Not seeing his father around, he walked toward the house and entered by the utility room door. Leaving his coat and boots, he opened the kitchen door and felt a wave of heat greet him. His mother must have supper on the way.
“Hi,” he said, before he even got halfway through.
“Shut the door,” his mother said, bending over the oven. “It’s cold outside.”
He grunted his acknowledgment, closing the door gently behind him.
“So how was Emma?”
“Same as always,” he replied, not feeling like volunteering anything more.
“Did you see anything unusual?”
“No…and there were no visitors. It was snowing,” he said.
“Did you have a chance to ask about the car in her driveway the other day?”
“Yes,” he nodded. “Tried the best I could. She wouldn’t give me any information. Just said it was someone she had asked to come out to the farm.”
Rachel sighed, “It never was going to be easy. I knew that from the start. We just have to do what we can.”
“She gave me an envelope to mail at the post office,” he said. What he had done might as well be dealt with here and now.
There was no response from the stove as his mother carefully lifted the casserole out, heading to the surface of the stove.
“It was addressed to a lawyer’s office in Anderson,” he said nervously.
The casserole clattered down heavily, its hot contents spilling over the edge. She turned to him, eyes gleaming.
“You didn’t mail it, did you?”
“Sure. I had to,” he said, struggling to keep his gaze from dropping to the table. “I work for Emma.”
“You checked what was inside first?” she stated more than asked.
“No,” he said, hanging his head in shame.
“You mean you had a chance like that and didn’t open the envelope?” she said, her voice low. “What did I just tell you this morning? If you didn’t have enough nerve to open it, why didn’t you bring it home to me? You could have mailed it tomorrow. Gone back this afternoon even.”
“Maybe I should have,” he admitted, “but I just didn’t.”
“I’m ashamed of you,” she said, her voice still low.
“It won’t happen again,” he said. “If I ever get another chance, I won’t pass it up.”
“You realize how serious this is?” she asked, her eyes full on him. “Our money may be gone forever if Emma foolishly follows my father’s example.”
“Surely she won’t.” He raised his eyes.
“She had better not,” she said, putting her hands on her hips and facing Luke. “I can’t believe you’d pass up an opportunity like that. This had better never happen again.”
“It won’t,” he said, with images of Susie or even someone else somehow coming to mind. “I’ll open it next time. That, or bring it to you.”
“You had better hope there is a next time,” she replied, still looking at him.
He nodded and left, raising his face to the cold as it hit him when he stepped outside. The feeling stopped the rush of blood in his head and dulled the shame he now felt in his own failure to live up to expectations, and he had yet to tell his mother about Susie.
What would she have to say about that?
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Rebecca began planning for her week in Milroy in earnest the next afternoon. The morning housework completed and not yet time for the choring, she went up to her room to plan. It was a wonder that her parents let her have a room of her own, what with her siblings. And she so loved having it to herself.
Entering, Rebecca paused. All around her were the sights and smells she was used to. The dresser sat near the window, its dark stained oak polished to a dull gloss, worn from age. The bed supposedly matched the dresser but no longer did. Due to some previous owner’s attempt to refinish it, the bed’s new color was close, but it no longer had the same aged look as the dresser. Someday she would refinish it right. But that would be when she and John were gone. Her mother might object to refinishing the wood, claiming that it was being too worldly, caring what things looked like.
Looking around, the scent of old pine floors, still sweet from when she had refinished them last year, reached her. Her mother had not objected to that, although she had put her foot down when stain was suggested. Varnish was good enough for any Amish girl—plus it would look better she had said.
Now she would be leaving her room for possibly a few weeks, and she couldn’t shake the nostalgic longing stirring in her. Even if for just a short time, soon—when she and John were married—she’d leave it forever.
She sighed and wished there had been more warning about this trip. But babies are that way she supposed. One just kind of went with the flow of things.
Will I have babies someday? With John? She felt a flush creeping up her neck at the thought of it. Those were things best left to the Lord. She must think of something else because there was already enough to do, just to get to their wedding day.
Bringing her mind back to her room, she thought of all she needed to do before her trip. There was the family laundry that needed to be completed so that her mother would not be burdened with it too soon. Their regular wash day was on Thursday, leaving only two days between wash day and her departure.
Running through her inventory of dresses, she settled on taking two Sunday dresses and three weekday dresses. That should be plenty to last the two weeks she might be there. The work dresses could be rotated, the fairly new one with the two older ones, which showed some wear. With the good dresses, one could be worn the first Sunday and the other the next.
It would not work to have someone think she was so poor as to have only one Sunday dress. This could easily happen if she wore the same dress twice in a row. Beyond that, if for some reason she had to stay for the third Sunday, it would do to repeat the dress from the first Sunday. No one would think ill of that.
Her mind turned to the one big thing she must do while in Milroy: the final break with her past. She would need to find time and offer a reasonable explanation as to why she needed to visit the schoolhouse and the Moscow bridge.
Supposing that there would be some time available, she ran the scenario through her mind. Surely Leona would not need her constantly. Since school was in session, she might need to visit the schoolhouse in the afternoon or early morning. The bridge could be handled in-between sometime.
And then too, she would want to try to see Emma. Not that she had anything to do with her resolve regarding Atlee, but a visit with her would be most pleasant indeed. If at all possible, it would have to be worked in.
She wondered where Emma lived by now. Was she still on her brother Millet’s old place? Rebecca grinned at the thought of how Emma had obtained that property. What a ruckus that had been.
Rebecca wrinkled her brow, wondering if Emma was still able to live alone on the farm. She was surely old by now. Rebecca’s image of her was the same as from when she was in school. She could see her at the chalkboard in front of the classroom or reading stories in front of the school after lunch hour.
She was a great teacher. No one else had came close. Of course, she smiled, there never was anyone else in the first grade. Young Mary Mast tried her hand at teaching that year, barely lasting the year out. Rebecca could still see her white face on the day she caught the eighth-grade boys cheating on the first quarter math exam.
Mary had noticed the similarities in the boys’ test work and asked the five boys if they had cheated. All five shook their heads, looks of astonishment on their faces.
“We wouldn’t think of doing something like that!” David, the oldest, declared, turning his head away as if he could hardly bear the insult.
Mary had taken a deep breath. Finding the courage somewhere, she continued the inquiry. “But most of the answers are the same.”
“Not all of them,” Jacob commented, his voice quivering a little.
He should proba
bly not have shown this sign of weakness becasuse a few streaks of red returned to Mary’s white face.
“You will all stay after school this afternoon,” Mary pronounced weakly.
“All of us?” Martha, the youngest of the two girls, asked, bewildered.
“No. Just the boys,” Mary said, with a little firmer tone this time.
All five looked at each other, then at Mary, as if contemplating what damage she could do to them. David cleared his throat but said nothing.
With that, Mary had proceeded with the lesson of the day, and nothing more was said about it. At noon, though, little Timothy went across the road to Emmett Yoder’s place with a note, and later, at five minutes till three, just before school let out, a buggy pulled into the school yard. Surprised students stared out of the windows, watching two Amish men climb out and tie their horse to the hitching post. The one was their minister, Emery Mast, his beard snow white and flowing halfway to his waist, and the other was James Troyer, a farmer, his pant legs still sporting straw from the bales he had been spreading for his cows after morning chores.
Mary quickly announced that it was time to dismiss. The clock on the wall still read two minutes shy of three, but no one was doing any more school work anyway.
“You are dismissed for the day,” Mary told them. “Please stand and file out.”
They all did except the five eighth-grade boys, whose eyes were all firmly glued on their desks now. As Rebecca filed by, she noticed the resignation to their doom written on their faces.
Reports the next day claimed that all had been soundly spanked. This could well be imagined with either Emery or James—both school board members—wielding the dreaded pattle, which was known to be stored in the bottom of teacher’s desk. None of the five boys, though, would discuss the matter with anyone, keeping glum faces all day. After that Mary had never been quite the same—her starry-eyed innocence gone. Emma came the next year and taught Rebecca for her remaining seven years.
Yes, if at all possible, she would have to visit Emma.
Opening her closet, she took down the suitcase from the top shelf, dusted it, and then leaned it against the far wall of the closet. It would stay there until Friday morning when she would pack. One suitcase was all that was going. In the van with so many other travelers, there would only be room for her to take one piece of luggage.
Glancing at the alarm clock, she noticed that it was approaching choring time. Matthew would be helping tonight, taking on greater responsibilities in preparation for her leaving.
After walking downstairs, she put on her work coat and boots. Her mother was not around, likely in the basement, perhaps getting canned fruit for supper. When she got to the barn, she found Matthew already there with a frown on his face.
“Choring’s no fun,” he said, knowing that complaining was useless but needing to say it anyway.
“You’re growing up fast,” she replied, squeezing him on the shoulder. “You’ll soon be a big man.”
“I’m not choring all the time, though,” he told her emphatically.
She chuckled. “No, you don’t have to. There will be plenty of other things to do.”
“Like what?” he asked.
“Oh,” she wrinkled up her face, as if in deep thought, and replied, “You can take girls home from the singing.”
“Like John does with you? Ugh!” he said, making a face.
“Let’s see. Maybe Margaret?” Rebecca continued. “She’s in your grade.”
He kept making his face, but she saw the interest in his eyes. “Girls,” he said, his face and his eyes contradicting each other, “they are ugh!”
“Well, whatever,” she told him. “Now, let’s see if you can pick this milker on and off the line by yourself.”
She brought a milker from the milk house and he tried, the muscles in his arms taut. The milker went on the line and back off with enough ease to assure her he could do it. “Don’t let it touch the floor until you have it on the cow,” she said, watching the hoses dangle dangerously close to the concrete floor.
He nodded, keeping the milker on the wire until the cows would come in. “I can do it,” he said firmly.
“I’ll help you until I leave,” she said. “You should be fine by then.”
“Of course,” he said, “I’m a boy.”
“Girls are just as important as boys,” Rebecca said, giving him a lesson she figured he needed. “They’re just good at different things.”
“Ya,” he said, seemingly mulling that thought, and then dropped it willingly when their father opened the barnyard door, letting the first of the milk cows come in.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Rebecca woke up before the alarm clock went off, the chill of the early morning having again crept into the room. Swinging her feet out of bed, she found the vent and opened it. The warm blast she was expecting did not occur. Mother was obviously late getting to the kitchen.
Reaching for the clock to turn its face toward her, she shut off the alarm, when it showed five minutes till official get-up time. Thoughts of a few more minutes of sleep vanished when she remembered that today was the day of the sewing. It would be a busy day before she would see John tonight and tell him of her departure for Milroy on Saturday.
If he knew what she intended to do while in Milroy, would he object? Well, there was certainly no need to tell him. It might hurt him too much to know she hadn’t quite gotten over her first girlhood crush.
She tensed, thinking about it and knowing that she would always be a little nervous until this problem was resolved. One thing was for sure—the ring would go with her to Milroy. It would not stay here. God would help her, she hoped. She took the ring gently out of the drawer and slid it into the folds of the suitcase.
But for now, the chores needed to be done. Matthew needed to be awakened if there were no signs soon of movement from the boy’s room.
Donning her housecoat, she opened the door, stepped across the hall, and quietly opened her brother’s door. “Matthew,” she whispered, “time to get up.”
There was silence.
“Matthew,” she whispered louder.
When there was still nothing, she walked over to his bed and shook his shoulder.
“Go away,” he muttered.
“It’s time to get up,” Rebecca said.
“I’m too tired,” he replied. “Go away.”
“If you don’t get up,” she said, still whispering, “Dad will have to holler for you.”
That produced a stirring under the covers. “I’ll be coming,” he said.
“You’d better be,” she told him. “Now get up!”
“Go away,” he repeated, but the covers kept on moving so she left, closing the door behind her.
She was almost to her room when she heard the familiar hiss of an approaching lantern. The door at the bottom of the stairs opened, allowing a shaft of light to brighten the stairs.
“Is Matthew up?” her father asked.
“Yes,” she said. “I just woke him.”
“Good,” he said, closing the door, returning the upstairs to a blessed darkness. Rebecca’s room was solid blackness except for the faint outline of the distant window. She felt for a match in the top drawer and lit the kerosene lamp. Noises across the hall assured her that Matthew was indeed up.
When, moments later, the boy’s door creaked open, followed by footsteps on the stairs, she was glad for it. Matthew was well on his way to carrying his share of the responsibilities. That would help everyone, including Rebecca.
When she went downstairs to head for the barn, Rebecca heard her mother in the kitchen. In the barn, she found Matthew sleepy eyed, but already hanging one of the milkers on the wire and waiting for Lester to bring in the cows.
“You have to feed them too,” she told him.
He grunted and moved toward the feed shoot. She held up her hand. “I’ll get it this morning. You can do it tomorrow morning just for practice. Starting Sunday night, it’s al
l yours.”
“Quit reminding me,” he said through a crooked glare, his one eye still pasted half shut.
Rebecca chuckled. “You’ll have to get used to these early hours.”
“It’ll come fast enough,” he said dryly. “Just be quiet and let me do my work.”
“I’ll be quiet if you do it right. If not, I’m going to let you know.”
He shook his head, too tired to bother with a response.
Rebecca went into the milk house for warm water to wash the cows’ udders, as the sound of their low bellows filled the barnyard.
By six thirty she left for the house, having sent Matthew in earlier. The smells of breakfast greeted her at the door. She caught sight of Matthew already at the table, looking hungrily at the food. A bowl of scrambled eggs sat in front of him, kept warm by the plate resting on top. If breakfast were delayed too many more minutes, Rebecca knew her mother would move them into the oven.
Biscuits, also ready and on the table, could stand a little cooling off, but those too would go back into the oven if Lester didn’t show up in a few minutes. The gravy bowl sat open, steaming heavily and ready to pour. Mattie was keeping her eye on the kitchen door.
“Your father coming?” she asked, looking in Rebecca’s direction.
“He’s right behind me, I think.” She glanced at the door about the time it opened.
“I’m sure hungry,” Matthew said loudly, hoping to make his father hurry.
“Good work makes for a good appetite,” Lester said, heading for the wash basin. “I’m coming.”
“Can I start now?” Matthew asked but did not receive an answer. He knew good and well there was no starting until prayers had been said.
“Your father’s coming,” Mattie said, implying a little wait.
Lester dried his hands on a towel in the utility room and entered the kitchen to take his place at the table. Once there and without a word, they bowed their heads. It was early morning and silence was the chosen form of prayer, befitting the hour when man’s words should be few in the presence of his Maker.
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