The Solace of Water

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  “Can’t let her wander around town like that,” the man said. “The mayor—well, people might think she’s up to no good.”

  “Yes, sir,” Daddy said and cleared his throat. “You hear the man, Sparrow? You can’t go running off like that.”

  “Yes, sir.” The man in front of me had splatters of blood all over his white apron and a big knife in the front pocket. What he been killing today? He scared me.

  “Listen.” The man leaned in toward Daddy. “Sinking Creek ain’t a bad little town. We’re a friendly community and loyal to each other. Most folks around here got no problems with you folks. But some do. I keep an eye out so’s I can help, but I can’t be everywhere.”

  He looked around and noticed the man with the newspaper across the street was staring again. “That’s Mr. Lawrence, he ain’t nice. Stay away from him and don’t go to his store. Don’t go sittin’ inside at the Soda Shoppe neither; sit outside. Coleman got pressured into the two produce sections a bit ago. But at my shop I’ll serve anybody with money. Don’t matter to me. Got it?”

  “I appreciate your advice, Mr.—?”

  “Steve Tuttle. But everyone just calls me Butch.”

  “Thanks again, Butch. We appreciate your kindness.” Daddy grabbed my arm and after he excused us, he walked me back to the grocery store.

  “Girl, why are you doing this to your mama?” he asked as we approached the door. “What were you doing?”

  “I was bored and wanted to look around.”

  Daddy gave me that expression that said he wasn’t happy with me. But his face softened. He planted his hands on his hips.

  “I told your mama you were probably just going to the bathroom.”

  Wasn’t he gonna say anything else?

  “I won’t say more if you promise me to stop running off. I told you this a few days ago because of you wandering off into the woods.” He released a long sigh. “Listen, Birdie, I know Mama’s hard on you. Just be patient. Things will work out.” He paused. “You praying for help?”

  “Yes, sir,” I lied. I stopped praying ’cause I was sure God didn’t want to hear from me no more.

  “Stop running off, hear me? No more having that Amish lady find you kids.”

  “Emma.”

  “What?”

  “Her name is Emma. She’s not just that lady.” The surge of boldness made me proud. I had a white woman who seemed to care about me even though I’d told her that I’d killed my baby brother. “I like her.”

  Daddy looked at me like he was trying to figure out why this mattered to me and then shook his head like his thoughts were jumbled up. “You just do your best not to get up your mama’s back. You hear?”

  He stared at me until I gave him a small nod. We went inside the store and it was a whole lot fuller now, and everybody looked over at Daddy and me when we walked in. I just kept my head down. They weren’t like Emma.

  They weren’t like Johnny.

  Sunday.

  Daybreak.

  EMMA

  The loud trotting of our buggy horse magnified the quiet between John and me. We were driving to a wedding, and since we always held weddings on Tuesdays or Thursdays, John had to miss a day of work. That never made him happy. This Thursday-afternoon wedding was the only one this season in our small community. We weren’t even near another Amish community, so when we got visitors in for a wedding, the entire district seemed lighter and more cheerful. Otherwise, it was easy to feel isolated, especially if one didn’t have close relatives in town, like me.

  My parents had passed away several years ago. They’d been old when I was born and I was their last. My only sister, the oldest of the five of us, moved to Ohio when she got married, and two brothers moved to other Pennsylvania communities. I had one brother who lived here, though he and I had never been close. The way I saw it, I was alone. I had no friends who knew of our loss or of John’s secrets. None who knew mine. The secrets John and I kept from the church bound us together but were also destroying us from within. They would be our ruin, but we had no way out of them.

  And it all began because of the little innocent one who was lost when we were at our happiest. We retreated from each other. He drank. I did other things. Things that, by the time I regretted them, I felt I had to continue because of the man my husband had become.

  But today we could not be the people who lived like strangers inside our home. We would have to be the two people who all the community knew needed to remain faultless in the eyes of the church. My husband called on those who were at fault. And I was the wife who supported his good work.

  What would they do if they knew the truth? They could never know the truth.

  These quiet rides made me miss the chattering of a child. Johnny had been that child as soon as he could speak. He didn’t speak much now and would drive his own buggy today, as young men did. He would also attend the Singing after the wedding, which was tradition.

  I did have some joy in our drive, however. I knew we would drive past Delilah and Sparrow’s home to go to the wedding.

  When we were close, my heart released a little tremor. Delilah was putting in a garden. She would’ve gotten a late start because of their move, and the ground had not been sown in several years. It was hard work, especially in the heat of the day, so I was grateful to see that she had gotten help from a local Negro man, Otis, who did day work around town. Though I’d never had any interactions with him, I knew of him and that he was a good worker. Sparrow was also helping, only at such a slow pace, I wasn’t sure it was considered helpful. The younger children had small shovels. They dug playfully.

  The house’s siding was more chipped than I’d remembered. I wished more for a proud woman like Delilah. But the yard was expansive for being so close to town. I was glad for that and that Carl Coleman was a good, fair man. Not everyone in Sinking Creek would’ve allowed a Negro family to rent from them; even I understood that much.

  Delilah wiped her brow with a hankie, then tucked it into her waistband again. Just like I would do. The younger ones started throwing clumps of dirt at each other, and as we drew closer I could hear her voice mix with the clip of the horse’s hooves against the dirt road.

  Sparrow looked up and I offered a small wave. She started raising her hand until Delilah’s voice cut through. I couldn’t hear what she said but Sparrow’s hand went down. But the gaze between Sparrow and me remained connected until Delilah turned my way. Her blank stare chilled me.

  “Since when do you know them?” John asked.

  “I met them when they moved in. They’re a nice family.”

  “The bishop said to leave them all alone because there always seems to be trouble between them and the white Englishers. We aren’t like either of them and need to keep to ourselves.”

  There was nothing more I could say to my husband in the moment. Though I had so much on my mind, I didn’t want to arrive at church with the two of us arguing. We had never spoken about Negroes before. I had to admit that I hadn’t given much thought to their difficulties until I found George in the woods. It wasn’t something that had touched my life personally. But now that it had, I was stirred to understand.

  The wedding was long in the new May heat. My sister, Judith, was visiting for the wedding since it was her husband’s niece, Abigail, getting married. I had not seen her in several years. We quietly sat stiff-backed on our benches near each other. Her belly was swollen with her seventh child. Our lives were so different. Her life looked just like we used to talk about when we were both still home. Mine did not.

  We had both been raised here, and when she left and joined a large Ohio community, I was jealous. Everything seemed easier for her. She had the life most Amish women longed for and, honestly, most got. A good husband and a large family.

  “Emma, sis so gut fa dich sehna,” Judith said when we entered the house where we would eat after the ceremony. Then she hugged me. Delilah was the last person who had hugged me, and it was only because I was holdin
g her son. Before that, I couldn’t remember the last time I was hugged.

  My heart overflowed in those few moments I was held by my sister. She alone had known of my pregnancy and the loss—besides John. I’d shared with her in my letters my intense grief and how I never wanted to go through that loss again. She knew that for a time I’d taken herbs to close my womb. And to have her here now brought up worries that she would not keep my secret. But even as I feared this, I had forgotten how much I missed her. Her smile had always won me over, regardless of our differences over the years.

  The next few hours went quickly. Abigail Miller’s family was large and our community was small. I had no responsibilities at the wedding. I appreciated finding a quiet corner, holding babies from time to time, and watching everyone catch up with one another.

  Judith came up to me and asked me to take a walk. “Kumm, Emma, vella geh lauffa.”

  I didn’t hesitate as I wanted to hear all the gossip from Ohio. A large community was always filled with news and it deflected any attention from my life.

  Before we even reached the end of the long gravel drive of the home, I’d learned of a few youth who had left the church just before they were baptized. While this meant they would not be shunned, it also meant they were too young to be on their own. At sixteen it was dangerous and a recipe for a change of heart when they realized that living out in the real world was harder than they expected. The comforts of home would call to their sensibilities. They often did.

  John had even left once for several months, saying he was going west to become a cowboy—though he’d already been baptized. But he returned, and after his confession and a brief time in the ban, we were married in short order.

  “Alma-Ruth and Timothy will get married this fall, I am guessing. It hasn’t been announced yet,” Judith said of one of our cousins who lived near her. “I never thought anyone would ask her because everyone knows she can’t have any children.”

  It was like the gravel we walked on had just coursed through my heart. She couldn’t have children and wanted them, but I could and prevented it. Because it was unusual to have only one child, I had heard women talk behind their hands about how hidden sins had consequences. They didn’t know about my buried baby or that there were good reasons I had not had more children. But they were right— hidden sins did have consequences.

  “But Timothy is a nice widower and he has four children. I was relieved it worked out this way for Alma-Ruth. She’s twenty-three and hasn’t had many dates.” Judith stopped walking. “Vas veh dich?”

  I followed suit after a few extra steps and turned to face her to answer her question. What about me?

  “We’re fine,” I answered, hoping to avoid deeper questions. I kept my face angled away and started walking again. Then a little faster.

  She took several moments before she was at my side. She grabbed my arm and made me look at her. “Then why aren’t you as big as me? Why aren’t you like this?”

  “Judith, that’s not your business.” I shook my head at her. Old memories surfaced as my older sister yanked my arm, scolding me. She had often gotten her way as a child because I was so many years younger and did not speak for myself—she spoke for us both. But I would not let her parent me over something she knew so little about.

  I had told her I’d taken herbs that first year so I would not get pregnant soon because I was afraid. My body was weak. I was weak. I wanted to have some control over my life. By the time I should’ve quit, John had begun drinking daily and wasn’t the kind of man I wanted to raise another child with. I couldn’t tell her that.

  “Only God knows why I’m not like that.” I gestured to her swollen abdomen.

  “Are you still taking the herbs?”

  “Of course, that’s how I stay healthy. Don’t you take some?”

  “But I don’t take what you do. I don’t take one that makes sure I don’t—” She didn’t finish her sentence. We were taught our whole lives that words like pregnant or suggestions of intimacy between even a husband and wife were inappropriate, even in a personal conversation like this one. But I knew that was what she meant and I didn’t know how to respond.

  Wisps of my sister’s flaxen hair, which had escaped her covering, blew in the breeze. Her blue eyes looked as young and vibrant as they had in all our years at home. She didn’t seem to tire even after so many children. Motherhood had been everything she had wanted it to be, and she would keep having children until the Lord Himself closed her womb. I loved her, but I resented how easy her path had been.

  “You said you’d stop taking the wild turnip after that first year, but it’s been over ten now—thirteen, maybe.”

  Thirteen years since I’d started taking the herbs, yes. And I’d learned later that because I’d been over halfway, it was called a stillbirth, not a miscarriage. Why I’d not shared my good news with others was nothing out of the ordinary since many didn’t and just let the size of their belly tell everyone without using embarrassing words. I wasn’t so thin then. I had not lost all of my roundness from carrying Johnny. At around six months it was not very noticeable that I was expecting. She was so small. When she was gone, I had no one but my sister to share the sorrow with.

  I looked beyond her and watched my community mill around the large farm. So much was in black-and-white except for the bright royal blue of the bride and the maroon of her attendants. Yellowand-orange beams of sunlight cascaded onto the small crowd. The community of people glowed in the sun’s rays and my throat was choked with resentment toward them—though they were not the ones to blame.

  I’d allowed them to believe the lie that God had closed my womb like Hannah’s was for a time in the Bible. It was an easier cloak to wear than the truth. Even if they assumed it was because of my own sin. Even Judith believed it was my grief that I held on to—but it was more than that. It was fear. It was John. It was raising a child with a drunk along with the fear of another loss. And what would John think if he ever found out? Things would be worse than they already were. How could I cast a stone at him about his drinking when I’d lied to him for so many years?

  “I can’t.” I looked back at Judith. I shook my head and walked away from her. Soon she grabbed my arm and didn’t let me pull away. She’d always been a force in my life and I should’ve expected that she would not take my walking away as the end of the conversation.

  “This is wrong, Emma.” Judith’s words came to my ears and heart in equal parts accusation and concern.

  I paused before I responded. “You don’t know the whole story, Jude. I never had it easy like you did. Dah mahn, dah kinnah. You have what all Amish women want.”

  “This isn’t about my husband or my children.” She glanced around after she spoke, as she’d been louder than she should’ve been. No one seemed to be paying attention to us, thankfully.

  “If you were married to him—if you knew—” I couldn’t finish any of my thoughts.

  “This isn’t about John. It’s about you. You said you’d stop taking the herbs. That you’d trust God. And this lie you are keeping from your husband—” She stopped speaking.

  My arms were folded across my chest, putting layers of flesh and bone in front of my heart. But my palms slid down to my abdomen, like they had done so many times when I was expecting Johnny and after I knew I would have another. This safe place inside of me was not a refuge. It was my emptiness and my sorrow. It was the true grave of my daughter. Maybe there was someone somewhere in the world who understood why I couldn’t relinquish this space, why being filled with possibility was too painful, but there was no one here who understood that. And no one understood how John’s drinking had pushed me to it.

  I let my arms fall to my sides, exposing my emptiness. I walked away and this time Judith let me.

  DELILAH

  As we drove in our rusty red truck down a long, dusty road, I kept thinking on how I felt like I was in some foreign land. The white farmhouse we drove up to didn’t help none. I ain�
��t never known nobody with a house so grand like that. It didn’t have that sad way about it like our house. The driveway was a half circle and when Malachi drove in everybody started waving. So many smiling faces to take in. I used to enjoy parties, but anymore I couldn’t find my joy in it.

  When Malachi started to tell the kids to be mindful, they were already out the back of the truck and running off to play—Mallie had George by the hand. Sparrow didn’t run off though. She just leaned against the truck. I made her wear her nice hat and had washed her church dress that she’d dirtied up in them woods. She’d been out of my hair for a few days. Even helped around the house a little. Didn’t run off nowhere. But she always got this look in her eyes like she was hiding something. Not sure I cared as long as she behaved and didn’t embarrass me.

  Looked like the whole community had come out. Not just the scant crowd at church. Malachi would be making his rounds tonight to win everybody over. He was good at that and talked like them in that northern way—if they bothered to listen. Not like me and the young’uns who had a drawl from here to the last bend in the creek in town.

  “Ready?” Malachi asked as he opened my door.

  I scooted off the seat with a casserole in one hand and Grannie Winnie’s gift in the other. We didn’t have the money to buy something, but she was turning a hundred so I baked her some cookies and put them in a tin box I’d always loved and gotten as a gift when the twins was born.

  I gestured Sparrow over when we left the truck and she came ambling along behind me. It wasn’t that I wanted that girl to be distant from me and not make friends, but I just didn’t know what to do with her or what she would do. She never seemed to grasp what she done that Saturday in March. When a boy was stealing a kiss from her, what was really stolen was her baby brother’s life.

  After the food and gifts, I sat on a chair that was close enough to seem social but not so close that somebody would start up a conversation with me. I would need time before I was ready for that. Just a little more time.