The Solace of Water

by Elizabeth Byler Younts

  “Thank you.” She tucked the chair all neat like and turned toward Malachi. “Your family.” Her voice broke. “You have a beautiful family.”

  And then I thought I saw something happening in her face that made me pay more attention to her. She got this softness about her but she kept it from coming out, so she also got a hardness.

  “It’s dark out, Miss Emma.” Sparrow stood. “You got a flashlight? You allowed to use flashlights?”

  “Girl, don’t you ask foolish questions.” What was she thinking? Her face grayed and she stared down at her hands.

  “I didn’t think I’d be out this late,” Emma stammered. “It will be okay. I know my way home.”

  I held my finger up for her to give me a minute. I went to the cabinet and didn’t know why I couldn’t find our good flashlight— the nice big one—so our small one would have to do. She would need something. There was no way I’d go in them woods when the sun was setting down. That would mean it was darker in the woods than it was in my backyard. Ain’t no way.

  When I turned around I see that Malachi was ushering the kids, except for Sparrow, over to the stairs and whispering something to them. Maybe for them to say their prayers up in their rooms alone or something. Then George got away and gave Emma a hug around the tops of her legs. Was that his thank-you to her for finding him that day?

  “I’m sorry,” I said, getting over to her fast. I unwrapped his arms from around her. “He loves hugs.”

  “I don’t mind,” she said in a near whisper and kept her eyes fixed on him.

  “Mama?” George said. By the sound of his voice, I knew what was coming next but there wasn’t nothing I could do to stop it. “Carver? Where’s Carver?”

  “Come on, son.” Malachi picked him up and went up the stairs. Mallie followed him. And don’t you know but my baby George cried Carver’s name all the way up them stairs. It would’ve broke my heart in a million pieces if it weren’t already all smashed up.

  “Carver was my baby brother,” Harriet said to Emma at the bottom of the stairs. “But he’s dead.”

  “Harriet,” I snapped and Malachi did too from the top of the stairs. She ran up like my hand was swatting her behind.

  Emma and I caught eyes.

  “I’m so sorry,” Emma said with glistening eyes.

  I nodded my thank-you and I had to force myself not to turn toward Sparrow just then. I wanted to give her that look I do when I wanted to remind somebody of something. But I didn’t. And I knew Emma got a bunch of other questions in her mouth, but she didn’t ask. I was glad because I didn’t want to say nothing more.

  She went to the door without warning and opened it and left. She didn’t say good-bye or nothing. After I told Sparrow to go to bed, I followed her.

  “Ms. Emma,” I called after her. I clicked the flashlight on and handed it to her. “Here, take this.”

  In the light of the coming moon and the dim glow from my flashlight I could see that she was crying.

  “Here,” I offered again with a mouthful of tears.

  She took it with shaky hands and turned around in a hurry.

  I couldn’t help but watch the glow of light as she ran through the yard. I had a feeling she’d keep running until she got home. Something was wrong. Something was real wrong.

  EMMA

  The many night sounds nagged and badgered me, reminding me of my burdens. I ran as fast as I could. Everything I saw tonight brought back Judith’s words. The way Delilah was with her children like a mother hen. The way Malachi came in like a king. The way George hugged me. Sparrow’s blisters. All of it needled me.

  It was as if everything Judith had chastised me over had played out in front of me tonight. A house full of children. A husband who loved his family. A picture of everything that a woman was supposed to want and have. What I had wanted out of life. But I’d been making sure that my body was the last place a child could grow. What was worse was that my husband didn’t know. I was a liar and a cheat. I had cheated my husband out of a family.

  How disgusted would Delilah be if she knew? I wouldn’t want her to know but I still wanted to know her. To understand her. And Sparrow. The girl had not left my side. She had hung on my few words. She had a beautiful smile.

  But the blisters.

  Nettles could not be mistaken for flowers. This and what she said about killing her brother. I didn’t understand her.

  It wasn’t long before I was wet up to my calves from running through the small creek. The small flashlight didn’t stay lit long and I had to walk in the dark. John would wonder why I was out after dark, or maybe he’d drunk enough to be in such a stupor that he wouldn’t notice, even though he didn’t usually drink on Sunday. But I prayed that his sin would make it so he would not see the guilt pouring from my eyes. That I would not have to face him shrouded in lies.

  What kind of wife was I to wish sin upon my husband? The most burdened deacon in our district. No one would ever suspect that he was also the most sinful. That their honored deacon was a drunk—a ztiffah.

  That was all I could think of when I saw the beauty of Delilah’s family—that my husband was a drunk. My womb was not safe. And how it was all my fault.

  I continued to follow the stream and then I rolled my ankle on something and fell. My ankle burned. I felt around for what had tripped me. It was a big flashlight. It looked new. I clicked it on and it was as bright as day in the circle around me. I suspected Sparrow had dropped the flashlight and I was glad for the extra light.

  The moon shone on the surface of the pond, and the yellow light of a kerosene lamp glowed through my windows. I was sure John was sitting and waiting for me.

  I would have to look at him and know what I’d kept him from. I would have to look at him and know what he had put me through daily.

  I kept walking.

  I didn’t want to go home.

  When I got to the porch I clicked off the flashlight and stepped in quietly. If he had fallen asleep or had passed out, I didn’t want to wake him. I shut the door and leaned against it. It didn’t make a sound.

  I put both flashlights in a drawer. The less John noticed and saw, the less he would question.

  “Sis schpoht.” His monotone voice said it was late and my heart skipped a beat.

  “I lost track of time.” I tried not to sound nervous. I looked over at him and pasted a smile on my face.

  He closed his Bible and zeroed in on my eyes. “With those people?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Negroes—with the pan.”

  “Oh—ja.” My hands gripped the back of the wooden chair.

  “Why were you there so long?”

  “Just being neighborly.”

  He didn’t say anything so I continued. “Did you know that Malachi Evans is a preacher? I bet you two would have a lot in common.”

  “I doubt it.” He set his Bible on the end table next to him. “It just worries me—what kind of people they might be.”

  “They’re nice people.” I turned my back on him and busied myself. I folded and refolded the hand towel. I washed the sink and scrubbed in places that already showed my reflection. After a few minutes I hoped he’d return his attention to his Bible. But he was right behind me.

  “Don’t draw attention to us.” He reminded me of this anytime attention could be gained. He twitched.

  I looked past the ticks and saw his height and the way he tilted his head. For a moment I saw my husband, not just the drunk.

  “Wouldn’t you—we—be happier if I had given you more children?” I said it breathless and fast to get it out before I could pin it back inside the pocket of my heart. “Don’t you think things would be—?”

  What word could I use? Different? Better? What did I mean by that? That he would be different or better?

  “Why are you talking about this now?” He scowled. Not upset, but I could see frustration. “Was this because of Judith? Did she make you feel bad? She knows it’s not our choic
e.”

  He turned away and ran his hand through his dark waves. He cleared his throat. He fidgeted. He kept his eyes from me.

  He was saved from further talking when we heard a buggy driving in against the dry gravel. It was early for Johnny to come home from the Singing. The grandfather clock said it was before nine. He wasn’t usually home until after ten.

  John and I held a brief gaze and then a knock came.

  Johnny wouldn’t knock.

  I stopped my pretend chores and looked over at John. He didn’t move toward the door.

  “I’ll get it.” I walked around the table and to the front door. I was surprised to find the new young preacher standing there. “Mervin? Come on in.”

  I stepped aside and he took off his hat as he entered. He had a tall frame and was a handsome man. I guessed he was little more than thirty. Even as I looked out into the darkness and saw no one else, I still asked if Lena and the children were with him. With his wife it would be a friendly social call, but alone it was church business. The sort that no one wanted. It was late for either, however.

  “Neh.” She hadn’t come. His tenor voice had a pleasantness to it, which was nice in a preacher. He put his hand out and I shook it hard and strong as we were taught.

  “Mervin.” John approached the younger man and they shook hands. He carried with his height a few added inches, with a boasted seven or eight years of life and the weight of a secret. The deep lines he wore on his face were a small reflection of the promise of deeper sins. “What brings you by?”

  “Vella anah hookah.” Mervin gestured to sit at the kitchen table.

  “Coffee?” I asked. My concerns deepened when he shook his head.

  John’s agitation heightened when he sat. The nerves that came with an unannounced visit from a preacher were enough to push anyone, but for him it was worse. He chewed the inside of his mouth, tapped his fingers, rubbed his face, cleared his throat, moved his chair out and then back again. When his eyes met mine I saw the familiar pleading for help. No matter how much I hated his sin and what it did to me, he was like a magnet to me. He was my husband. I didn’t know what else to do but help him—help us.

  “I’d still like coffee.” I feigned cheerfulness. “John?”

  He nodded and cleared his throat again.

  I readied the coffee and sliced a few pieces of lemon cream pie. My mind couldn’t concentrate on the men’s small talk for the twisting in my soul, like a swing in the wind.

  Whatever it was that the preacher wanted to discuss tonight, there was no returning to life before losing my marriage to the amber-colored bottle. There was no growing young for my son so he could be brought up properly. There was no going back to not taking my herbs to prevent a soul, or many souls, from growing beneath my heart.

  I was ashamed of myself.

  I was also ashamed when I tipped a few swallows of John’s wine into his coffee mug. It would quench any suspicions at his strange behavior. How often had I done this? How many years?

  The first time I’d done it I meant it as an insult to him. A brazen declaration of his dependency. I stood across the room when he took his first sip and our gazes met instantly. His jaw clenched. His back straightened. He was horrified. He was pleased. He hated me for it, I was sure. But he never told me to stop and we never spoke of it. We never spoke of his drinking at all. My veiled remarks or actions were enough.

  Of course, we never spoke of my herbs either. How many children had I said good-bye to before the possibility of a hello? The church said that God provided our children and that nothing should come in the way of His providence. Couldn’t He, if desiring, make my herbs fail? He had made the herb. He had made me, and He allowed my failings.

  But I would not allow myself to fail in the eyes of the church. We had too much to lose. I would appear the proper Amish woman wearing my prayer covering that, in truth, poured grace over nothing. It was just a covering over my flaxen hair. The grace that was enough for my sins couldn’t come from a piece of fabric. Would grace arrive in allowing me to continue hiding my sin? Or would accepting my consequence be grace—as it would free me from the bondage of my secret?

  John and I were both lost in our secrets. We created them, ate them, and drank them. But we had been on this path together for so long, we were partners in it and yet enemies. My secrets were like a rubble of words that sat on the other side of my tongue, waiting to be spoken. What if I confessed everything to this young man who was my church leader? What if I spoke everything out of my mind? I pinned my mouth shut.

  I placed the coffee on the table—making sure to give John the correct one. I also put several plates and forks along with the half-eaten lemon pie on the table.

  “I wanted to come by and talk to you about some things.” He paused and looked at John. “As our aumah deanah, I know you carry a great burden.”

  He stopped and looked at me. I stopped breathing. “Maybe I’ll take some coffee after all.”

  By the time I’d given him coffee, he had plated a piece of a pie for himself. John and I watched him eat. No one said a word. The sounds of the fork against the plate, the deep swallow of the thick lemon cream, and the slurp of the coffee frayed my nerves.

  “I’m here because of Johnny.” He spoke midswallow of his last bite.

  In that moment I realized what a terrible mother I was. I was relieved that this preacher had come to my house to speak of the ill behavior of my son. I was relieved that he saw my son’s sin so my sin could remain unbidden from deep within my heart. I was thankful. Was this grace?

  “What’s the boy done now?” John rolled his eyes.

  “It’s not just him, John. That’s why I’m out here later than usual for these types of calls. Johnny seems to be a ringleader of a handful of boys, a few girls, and a few Englisher kids too. They’ve taken to drinking together. I know your neighbor boy is one of them.” He bobbed his head in the direction of our neighbors. “He has ways of getting beer. When we think our sons are driving our daughters home from a Singing, they go to your neighbor’s barn and drink. Some of the drink is coming from your cellar too.”

  When John didn’t respond, I nudged him with my foot under the table.

  He looked at me. His face was blank. Then he took a too-long drink from his coffee and turned back to Mervin.

  “He has become too familiar with the English,” John said. “I think that makes it easy to fall to these worldly sins.”

  “Do you think that his working at the lumber mill with all the English is causing this? You’re an adult and can turn away from the world’s pull.” Mervin’s brow furrowed and his head tilted in sincerity. “But Johnny’s only a boy.”

  “No, I don’t think so. I think there are other things.”

  “The other families’ hearts are broken. They did not know that their children had fallen like this. Drunkenness is a mockery, and we don’t want to lose these young ones to the world.”

  Tears shone in his eyes but did not fall. He blinked them away. Preachers and deacons were known for their tears, though I questioned the sincerity. Was it just a way to heighten our guilt? Or was it from the great burden they carried in these difficult conversations?

  He went on about the wiles of the world and how strong drink ruined lives. I was living this ruination and did not need this sermon. I imagined that the other mothers he’d spoken to earlier had lost many tears, but I had none to shed. I’d already shed everything else in my life for the sake of secrets and had nothing left to give outside of confession. And now we had a scandal that we didn’t have to hide. I felt a sick gratefulness in that.

  “Emma is too comfortable with the English neighbors. I don’t think that helps Johnny.” John didn’t look at me.

  “I’m neighborly is all.” I tried to stay calm.

  “So neighborly that even though you didn’t want to go to the Singing tonight, you instead spent time with that Negro family?” He tipped his head to the direction of the woods.

  My g
aze went from Mervin to my hands around my full coffee mug. I couldn’t hold his gaze, not because I was guilty of what John was accusing me, but if I let Mervin’s steadiness dwell on me any longer, I feared I would spill all the sin inside of me. There was so much I would drown. We would all drown. It would be a solace—a relief.

  It would be my grace.

  SPARROW

  Miss Emma had water all down her front when I walked through her yard. I saw her through the open basement door. Mama thought I was reading out back but I had to find Daddy’s flashlight. He convinced Mama to let everyone wait for school until the fall—just a month left anyhow. Then he winked at me. I smiled.

  When I got as far as the stream where Johnny and I had met, I didn’t see the flashlight nowhere. Maybe Ms. Emma found it or Johnny. So I kept walking. I didn’t know what gave me the right to walk right up to that white house. But I did.

  Emma was pushing clothes through one of them old washers like my grandma had for a while before she sold it. Some folks in Montgomery used them and even outhouses. But this was the first time I seen one used. Her skirt was pinned up a bit and it looked funny. I didn’t like the smell neither. It was coming from the motor on the side of the wringer washer.

  She was just inside her basement and didn’t see me where I stood watching. And the motor was loud. Her forehead was all scrunched up. I’m not sure it was ’cause of the washing because she’s not doing the hard part of the labor, or maybe she’s got a load of something on her mind. I watched for a few moments, unsure of how to get her attention.

  “My mama is also doing the washing today.” I hated my squeaky voice.

  “You don’t help her?” I think Emma was just about as surprised that she said it as I was to hear it. She never said that stuff to me but just always made me feel good about being around her. But now I seem like a lazy girl who ain’t any help.

  “She don’t want my help.” Mama didn’t want to be around me. Before Carver I used to iron all the clothes, but now she wants me out of her hair.

  “Does she know you’re here?” She glanced over from her work long enough to wipe across her face with the side of her arm.