In the Millers’ house, the furniture had all been put in the bench wagon or stacked against the back wall of the bedroom to make way for long lines of wooden benches. Copies of the thick, chunky Ausbund, the black hymnal filled with German hymns that had been written centuries before by prisoners who languished in the cells of a Swiss castle for their faith, were scattered over the benches.
Some women stood in the kitchen, all dressed similarly in modest clothes, their arms crossed, talking, smiling, and greeting one another with firm handshakes and holy kisses, as they believed the Bible instructed.
Little girls were in blue, purple, or green, with plain and unadorned white pinafores. Their small muslin caps were tied beneath their chins with wide strings; their bare feet peeped out beneath the hems of their dresses.
As always, Hester was glad to see all the members of the church, especially the women she met regularly every two weeks. She knew them all, their names, their children and husbands, where they lived, who would be having a new addition to the family, and many other facts about their lives. When there was a barnraising, she was there, cooking and sharing community news, trying not to gossip but enjoying a few hair-raising bits of it. When a child died, or an elderly person, she was there, helping with the food, cleaning, and cooking some more.
Weddings, funerals, accidents, barnraisings—each was a calling to pitch in, to willingly give what she could, even if it was just a few loaves of bread or a pie, babysitting or cleaning the house, raking the yard or quickly sewing black dresses. It was all about being part of a body of people, cultivating bonds of love and belonging.
And yet she longed to return to Berks County, at least out of curiosity, as she wondered about the welfare of her people beyond her family—Theodore Crane and Lissie, her friend Amanda—all of the folks she could picture so clearly in those times when she felt the tugging at her heart.
But first she would finish at Amos Stoltzfus’s, delaying until they were in a better situation. She would wait.
And so it seemed right, this waiting, as the first lines of the song rose and fell around her. She felt a settling of her spirit, a sense of balance as she was finding her way. She could help with the singing, her throat swelling with an emotion that felt good, the words tumbling over her parted lips like a clear brook of sound. Doing the right thing was no longer a burden. It would materialize out of life. All she had to do was wait.
Noah was not in church. She had not seen his bright hair among the darker colors but figured he might only be late. She felt a sense of depletion, a vague uneasiness. Had he been to Bappie’s house, only to find her gone with no explanation? She found it unlikely. With a jolt, she wondered if he may have gone to Berks County alone. The thought brought a sense of failure so sharp it took her breath away, leaving her with only short, shallow breaths of panic.
Where had all the rightness gone? One minute peace wrapped itself around her; in the next, Noah had destroyed it the way he always did. Well, she hoped he did go to Berks County without her. It would be better if he went by himself and stayed there, and she stayed in Lancaster, always. He scattered her senses, raced through her mind, churned it all up, and confused her. Just like now.
But the voices of the preachers were comforting. They delivered their sermons in a kind of traditional chant carried over from the Catholic church where the priests would elevate their voices, the Latin rising and falling, a singsong way of speaking that was both comforting and regular, like the sun’s rising or clouds giving way to summer rain or birdsong in spring.
Under the sound of the Amish minister’s German words going up, then down, her choppy and distorted thoughts quieted, rested, and slowly absorbed words from Scripture. She heard admonishments, encouragement, and sometimes a story from the Old Testament, simplified in Pennsylvania Dutch for the children’s benefit. As the voice droned on, Hester’s eyes and thoughts roamed around the room. She wondered why Noah had not come to church.
Thinking about the upcoming week, the endless hard labor, planning and cooking of large meals, and with only a limited amount of food available, drained her energy and her spirit of joy and contentment if she dwelt on it. Better to let it go, if only for this afternoon.
It was when she was helping to serve the dinner that she caught sight of Noah’s well-groomed blond hair, sitting in the row of single men and boys. Hester’s stomach roiled one hard lurch, her breathing became quick and short, and the room spun sideways before righting itself. She almost dropped the dish of sweet pickles she was carrying. Quickly, she set it down on the farthest end of the table, turned, and exited the suddenly stifling room.
She wanted to talk to him. She wanted to walk beside him and tell him she would accompany him to her home in Berks County. She wanted to go now worse than ever. It was raging in her breast, this desire to return, if only to be seated beside Noah for two whole days, or three, however long he chose.
She did not want to go back to Amos Stoltzfus’s, back to the smell, the beds that needed to be washed of their acrid odor, the children clamoring for only a shred of attention from the preoccupied Salina, to Fannie with her injured back and her lack of love, so gamely accepting the fact that her mother was done with her now that she wasn’t needed because she had a new baby, that her brothers and sisters were all she had.
But were they?
She was on her way to find Bappie. Her head hurt. She wanted to go home and lie down in the coolness of the living room just for an hour, until her headache went away.
From the corner of her eye, a shadow came near. She turned. Noah whispered, “I’m coming to talk to you this evening.” He had merely walked by, so casually and so quickly no one would have noticed. It was simply not acceptable, a single man speaking to a widowed woman in broad daylight.
It wasn’t a question that he asked. It was a telling, the stating of a fact.
Hester bowed her head and walked away quickly. She found Bappie, and together they walked out the lane in the hot afternoon sun.
The heat was a shimmering, white cloak cast over the land in midsummer. But Hester noticed only the blue of the sky, the wild rosebushes, the white columbine growing in profusion along the road, the butterflies and meadowlarks, the song of the mockingbird that hopped along beside them like a raucous escort, trilling one mocking note after another.
The dust puffed up, coating their black shoes and the hems of their skirts, the hot winds tugged at their caps and riffled the edges of their capes. Hester talked, spreading her hands in emphasis. She laughed, trying to keep from skipping and throwing her arms wide, to restrain herself from lifting her face to the sun and saying, “Thank you, thank you.”
Bappie eyed her sideways. “Sermon must have done you good.”
“Oh, it did, it did.”
Bappie let out a wee remnant of a snort, which Hester failed to hear. She knew it wasn’t the sermon, but as skittish as Hester was about any mention of Noah, she chose, wisely, to keep her mouth closed, if only for this once.
They spent the afternoon sitting in the backyard, a bowl of popcorn and glasses of peppermint tea between them, talking.
Bappie sensed a new willingness in Hester to share her life, so she listened, only occasionally nodding or opening her eyes wide in acknowledgement of Hester’s words.
She spoke of the mysterious Salina, of Amos and his lackadaisical view of the world, his farm, all those children, multiplying each year.
“Bunch a rabbits,” Bappie said, straightforward.
“But, Bappie, I honestly think that is his pride and joy—to have a house overflowing with children. I imagine he sees all those hired hands and mauda out earning money which they’ll bring home to him, the time when he can sit at the blacksmith shop in town and smoke that nasty old pipe to his heart’s content.”
“Well, maybe he is inclined to believe the Bible and is just so happy to have his quiver full. Just as Proverbs says, you know.”
Hester nodded. “At any rate, I’m going back tomo
rrow morning to work all week, and probably several weeks after. If I could only get Salina motivated to teach Rachel and her sister to work. Can you believe, after every meal I still have to tell them to do the dishes? Then they slop around in lukewarm water with hardly any soap. They simply aren’t taught.”
“Do you dread going back?” Bappie turned her head, upended her glass of tea, and dumped the contents with a splash beside the steps.
Hester’s shoulder shrug went unnoticed as the two women sat in the comfort of each other’s company, not speaking. The quiet clucking and pecking of the chickens was a homey sound, as was the distant yell of a child, followed by the deep barking of a dog. Heat hung over the town. The shade of the maple tree, the occasional restless movement of its leaves, stirred by a muggy puff of air, did nothing to relieve the cloying warmth.
Bappie picked up her skirt and flapped it madly, her knobby white knees like startled white birds. “It’s uncomfortably hot.”
“It usually is, midsummer.”
Bappie grinned, punching Hester’s forearm. “Is Noah going?”
“Going where?”
“To Berks County?”
Hester’s irritation showed by the flicker of fire in her dark eyes. Now how did she know anything about this? Eavesdropping, likely. She faced Bappie, squarely. “How do you know?”
“Oh, the birds were singing about it.”
“Don’t add a white lie on top of your other trespasses, namely, hiding somewhere and listening to Noah talking. You do that, you know.”
“Do I? Nah, not me. No, never would, never will.”
Hester glared at her till Bappie’s words cut her off. “Well, miss secretive lady, let me tell you something. We choose to be happy, we choose to be miserable. But when unexpected love comes along, we don’t brush it off. We grab it and thank our Heavenly Father.
“We take it, Hester, because it enriches our lives. Yes, you think, what does she want with that odd-looking Levi Buehler? You know, there was a time when I probably wouldn’t have chosen him, and he wouldn’t have wanted me either. I’m older now, a bit baggy and wrinkled, but then so is he. And if God wants us to enjoy the rest of our days together, well, then, so be it.
“I’ll always cherish these years with you, Hester. Your friendship has made me into a better person, and I’ll always carry that in my heart like a fulfillment. If you do go with Noah and you don’t come back, let’s never forget each other. You must write to me always. And Levi and I will visit.”
Hester sat very still. Then she whispered, “That is so sweet, Bappie, my friend.”
They sat together, the moment a lovely comfort of feelings.
“I’m so frightened of Noah, of marriage,” Hester whispered finally, a sort of clutching, choking sound overriding her words.
“I guess you have reason to be, Hester. I can’t make fun of your fears. But maybe, just maybe, you’ve suffered enough, and God knows you deserve better. Maybe he has a great, big, happy surprise for you, and you won’t open that wonderful gift because of your fear. You’re always looking back over your shoulder, hanging on to past mistakes, carrying them around like a sack of horse feed.”
“You think?” Hester asked.
“I know.”
They both stopped speaking as Noah’s tall form rounded the corner of the barn, his bright hair tousled, his straw hat in his hand, relaxed, smiling, genuinely happy to see them both.
CHAPTER 18
THEY CONVERSED TOGETHER AS THE HOT SUMMER SUN SLID below the horizon and the light began to fade, casting shadows across the small barn, the henhouse, and the maple tree. The heat evaporated slowly, grudgingly giving up its hold on the sweltering town as the twilight settled softly, bringing unexpected breezes of cool air and comfort.
Bappie yawned and stretched, saying she was going to bed since she had to be up early to go to the farm. “Sheep fence,” she said, in a voice anything but humble, wanting to convey to Noah her anticipated prosperity. Sheep would need a large pasture, good water, and a solid fence, so she planned to help Levi with the acreage and the planning.
Hester knew Bappie would plan and Levi would follow, but she said nothing, hiding her grin in the dusky evening light.
After the door closed behind Bappie, a silence settled, an uncomfortable stillness. Hester felt the urge to say something, anything, to rid the air of prickliness.
She cleared her throat, picked a blade of grass, and wrapped it around her thumb, pulling it tight before breaking it.
Finally Noah spoke, inquiring about her week. Startled, Hester groped for the correct word. He didn’t know she had gone to be a maud to the Amos Stoltzfuses.
“I wasn’t here, you know.”
“Oh, Amos Stoltzfus from east of here, close to Bird-in-Hand, needed a maud, so he came to see me.”
“And?”
“I went.”
“How was that?”
“All right, I guess.”
“Hester, why did you go?”
“They needed me.”
“There are plenty of single women around. The countryside is full of large families with girls loaned out for hire.”
“I wanted to go.”
Noah didn’t reply. When he finally did speak, the kindness had returned, his voice softened by it. “I don’t mean to be critical of your choices, but it has to be terribly hard work. Terribly. I know the Amos Stoltzfus family. The church is often called to help them out with food donations, labor, or handing over money from the collected alms to fish him out of yet another fiasco he got himself into. I know you meant well, Hester, and I’m sure you were great for that family, but I wish you would not go back.”
“I need to go.”
“Why?”
“Salina is not recovered from childbirth, Noah, and Fannie is hurt.”
“Fannie?”
“The third daughter. She’s eleven years old. She fell and hurt her back.” Like the beginning of a slide down a snow-covered hill, Hester’s halting first sentence gained momentum until she described in rich pathos the feel of that too-thin spine, the skeletal little body lying on a heap of filthy quilts, crying softly to herself when the pain became unbearable. She told him of her plant-gathering at night, all of it. Salina and her disconcerting way of looking up from her newborn, and Fannie’s innocent acceptance of the fact that her mother didn’t need her or much want her, now that she had another baby to care for.
“Hester, you surely know what will happen to her, don’t you?”
“Well, I know some destitute families give their children to more well-to-do families to raise, don’t they?”
“Yes, they do.”
“Really give, to keep forever?” Hester whispered.
“It’s a fact of life, Hester. It’s sad, but when a father like Amos does his best and is not able to feed so many mouths, some actually do give their children to another household.”
“I can see Salina doing that.”
“Amos, too.”
“He’s always good-humored, though. He doesn’t seem cruel. He says he has some money put by. It just never occurred to him that Salina might want a new cookstove or a washline.”
“He has money?”
“That’s what he says.”
Noah sighed, “At any rate, you are not responsible to keep that household running smoothly. They have older children to carry on without you.”
“But I need to go back. What will happen to Fannie? They’ll put her with another family, and she won’t be loved. Noah, please listen to me. She’s so painfully thin, so disarmingly accepting of the few crumbs of caring she does receive, so content, asking nothing more from life but a bit to wear, a bit to eat. All her life, people will take advantage of her goodness. She’ll be a slave, a white Amish slave, no better.”
Hester’s words rose with the passion she felt. Noah remained quiet, his legs stretched in front of him on the cool grass, the darkness now hiding his features. Only the lightness of his face and hair were visible. D
own by the henhouse fence, a katydid began its clamoring call, the unsettling rhythm, the urgent squawk of its cadence. The answering call of another katydid rose high and sure, a beckoning. Still Noah did not speak.
She heard him get to his feet, felt, rather than saw, him bend in front of her, his thick arm and hand extended.
“Come, Hester, let’s walk for a while. The fresh air and change of scenery will make us appreciate the coolness of evening.”
She hesitated, then placed her hand in his. He never let go of it after that.
Hand in hand, they walked out of the short drive, the back alley, down Mulberry Street past the Lutheran church, then on to Vine Street, past the haberdashery, the wheelwright, and out of town, without speaking at all.
The silence was no longer prickly, but a kind of soothing quiet. A million white stars blinked above them. A half-moon allowed shadowy light, the merest whitewash of silver bathing them in the midsummer night’s glow, spraying pearls of luminescence.
Noah’s hand was wrapped firmly around her own, claiming her hand. When he dropped it suddenly, Hester did not understand, feeling cut off. It was as if the hand was an extra unwanted appendage, and she had no knowledge of what to do with it. She put it behind her back where it was safe without his hand.
When Noah spoke, his voice was garbled, as though coming from underwater or from a distance. “One more time, Hester, I will ask you. One more time I will lay everything at your feet. I know you hold my future in those perfect dark hands.”
Hester’s breathing stopped but her heart beat on, dull thuds of life suspended between her own desire for Noah and what she felt was God’s will for her, a confusing mixture she could never quite understand.
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