Rebecca's Promise

by Jerry S. Eicher

  Today’s assignments were still being written in large letters across the blackboard on the right side, just as Emma had done.

  She grimaced, feelings from the past sweeping over her. Emma’s voice sounded in her ear in answer to a math question from long ago. “You can do it. Just add all the numbers together and divide by the amount of numbers you used.”

  Even now the terror of the math book still bothered her. Much as she liked Emma, no soothing teacher’s voice could ever quite overcome that. Numbers had a way of getting away from her, disappearing somewhere in the brain. But with Emma’s assistance, she achieved a B average, even in that dreaded subject.

  Rounding the corner, she walked across the rest of the driveway and onto the grass beside home plate. Intent on the game, the children paid her scant attention other than the closest ones muttering “Hi.”

  A teacher she knew walked up and welcomed her. Betsy Yoder had been in her grade in school—a short girl with a ready smile. Rebecca hadn’t known she was teaching but wasn’t surprised. Betsy could get a hundred in math class without even trying.

  “I didn’t know you were coming by,” Betsy said smiling.

  “I didn’t either,” Rebecca replied. “With Leona’s baby coming, it’s hard to tell how the week will go. I had a chance to come up while the wash is drying.”

  “How’s Leona doing?”

  “Better today. Ate a good breakfast and lunch. Good enough to stay with Leroy and James.” Rebecca shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know if that’s a good sign or not.”

  “I don’t either.” Betsy motioned toward the older girl standing off to the side. “Rebecca, this is Martha.” Martha, her head covering pushed to one side, straightened it quickly at the mention of her name and nodded in their direction. “She’s from Daviess County. She’s come up to help for two years. The other teacher is Barbara. I think you know her. She’s from the east district. She went to Milroy Amish School, but we won’t hold that against her.”

  “She missed out on Emma,” Rebecca said passionately.

  “I know,” Betsy agreed. “You want to play?”

  “Ah, I don’t know,” Rebecca said.

  “You used to play first base, didn’t you? With Atlee at shortstop.”

  Rebecca felt like blushing but simply said, “Yes. And he was a good thrower.”

  “That’s true,” Betsy allowed. “So will you play? Because then I can play too. The children don’t think it’s fair with an extra teacher on a team, but with four we’d be even.”

  “Why not?” Rebecca felt a grin spreading across her face. “All I can do is break a leg.”

  Quick consultations were made between the three school teachers—the smiles on the children’s faces expressed their agreement. The more teachers playing, the better with them, provided it did not produce an obvious advantage for either side.

  Rebecca went with Betsy’s team. After a whispered conference between the captain, a burly eighth grader with hair sticking out in all directions, and Betsy, Rebecca was placed in her old position on first base.

  “I’m no Atlee,” Betsy whispered to her, motioning toward shortstop, “but I’ll try.”

  The first batter was a young girl, who looked to be eight or nine. Timidly she placed the bat on her shoulder and warily eyed the ball, her little head covering nearly tipping over her left ear.

  “Easy does it,” Barbara yelled at the pitcher.

  Doing his best to be fair and knowing full well he would catch grief for a hard throw, the pitcher sent a slow floater over the plate. The girl swung mightily, her bat wobbling, and missed.

  No one made a sound—either a cheer or a jeer. It would have been considered inappropriate. She got ready to swing again, knowing it was better to miss three times than to fail to swing. Honor lay in trying and in learning from her failures. Success was a thing to be earned, wrestled from the hands of fate or from the ground if you were a farmer.

  The pitcher sent another floater, and this time the batter connected, surprise written all over her face. It flew almost straight up into the air. Choruses of “Run” propelled her forward, dragging the bat a few feet before she dropped it. But it didn’t matter after all. The pitcher caught the little pop fly.

  Resigning herself, the girl hung her head and turned back. No one said anything, even in encouragement. Tomorrow she would do better. That was the faith that undergirded all they did. Time, they all had learned, didn’t make things better by itself, but it allowed for another try, and that was where their hope lay. She was one of them because she tried, not because she failed or succeeded.

  The pitcher tensed and got ready for the next batter, an athletic boy with more muscle than fat. Making no attempt to be nice, the pitcher threw a fast underhand pitch. The batter squinted, brought his bat around and, with a solid whack, hit the ball way over second base.

  He was almost at first base before the ball landed, despite the best efforts of the outfielders to catch it. Taking his opportunity, he easily made it to second and then to third.

  What looked like a ten-year-old boy was up next. He sent a grounder between first and second. The outfielder ran with all his might, scooped it up, and threw it to first, but the boy was already safe. The runner on third had run for home, making it easily.

  Next up was another girl, a little older and taller than the first one. She got a hit on the first pitch. It went right to Betsy at shortstop who, after catching the fly ball, threw it to Rebecca on first. The boy on first was halfway through his run to second, but now was out as Rebecca tagged the base. Three outs.

  As the fielders made their way up to bat, Betsy whispered, “Was I as good as Atlee?”

  “No,” Rebecca said without hesitation. “But it was good.”

  “You wouldn’t think anyone could be as good as Atlee.”

  “No.” Rebecca chuckled. “I probably wouldn’t.” Her laugh came easy and relief spread all the way through her. Maybe this was being put to rest once and for all. Thank the good Lord, she thought. He led me here.

  Two innings later, Betsy disappeared into the schoolhouse and came back out to ring the bell. All playing stopped on the sound, and the children streamed into the schoolhouse. Betsy made a point of coming back out and asking Rebecca, “You’re staying for a while, aren’t you?”

  “I have some time. Will I disturb anything?”

  “Of course not,” Betsy said. “I’ll get you a chair for the back. You can leave when you’re ready.”

  “I’d love to stay a bit,” Rebecca agreed, as they followed the last of the children inside.

  Barbara was already standing in front, holding a storybook as the last stragglers came in from the bathrooms and drinking fountain. Betsy led Rebecca to the back and found a chair for her plus one for herself. Together they waited for Barbara to begin the after-lunch story.

  Listening to her read, Rebecca was sure Barbara wasn’t nearly as good as Emma was, but maybe that was just her memory. Perhaps to her, no one could sound as good as Emma.

  Barbara’s voice rose and fell for the next fifteen minutes as she read two chapters from Treasures of the Snow by Patricia St. John. Everyone seemed as attentive as Rebecca had always been when Emma read the noontime story.

  Closing the book, Barbara called her fourth-grade English class up front. Betsy did the same for the fifth graders in the back. Martha, at the moment, was answering questions from the children who raised their hands.

  Rebecca remembered that Atlee had rarely raised his hand. He was smart as a whip. Yet he had never made her feel as if she was less because of the grades she received.

  Barbara’s class was having a problem understanding the difference between adverbs and adjectives. They turned their little heads upward as she explained and wrote sentences.

  “But they’re the same.” Rebecca heard the plaintive little voice from all the way in the back, where she was seated.

  A student two rows away grinned at the sound, then went back to his work
.

  Barbara’s lips were moving as her hands wrote, but Rebecca couldn’t hear what she was saying. Half interested, she thought of moving closer, and then decided that would be interruptive. Getting up to leave was one thing, but sitting closer could interfere with the learning taking place.

  Instead, she turned her attention to Betsy’s class, which was attempting to write short stories. From Betsy’s comments, she gathered that previous efforts had already been made but lacked satisfactory results.

  “You have to focus on your grammar, punctuation, and spelling. Not just on the story line,” she was saying. “Some of these stories could be good stories. But the words have to be spelled correctly. You don’t ask, ‘Why’s the matter with you today?’ Instead, can anyone tell me the correct way to say it?”

  “I don’t know.” The offending boy glumly shook his head, his round face stricken. “That’s how we say it at home.”

  “You don’t talk English at home. So don’t blame it on your parents,” Betsy told him, which caused Rebecca to grin. It was true, but it was Betsy’s spunk that amused her. She’s doing better than I could.

  “Does anyone know?” Betsy asked.

  Two students raised their hands. Betsy pointed and asked one of them, “How do you say it?”

  “What’s the matter with you today?” came the prompt answer.

  “Why would you say it that way?” the boy asked. “It doesn’t sound right.”

  “Why don’t you think it through?” Becky instructed him. “Let’s say that you hurt your knee. Just bumped it maybe. You are limping when you walk in here. As you walk in, do I know what is wrong with you?”

  “No,” the boy said, “I would have to tell you.”

  “That’s right. First you have to find out what is wrong before you can ask why it’s wrong. So,” Becky held her pencil out in front of her as a pointer and continued, “ ‘why’ can’t be used if there is an unknown. Now I could ask you why you are limping. But I cannot ask you why your knee is hurt until you tell me, or I see it. Is that clear?”

  “I guess.”

  “What about the rest of the class?”

  They all nodded, indicating they understood.

  “So let’s go back. Rewrite your stories. Work on your spelling, punctuation, and grammar. You can use the dictionaries for spelling, if you have to.”

  Rebecca was startled by the sudden thought that she had nothing planned for supper back at Leona’s. Am I supposed to make something or not? Surely Leona would have said something, unless she was planning on doing it herself.

  That was probably it, she figured as she settled back into the chair. But she couldn’t get it out of her mind. Suppose she was wrong, and Leona wanted her to make supper. There was simply not enough time to tend to the dry laundry and prepare supper if she didn’t hurry back immediately.

  Rising, Rebecca gave a little wave to Betsy and left. The students barely raised their heads as she went by. Out on the road, she stepped briskly toward her responsibilities. She breathed in deeply, glad she had gone to the schoolhouse.

  Entering the house, she was surprised to find Leona in the kitchen.

  “You shouldn’t be up and around,” Rebecca said. “Where are Leroy and James?”

  “In the garage playing,” Leona said. “I feel fine. Here take the slop to the pigsty out behind the barn. I have the potatoes almost ready to mash. You can help with that if you want to.”

  “You’re making the whole supper.” Rebecca was horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me? I could have helped. That’s what I came for. I wouldn’t have traipsed all around the schoolhouse.”

  “Oh yes, Rebecca, you need that time,” Leona said. “That’s important too. I would’ve let you know if I needed help. Now take the slop out. Then you had better start bringing in the wash.”

  Walking to the pigsty, Rebecca emptied the bowl over the fence. She then walked by the clothesline and found the clothes dry and soft to her touch.

  She returned to the house and told Leona the clothes were ready.

  “That’s great,” Leona said, “but first I need help with the corn and salad. Also, would you mash the potatoes for me? I can make the gravy. The girls can help you bring in the wash when they come home. We can get to the ironing tomorrow.”

  “However you want to do it,” Rebecca said.

  For the next hour and a half, they worked side by side. When the girls walked in from school, Leona told them to get changed and help Rebecca.

  They were not going without comment first, though. “Mom,” Lois whispered to Leona, “have you ever seen Rebecca play softball? She can catch like a boy.”

  Rebecca grinned, having overheard the words even with their whispered delivery.

  “Oh, I wasn’t that good.”

  “Oh! She was!” Lois insisted. “I was just waiting to see her at bat. Her turn never came up.”

  “Okay, change!” Leona told Lois. “I’m sure Rebecca was good, but the wash is waiting.”

  When the girls reappeared, Rebecca took them with her. They returned one by one with hampers of clean wash, while Leona held the front door open for them. When everything was in, they began folding what didn’t need ironing.

  “You girls start putting things away,” Leona told them almost as soon as the last piece was folded. “You know better where everything goes than Rebecca does.”

  Finally all that was left was the pile of ironing. “We’ll do that tomorrow,” Leona said. “Let’s get supper on now.”

  When Stephen arrived fifteen minutes later, they were ready with supper. He seemed appreciative of the menu, but said little about it.

  That evening Rebecca stretched her weary body out on the bed, thankful for how the day had gone.

  “Tomorrow the bridge,” she said to herself before falling asleep, “and then this problem will be over.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The next morning Leona came into the kitchen groaning. She was dressed for the day, but her hair still hung over her shoulders.

  “You have no business being up,” Rebecca said, from where she was standing at the oven.

  “You’re right,” Leona agreed, pulling out a chair from the kitchen table, then changing her mind. “I think I’ll take the recliner for now. Maybe I can help set the table when I get the children up.”

  “I’m fine,” Rebecca assured her. “I got up early enough, so there’s time.”

  “We’ll see. In the meantime, let me get this bloated body into a soft chair.”

  Moving as quickly as she could, Rebecca had breakfast ready and set out on the table by the time Stephen appeared. The eggs, bacon, toast, and oatmeal were a welcome sight. He seated himself and bowed his head in prayer. Rebecca stopped her movements by the oven until he was done. In the silence of the prayer, she heard Leona go down the hallway to call the children.

  While Stephen ate, Rebecca prepared his lunch, relying on memory as to what Leona had put in the day prior. The sleepy-eyed children showed up about the time Stephen was ready to leave.

  “Mom’s getting close,” he told them, focusing on the two oldest, Elmo and Lois. “If the time comes while you’re at school, Rebecca will have someone pick you up after school is out and before you walk home. Whoever picks you up will take you to Fannie’s. Elmo and Lois, you watch over the younger ones.”

  “Why? Is mom sick?” eight-year-old Verna asked, standing beside Stephen, her eyes full of concern.

  “No,” Stephen said, pressing her hand. “She’s not sick. There’s another baby coming to live at our home.”

  “Where’s he coming from?” Verna asked, not at all sure about this. “Do you get him from town?”

  Stephen smiled at her. “No. The baby’s coming from God.”

  “Oh!” Verna thought for a moment. “That’s nice of Him. I guess.”

  “Yes,” Stephen agreed, “it is.”

  When he was gone, Verna whispered to Lois, “Vi brink Da Hah da glay one?”

  “In m
om’s stomach,” Lois whispered back, pointing to her own.

  Verna’s eyes got big, but she said nothing more.

  Leona came in to eat with them, and Rebecca noticed that Verna had a hard time keeping her eyes off her mother’s protruding middle. She raised no more questions, though.

  With the children gone and the dishes washed, Rebecca set up the ironing board in the living room. With two flat irons, one heating on the burner while she used the other, she tackled the waiting pile of wash. Leroy and James contented themselves with playing on the living room floor.

  Speaking from the recliner, Leona insisted, “Bring me the pieces of clothing after you’ve ironed them, and I will fold them.”

  “There aren’t too many.”

  “I know. It will make me feel useful.”

  Complying, Rebecca set up an upside-down hamper beside the recliner and brought her some Sunday handkerchiefs to fold once she ran the iron over both sides. The weekday ones had already been put away yesterday.

  With her two irons and spray bottle of water, the ironing proceeded smoothly. Rebecca worked in silence, broken only by the sound of hot metal sliding on damp cloth, steaming on the wet spots. Leona dozed off in the recliner.

  Rebecca set aside several small items in case Leona awoke and wanted something to do. But when she was done with the last piece, Leona was still sleeping. So Rebecca finished the folding herself and carried the last pieces into the bedroom closets.

  Finally, having thought about it most of the morning, she went to her own bedroom, dug among the folds in her case, pulled out the ring, and slipped it into her apron pocket.

  Working quietly in the kitchen, she fixed four sandwiches and placed three in the refrigerator. Finding a small carrying case in the pantry, she put the other sandwich and a pint jar of water into it. It would be her picnic lunch, of sorts.