The following morning Bappie dressed in her Sunday clothes, her black cape and apron, the best muslin cap, and only a sliver of hair combed into submission visible. She told Hester she was going to borrow Walter and Emma’s horse and carriage, that she would return right after this errand.
Hester nodded, sleepily frying sliced potatoes and onions in the heavy black skillet, knowing Bappie would eventually inform her of the nature of her morning errand. She’d likely be off to the lumberyard, although she was surprised Bappie had not asked her to accompany her.
Hester spent the forenoon resting, often dozing by the cookstove, attending to the bumps and bruises that kept making an appearance. Her back hurt, and one elbow burned. After viewing it in a mirror, she found a raw-looking scrape, almost like a burn. The back of her head was sore to the touch as well.
When Bappie came home, she opened the back door softly, closing it as if a baby might be awakened. Her face was serene, so peaceful it seemed almost waxen, like a candle.
Hester looked up, her eyebrows lifted in question. When Bappie offered no information, Hester asked what her plans were, how she was going to rebuild.
In answer, Bappie clapped her hands reverently as a rush of color suffused her cheeks, her eyes half-closed with piety. “I won’t rebuild.”
Hester sat up straight, her eyebrows rising in shock. “Why not, Bappie?”
“I just asked Levi Buehler to marry me.”
Hester gazed at Bappie, speechless.
Immediately, Bappie found her voice. “Hester, it’s not what you think, really it isn’t. I just did what made sense. Levi has not had a wife for a very long time. He is a sad and lonely man. We have known each other for years. I did things for Martha. I tried to help them, but I realized now why I did it.
“The storm, the loss of everything I worked so hard to build, left me without pride. So I did what I thought made sense. I asked Levi if he wanted me for his wife. I told him I could just be like a maud, you know, not a real wife. I would clean the house, the garden, and yard. Did you ever see his garden? Siss unfaschtendich.
“I could have my room upstairs. We would get cows, raise pigs, have a nice flock of chickens. The hounds must go. But of course, I didn’t tell him all this. I just drove up to the fence, tied the horse, knocked on the door, and asked him. I think I said ‘Guten Morgen’ or something about the weather. I don’t know. Can’t rightly remember.
“He never said much. Didn’t bat an eye. Just cleared his throat and said that sounded like a good idea. But he said he didn’t want any of this maud business. He wanted me for a real wife, that he had planned on asking me but not till fall. Any earlier would be unseemly.
“So if people ask why I’m not building, tell them we’re not raising produce anymore. That’s all they need to know. See, I didn’t want to spend money to get those few acres in shape if I’m not going to need the buildings.”
Bappie paused for breath. “What’s for breakfast? I’m about ready to collapse from hunger.”
While they ate, Bappie told Hester she could stay with them, help around the house or teach school, perhaps further her studies of the herbs.
Hester listened, nodding, catching the hopeful tone in Bappie’s words, knowing she wanted rid of her, and soon. She cut the pancake on her plate with the side of her fork, her eyes downcast, her shoulders slumped forward, as if it made her weary to lift them.
Slowly, she began to shake her head from side to side. “You won’t want me, Bappie. I’d be like a third hand you didn’t need. I’ll stay here and find some place of employment. Something will work out.”
“You should charge the people you treat. Make them pay.”
“They don’t have anything, Bappie.”
“You’ve treated rich people.”
“I know. But they all return to the doctor. They have more faith in him than my jumble of herbs and tinctures.”
Bappie nodded. “At any rate, we need to find employment for the summer. I must sew my wedding dress, make tablecloths, and crochet doilies and embroider pillowcases. I know Martha had all that, but I want my own stuff.
“I am getting married, Hester! I’m no longer going to be skinny, red-haired, single old Bappie Kinnich. I am going to be called ‘da Levi sei Bappie.’ Think about it. A place to be, close by Levi’s side. And he is not wearing that hat. It’s schrecklich mit, that hat.”
She laughed, a sound that welled up from the triumph in her lonely, middle-aged heart. “I’ll be a good wife. Just think how I’ll keep house and the garden. The barn, I’ll help him, show him what it takes to have a nice herd of cows that faschpritz with milk. My father was a good herdsman. I learned it all from him.”
Hester nodded, smiling. She could see this. That Buehler place would be the picture of good management, now that Levi had the ambitious helpmeet he needed, the push to get him going. After years of having Martha to care for, how must he feel, looking forward to a new beginning?
After wondering what God had done, venting his anger in allowing that storm to lay desolation to Bappie’s small buildings, here, like a phoenix from the ashes, arose a brand new life for Bappie. She only had to get rid of her pride.
Of course, in years to come, Bappie and Levi’s story would be told and retold, how the old maid became desperate and asked the widower. Embellishment, that added-on packet of spice, would provide entertainment around tables, knee-slapping hilarity, all in good fun. Among the Amish, although the story was true, the telling of it met with open-mouthed disbelief, generation after generation.
CHAPTER 9
TOGETHER THEY WALKED TO THE DRY GOODS STORE ON QUEEN Street. The bell above the door tinkled, announcing their arrival. The proprietor, an aging, slight man, wore a white shirt and cravat. His mustache, clipped and tidy, bobbed above his small, pink mouth like an ancient caterpillar, or one dropped in lye.
The shop was empty. “Everyone’s cleaning up after the storm,” he said. They asked to see the blues first. The royal blue was so beautiful, the color of the indigo bunting.
Hester was not expecting the desolation she felt, the need to gather every ounce of strength to be happy for Bappie when she held the color to her face and twirled a bit, jubilation following her every move.
“Do you think it will suit me?” Her brown eyes in the narrow, freckled face were so eager, so anxious.
Quickly, Hester pushed back the thought that she looked like a horse, her face so long and narrow. She felt so wretched inside she turned away, grabbing moments to compose herself. “I think it’s perfect. We’re allowed blue and purple for weddings, so purple would probably be a bit bright with your auburn hair.”
“You think?”
The caterpillar spread out, elongating as the clerk bowed and dipped with pleasure. It was a big sale of very expensive fabric. Hester could not believe the price, but said nothing when Bappie produced the cash from the deep pocket in her skirt.
“What do you think, Hester? Would I be too fancy if I bought black velvet ribbon to sew on the bottom of the sleeves? It looks so nice, the way the young girls do.”
Hester nodded, urging her on quickly before Bappie would see the shadow that darkened her eyes. She remembered William’s disapproval the time she had purchased a yard of black velvet to sew on the deep purple sleeves of a new Sunday dress. No woman of his would be seen with such finery, for shame. What would Mother say? If this is how she was becoming, then she needed to stay out of that worldly dry goods store. The peddler would be around, and he knew what Amish housewives needed.
Her eyes bright with the anger that infused her, she had said levelly, “The peddler has black velvet ribbon. Your mother bought some for Suvilla.”
“Enough!” thundered William.
Lowering his voice, he brought his face close to hers and quoted a verse from Proverbs, about how a woman cloaked herself with righteousness. How could she even aspire to be a woman worthy of the King family and their Amish heritage if she lusted after strange, worldly
objects?
Hester had slunk away from him, threw a shoe at the door he passed through, then sank into the armless rocker and cried her frustration at never being allowed to be heard. Just once let him see that I am capable of making choices, even small ones. Let him acknowledge I am a person with a mind of my own who thinks like other people.
Bappie paid for the velvet, then fairly danced out of the store and down the street. She waved to passersby, folks she knew who bought her fresh spring onions and small green peas.
“Not this year,” she told Hester. “Someone else will have to take my place at market. Someone else will fill my shoes. I have to sew. I’m getting married.”
She walked sedately, but her spirit skipped and hopped and danced, visible only by the quick darting of her eyes, the flashing smile, the greetings she called so loudly and easily. Hester had never suspected this of Bappie, her all-encompassing joy at having a man of her own.
She told Hester she had never had a date. No one had ever come to court her. Now she was going to be Levi’s wife, and still she had never been courted.
“Whoo-ee!” And on and on, the whole way home.
Bappie spread the richly hued fabric out on the kitchen table, dug out the paper pattern she would need, then fetched the big scissors from the cupboard drawer. This dress would have to be perfect, so she could not make a wrong cut. She hovered over the table, breathing heavily, talking nonstop, cutting slowly, a brick weighing down the pattern.
Hester wandered outside, sat on the back stoop, lifted her burning elbow, and grimaced. She wondered how Noah was doing. She felt bumped and bruised, sore and aching in every joint. In a way, the storm had been good. She had never looked forward to moving out there, unsure exactly why she wasn’t excited about it. And now she wouldn’t need to.
Well, one thing was certain. She would not live with Levi and Bappie. She would not intrude into their happiness. Perhaps Walter and Emma would allow her to stay here without paying the rent she could not afford.
The atmosphere was clean, newly washed, and fresh since the storm had cleared the air. Spring breezes wafted around her like an elusive scent she could not name, bringing a longing she could not define or understand. The sweetness and fullness of life was found in God, and in him alone, of this she was sure.
Unlike Bappie, she had been married and failed. God did not give second chances to those who acted as miserably rebellious as she had. She wished her friend a long and happy life, but fervently hoped that Levi was as good as his word. How could Bappie go about making all these plans without consulting him? Thinking of Levi and his kindness to Martha, his love of the people around him, yes, Bappie had a good chance at happiness, she believed.
As if God knew Hester needed a distraction, a vicious cloud of influenza settled over the town of Lancaster and its surrounding areas. Without the cautionary hand-washing, or even the frequent washing of their bodies, people suffered the dreaded virus that spread like a plague, which is what a few of the doctors named it.
“A curse,” cried the devout. “God has cursed us with this plague.”
Superstition prevailed in many of the homes and neighborhoods where a rich jumble of cultures all came together. Many immigrants were from the German-speaking areas of central Europe, from Switzerland, Germany itself, and the old Austrian Empire. Many of them carried the old fears of a “hex,” a word pertaining to witches or witchcraft.
Some were deeply embroiled in the practice of braucha, certain rituals for eliminating diseases, because they believed that every sickness was a sign that witches had played their mischief. Hexerei was frequently heard, as the old covered their heads with their hands, repenting and declaring themselves unworthy of God’s mercy.
Entire families took to their beds, their intestines cramping with pain. A clamping nausea emptied stomachs. And when there was little the doctors could accomplish, they sent for Hester.
The first request came with a firm knock, just when Hester had set a pot of potatoes to boil for the evening meal. Bappie opened the door, alarmed to find a neighbor man, pale and shaking, as if he had encountered a terrible fright. His hair was unkempt, a week’s growth of unshaven hair like a scattering of dark, prickly splinters stood out from his cheeks, the ashen color beneath them signaling that he could fall in a heap on their doorstep.
“I beg your pardon. I hear this is the house where the Indian woman abides.”
Bappie nodded, thinking “abides”?
“We need help. My family is all abed with the sickness.”
Bappie stepped back, the sour smell from his mouth assailing her from the distance between them. Turning, she called, “I’ll get her for you,” and closed the door with a decided clunk of the latch.
Going to the kitchen with swift steps, Bappie focused her eyes on Hester’s, then jerked her thumb in the direction of the door, and mouthed, “Go.”
Hester slid the pot of potatoes to the back of the stove, wiped her hands on her apron, and went quickly, lifting the latch and opening the door cautiously.
Her practiced eye took in the pallor, the weak, rheumy eyes, the steady tremor of his hands, the chapped lips, and knew this man was indeed very sick.
“Where do you live?” Hester asked, immediately taking stock of the situation, knowing words of advice were useless.
“On Water Street. The second house. Stone. A white door.”
“Very well. I’ll be on my way. Will you be able to go back on your own?”
“Yes.”
Not waiting to see how he fared, Hester was already closing the door. A sense of purpose swelled in her veins, as though her calling was singing her on, to lay her hands on suffering, fevered brows, to find good, cold water.
Going to the cupboard containing the bottled tinctures, she took down different ones, pursing her lips in concentration. Plantain and almond water. Red poppy syrup made with molasses. Bran, flaxseed infused with beer as a poultice for stomach pain. Oil of chamomile.
Her mind churned as she dropped the fruits of her gathering into a basket. Her labor of love filled her hours with wading in swamps, the watery mud sucking at her bare feet like a strong catfish’s mouth. Sunny meadows were her favorite place—dry and clean, with easy access to dozens of plants and the herbs she knew so well, although learning their properties was a constant challenge. The origins of her treatments were all written in the old pages of the Indian woman’s book. There was the priceless wisdom about the application of poultices for external use, the herbs to be gathered, dried, and then mixed with liquor, although whiskeys and brandies were so hard to obtain for these internal remedies.
At first, after her move to Lancaster, her friend Walter Trout had been able to purchase them for her at one of the many taverns that were sprinkled throughout the town. “Like rotting boils on healthy skin,” Emma Feree had said, in clipped, judgmental sentences, hating even the thought of the devil’s brew in her pure house.
But the liquor was a necessity, Hester had pleaded. Emma never allowed it after poor Walter came home, stuttering half-lies to cover his mission of procuring the opp schtellt liquid for her. So there was nothing left for Hester to do but bargain with the tavern owners herself. She would dress in her most rigid clothing, pull her large hat forward well past her face, and drape a woolen black shawl across her shoulders, obscuring all of her womanly charms.
She had entered through the back door that first time, slipping into a dank and steaming kitchen, filled with an immense cook wielding a wooden spoon the size of a pitchfork, her face red and perspiring. She rushed from dough table to oven, squawking orders at rebellious handmaidens who shrugged their shoulders in resistance, bringing a hard cuff to the offending rebels.
Hester almost turned and went back the way she had come, willing to enlist the service of some young man. But the thought of suffering children kept her from it.
Trying to get the attention of one of the maids, Hester extended an arm from her black shawl and called out a greeting. Th
e girl spied Hester from the corner of her eye, shrieked, and dropped a bowl of boiling hot gravy on the brick floor, shattering it into tiny pieces of crockery that floated in the thickened, greasy puddle like sharp fangs.
She pointed a shaking finger, her mouth covered with her other hand, bringing the cook with the wooden spoon, now turned into a weapon of defense. Quickly, Hester removed her bonnet, bringing into view the white of her cap, flattened beneath the hat.
“Hello. I beg your pardon.” She spoke in a well-modulated voice, addressing the woman courteously, the features in Hester’s lovely face revealed by the flickering coal oil lamps on the shelves.
Slowly, the cook lowered the spoon, her dark eyes alert, cautious. “State your business, young lady.”
“May I speak to the owner of the tavern, please?”
The cook turned and barked an order at one of the girls, who replied with bald insolence, “Get him yersel’.”
The cook screeched a volley of words while powerfully waving the wooden spoon, which soon had the girl scuttling through the thick swinging doors that opened to a dark and cluttered area. Smells of leather, sweat, horses, grease, and food wafted into the room after the opened doors closed after the girl.
Hester shuddered, knowing she could not enter the tavern itself, the front room where the men lounged, ate, and drank their bitter ale. She waited, shifting her weight uneasily, fingering the fringes of her black shawl.
There was more shouting from the enormous cook, bringing a thin boy, who darted past her like a trout in a cloudy stream, and who took down a black dust brush and began to clean up the broken bowl, goaded into hurried movement by more threats and scoldings.
The maid returned through the swinging doors without the owner. Hester followed her movements hopefully. She was eager to return to the streets outside and into the purity of moving air.
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