liked the extra light and wouldn’t give in, even when he complained about the cost of propane.

  Tonight, he would gladly have forked over the money for extra propane, just to see Mary Anne softly moving about the kitchen, brushing the freshly baked loaves of bread with butter, taste-testing the soup, giving him an unexpected smile. The longing was an ache in his gut, a shard of glass in his heart, a sliver right under the skin.

  Mary Anne’s smiles had become less and less common over the years. She was devastated when she lost the baby, and even more upset when she found out she couldn’t have more, and he hadn’t known how to comfort her. He feared she’d see the disappointment in his eyes if he wasn’t careful. And so he’d started being very careful. Things had never been the same between them.

  Now they never would be. According to Mary Anne, he was boring. How could he ever get past that?

  And all he had to look forward to for dinner were rose-shaped radishes and soggy asparagus. He wasn’t even excited about the salmo
n. Nothing tasted good anymore.

  He climbed out of the van. The driver said something to him like, “Have a nice night,” but Jethro didn’t respond. What was so nice about it? He trudged up the porch steps and stepped into the house. No lantern. No gute smells. Just emptiness.

  A lot of emptiness.

  The sofa sat under the window where it had always been, but Jethro’s easy chair, the ottoman, and the bookshelf were missing. The books were piled in stacks looking like tiny crooked old men leaning against the wall.

  The heat flared inside him. She could take his sleeping bag and even his favorite blanket, but he’d be plucked if he’d let her steal his easy chair. He took one second to be impressed that she’d managed to get it out of the house by herself, then stormed out the back door and into the woods.

  He stopped short when he got closer to Mary Anne’s encampment. What had Mary Anne done to his tent? The side facing the house had been painted with enormous, brightly colored butterflies. They hurt his eyes to look at.

  Not only did that side of the tent look like some sort of windshield accident, but another tent, taller, wider, and greener, sat behind it. The back door of Jethro’s tent connected with the front door of the new tent, as if Mary Anne was building her own mansion out here, piece by piece.

  He walked around the other side of the tent, where his easy chair was sitting out in the open. Didn’t Mary Anne care that it would get rained on? Mary Anne was bent over a Dutch oven—for sure and certain the one from the kitchen—stirring something that smelled too heavenly for words. It looked like a hearty beef stew with corn still on the cob and shiny green beans and plump potatoes. Maybe . . . was there any way she’d share it with him? There looked to be plenty. He closed his mouth, partly to keep from drooling and partly to keep from saying something he’d wish he hadn’t, especially before asking for something to eat.