by Jan Drexler
“I don’t blame you for getting riled.” His voice was mild. “But I had to ask. There are rumors, and I don’t want to believe them. Now that I see you and talk to you, I can see that you aren’t a slave to the drink the way he was.”
“Rumors?”
Dale shrugged. “You know how people talk.” He glanced at Samuel again. “I’ll let you borrow my plow and team on one condition.”
“Anything.”
“I want to handle my own team, so I’ll do the plowing and planting for you. In exchange, you give me ten percent of the crop.”
Samuel chewed on his lip. Dale’s suspicion rankled, but he had the upper hand and he knew it.
“Agreed. I’ll buy the seed today.”
“And I’ll plow the field tomorrow. I’ll be over first thing.”
Samuel was supposed to help with Vernon Hershberger’s plowing tomorrow. This could be the excuse he needed to avoid facing Martin Troyer and the others in the morning...but Mary was right. He had given his word.
“I’m busy tomorrow. Can we do it on Monday?”
Dale peered at him. “You’re busy on a Saturday?”
“I’m helping a man from church with his plowing.”
“You?” Dale grinned. “Maybe you’re less like your daed than you look.” He nodded. “Monday it is, then.”
* * *
Mary guided Chester down the main street of Shipshewana, past the train depot and across the railroad tracks. On the corner of Middlebury Street and State Road 5 was a grocery store and Mary pulled into a spot along the hitching rail.
Even though Chester was standing quietly, she still grasped the reins as if she was driving. The store looked just like the one at home in Ohio. She glanced at Esther, sitting next to her. “Is this where you usually buy your groceries?”
“Samuel took us to a different store when we were here on Monday.” Esther took the reins from Mary and secured them. “But we can try here.”
Judith jumped to the ground on the other side of the buggy.
“I’ll carry the eggs,” she said as she reached for the basket in the back, “and you do the talking.”
Mary’s mouth was dry, but she felt better with Judith and Esther along. How could she have faced these Englischers without them?
She nodded and climbed down from the buggy seat. “Let’s go in.”
Mary led the way into the store with Esther and Judith following. A few men stood next to a display of tobacco, but didn’t look up as they walked by. Mary headed straight to the counter at the back of the store where a woman waited for them.
“Good morning,” she said. She eyed the basket Judith set on the counter. “I don’t think I’ve seen you folks in here before.”
Mary lifted her chin and smiled. She reached for the basket and pulled the towel off, revealing the eggs that she and Ida Mae had carefully washed that morning.
“I was wondering if you buy—”
“Nope. Never. The mister says we don’t barter, and we don’t buy except from our suppliers.”
Mary felt her jaw drop at the woman’s rudeness. She tried again. “But they’re fresh, just gathered this morning.”
The woman’s head shook. “No it is, and no it will be.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “I’ll be glad to sell you anything you need, though.”
Mary’s knees shook, but she straightened her shoulders. “No, thank you. I’m only interested in selling the eggs or trading.”
The men’s conversation had stopped and she heard footsteps heading their way.
“Anything wrong, Millie?”
The woman frowned over Mary’s shoulder. “I told them we don’t take barter.”
Esther leaned forward. “Can you tell us if there’s a store in town that would buy them?”
Millie started shaking her head, but the man behind Mary cleared his throat. She turned toward him as Judith picked up the eggs.
“You might try at the elevator. I heard they was buying eggs.”
Mary kept her eyes focused on his shirt buttons and took a deep breath. “Thank you. We’ll try there.”
She followed Judith and Esther out the door, her knees shaking so much that she was afraid of falling with each step. She pressed her lips together as she felt the pounding in her head turn to a roaring. Not here. She couldn’t faint here. She reached for Chester’s tie as the girls climbed into the buggy and focused on the prickly hairs of the horse’s chin. She counted silently, taking deep breaths. She had spoken to an Englisch man and nothing bad had happened. She would never need to talk to him again.
Fumbling with the tie rope, Mary climbed into the buggy and took the reins. By the time she sat down, her breathing had returned to normal and she could smile at Esther.
“Do you know where the grain elevator is?”
“Samuel went there on Monday. It’s on the other side of the railroad station.”
Mary clicked her tongue and Chester turned the buggy into the street again. A sudden thought made her stomach clench.
“The elevator,” she said, trying to keep her voice from shaking, “is it owned by Englischers?”
“Mennonites.” Esther pointed out the turn ahead. “They’re a nice family, according to what Samuel said.”
Mennonites. Mary pulled her lower lip in between her teeth. Perhaps dealing with Mennonites wouldn’t be as bad as the Englisch men in the store.
She guided Chester to the hitching rail outside the grain elevator’s office, next to a team of Belgians hitched to a farm wagon, and Judith jumped out of the buggy.
“I hope they take your eggs here, Mary.” She looked up at the tall storage towers that dwarfed the office building. “It doesn’t look like the sort of place that you could trade them for anything, though.”
“It won’t hurt to ask,” Esther said, climbing down next to her sister. “This is the only grain elevator in town, so it must be the one the man meant. And it is a feed store, also.”
Mary finished tying Chester to the rail, clasped her hands together to stop their shaking, and led the way to the store. Dust was the first thing that greeted her. As she opened the door on its squeaking hinges, motes swirled in the sunshine that fell into the room ahead of the girls.
“Ja, well, I think you’ll find we have the best prices around.” A plain-dressed man stood behind the counter, speaking to an Amish farmer in a mixture of Deitsch and English. “On top of that, if you go to Elkhart to buy your seed, you’ll have to factor in the cost of the trip.” He glanced toward the door and smiled at the three of them. “I’ll be right with you folks, if you don’t mind waiting.”
Mary smiled back, and she turned to look at the sacks of grain piled along the walls. Near each stack was a pail with a sample of what grain the sacks held. Next to the door was a display of Extension Office bulletins. Mary had just read the titles of the first two when the bell above the door rang, signaling the farmer’s exit.
“What can I do for you?” the man asked. He was middle-aged, and wore his beard without a mustache, just like the married Amish men did.
Judith set the basket of eggs on his counter. “Do you buy eggs?”
He moved the cover aside and picked two of the eggs out of the basket and held them to the light that filtered in through the window. “We do, if they’re top quality.” He returned those eggs to the basket and picked up two more. “These look fresh.”
Mary stepped forward. “Ja, they are. Gathered just this morning.”
The man peered in the basket, and then at Mary. “Do you have any more?”
Mary swallowed down the quick flutter in her throat. “These are all we have today. Does this mean you want to buy them?”
“I’ll buy all the eggs you can bring me.” He reached under the counter for an egg tray and start
ed transferring the eggs from the basket into it. “I have buyers from Detroit who stop in every Tuesday, and buyers from Fort Wayne on Fridays. They buy as many eggs as I can supply for them. They sell them to groceries in the big cities.”
Mary’s head spun. If she and Ida Mae could deliver two dozen eggs a week...
“Could you bring twelve dozen a week?”
She stared at him. “Twelve dozen?”
“Fifteen dozen would be better. I can’t get enough eggs to make the buyers happy.” He grinned as Mary’s mouth fell open and reached for a brochure from the display of Extension Office literature. “Take this home and look through it. It explains how to raise chickens for egg production on a large scale. A lot of the local farm wives have started providing eggs and butter for the city markets to help their family’s income.”
Mary looked at the drawing of a chicken on the front as the flutter turned into a bubble. She did some quick calculations in her head. To get twelve dozen eggs a week, they would need at least twenty hens. Twenty-four would be better. Or even thirty. She and Ida Mae would need to build a larger henhouse, and buy feed for the chickens. It would be a lot of work, but would it be worth it?
She cleared her throat. “How much do you pay?”
“Ten cents a dozen, if they’re as good quality as these.”
Ten cents. Fifteen dozen a week would bring in one dollar and fifty cents. Six dollars a month. Mary flipped through the brochure until she reached a picture of a large henhouse. Dimensions for seventy-five hens, said the caption. The bubble expanded. She could do this, with Ida Mae’s help. Visions of a clean, airy new henhouse and yard filled with contented chickens swirled through her mind.
“And if I could bring you forty dozen?”
The man leaned his hands on the counter, his brow knitted as he looked her over. Wondering if she could deliver on her word, she figured.
“Now you’re talking about going into business. That would be a mighty bit of work. You’re sure your father won’t mind?”
Mary smiled. Four dollars a week would be enough to pay all the household expenses and leave some cash to save. “Don’t worry. We will enjoy the work.”
He leaned forward. “You’ll need a larger chicken coop, right? And fencing, feed, waterers? And more chickens?”
Mary nodded as the bubble deflated. She hadn’t thought of the expense of going into this business. She would need boards and wire fencing for the new henhouse, and chicken feed. How much would it all cost?
“I’ll loan you the money to supply what you need to get started. I’ll front six dollars so you can buy the lumber, fencing and anything else you need. You should be able to pick up chickens at the livestock auction on Tuesdays, so you can build your flock up that way.” He pointed a finger at the brochure in her hand. “But before you do anything, read up on what raising chickens on this scale demands. It isn’t easy work.”
“Why would you loan me the money?” Mary fingered the brochure, ready to hand it back to him. Her dream was slipping away as she considered the enormity of the project.
He waited until she looked up at him. “I have a daughter your age, and her family is struggling to make ends meet. She enjoys helping her husband by bringing in the income from her chickens, and she has worked hard enough to make it pay off. I’m sure you can do the same thing.” He smiled again. “Besides, we both win on this deal. You sell your eggs, and I keep the big city buyers coming back.”
He opened the drawer below his cash register and took out two dimes. “Here’s your payment for the eggs you brought in today. Take the brochure home and discuss it with your family. Then the next time you come into town, you can tell me what you decide.”
Mary rubbed the dimes together between her fingers as Judith picked up her empty basket and they headed for the door. Twenty cents, cash money. And this was just the beginning.
The girls were climbing into the buggy before Mary remembered. She ran back to the door and opened it.
“Denki, Mister... Mister...”
“Holdeman. Enosh Holdeman.”
The bubble was back as she grinned at him. “Denki, Mister Holdeman. I will let you know what we decide.”
Chapter Six
Saturday morning dawned cool and clear. A perfect day for spring field chores. Samuel frowned at the bright sunshine as Tilly trotted down the gravel road. Rain would have given him a good excuse to stay home.
Ahead, the Hershberger farmyard was crowded with horses. Some men had driven buggies, but a few had driven their plows, hitched to teams of Belgians or Clydesdales. Samuel chewed at his bottom lip as he glanced at the faces. Every one of those men had known Daed. Every one of them expected nothing more from his son. But Mary’s words came back to him, and he rubbed the spot on his chest where her finger had pointed when she said them.
Mary was right. He wasn’t Daed, and he didn’t have to keep following in his footsteps. He turned Tilly in the drive and pulled to a stop alongside the other buggies. He considered unhitching her and tying her to the rope someone had strung along the shady side of the barn, but that meant he was committed to helping. Instead, he loosened her harness and left her standing in the shade of a tree.
He took a step toward the six men who had gathered in a group near the equipment, and then as he hesitated, he felt Mary’s words prodding at him, as if she was poking that finger in his back. Taking a deep breath, he walked the rest of the way.
Martin Troyer was the first to spot him.
“Look who showed up.”
As some other men stared at him, Samuel’s steps faltered. Distrust clouded their features.
Jonas Weaver came toward him with a hand held out. “Good to see you, Samuel. We’re just getting ready to divide the work, and we can use someone to drive Vernon’s team.”
Samuel glanced at the Percherons Jonas indicated. The giant horses stood quietly, but Samuel hadn’t driven a team of work horses in more years than he could count. He glanced at the group of men. Martin Troyer and another man faced him with folded arms and lowered brows.
“I don’t think driving a team is the right job for me.” Samuel kept his voice quiet, but his words carried beyond Preacher Jonas.
“Ja, for sure.” Martin Troyer stepped closer. “No job is the right one for you, is it?” He took the other men into his sweeping glance as he let out a short laugh. “Just like his daed. If he shows up, we still don’t get any work out of him.”
“Martin, that isn’t fair.” Preacher Jonas stepped between Samuel and the other men.
“You know it is. We know how these Lapps are. Lazy as the hogs that roll in that stinking wallow they keep them in.”
Samuel’s head pounded as he stepped toward Martin with his fists clenched. “I said I’d help. Tell me what you want me to do.”
Martin laughed, and Samuel noticed smiles on the rest of the faces. “Give up, Lapp. You’re cut from the same cloth as your daed. Make a big noise about how you are part of the community, and make promises to help, but then when the time comes—” Martin shrugged “—you’re nowhere to be found.”
“I’m here now.” Samuel heard the growl in his own voice. Daed’s voice.
“Here, but are you sober?” Martin stepped closer and sniffed. “Can’t tell. All I can smell is hog.”
“I don’t drink.”
A quiet chuckle was Martin’s response. He didn’t believe a word Samuel said, so what was the use of trying?
Jonas’s quiet voice cut through Samuel’s growing headache. “We can’t judge Samuel based on his father’s actions.” Jonas held up a hand as Martin started to protest. “Nor can we refuse to let Samuel help when he is willing.”
Jonas turned to Samuel. “Why don’t you think driving a team is the job for you?”
Samuel’s hands clenched and unclenched. Wh
at did Preacher Jonas want? To make a fool of him?
“Forget it. Just forget it.” He turned on his heel and headed back to his horse, anxious to be hidden by the line of buggies.
He fumbled with Tilly’s harness as he heard footsteps approaching. The voices of the men drifted toward him as they arranged which team would lead the line of plows through the field. The footsteps stopped at the back corner of his buggy, but he ignored the intruder as he tightened the harness.
“What are you doing, Samuel?”
Preacher Jonas stood with his hands clasped behind his back, waiting for his answer.
“I’m going home. I’m not wanted here. You can see that as plainly as I can.”
“Are you serious about wanting to help?”
Samuel rubbed the edge of the harness with his finger. Why was he here? He felt Mary’s prodding finger in his chest. He was here to prove that he didn’t walk in his father’s footsteps, but he had thrown a tantrum worthy of the Lapp name. He leaned his forehead on Tilly’s flank. Would he ever escape Daed’s legacy?
Jonas stepped closer and laid a hand on Samuel’s shoulder. “You aren’t your father, Samuel. You don’t have to act like him.”
Samuel turned his head to face the preacher. “But I am like him. Don’t you see? Whatever I try, I end up acting just like he would.” He swallowed down the tightness in his throat. “It’s no use, is it?”
“There’s a verse in the Good Book that speaks to this. I’m sure you know it.”
Samuel’s gut clenched. “Ja, I know the one. Somewhere it says that the iniquities of the fathers are visited upon the sons to the third and fourth generations.”
“But that isn’t the end of the story.” Jonas squeezed Samuel’s shoulder, then stepped over to lean against the tree a few feet away. “When a father acts as yours did, he sets a poor example for his family. Then the children can suffer. But there is another verse in Deuteronomy that tells us that each one of us faces the punishment for our own sins.”
“So Daed was right? He always said a person couldn’t trust the Good Book because of all the contradictions in it.”