by Sarah Price
No. Everyone seemed to think she was trouble simply because she always spoke the truth, even if it caused problems. Honesty was important, and practicality should have won out over a pretty painting of a horse and buggy. But, in the end, the store manager thought she was being diff i-cult and causing trouble and losing a sale, which was bad for business.
To Myrna, nothing could be further from the truth. She just wanted to help people make good choices, and if that meant eating healthier or buying a lighter teapot, then so be it!
Sitting back on her heels, she raised her hand and brushed a lock of her red hair from her face. Somehow it had fallen free from her prayer kapp. And she liked to be neat and tidy, that was for sure and certain. Not that it mattered. She wasn’t going to see anyone, since her father had banished her to the stockroom all day.
With a tired sigh, Myrna got to her feet. Her knees cracked, and she paused to place her hands on the small of her back while stretching. She needed a break. Her shoulders hurt and her eyes ached, for the lighting in the room was poor. The gas lantern wasn’t working properly, so she had to use two smaller kerosene lanterns instead. She had told her parents that light eyes required better lighting—she wasn’t entirely sure if that was true, but being the sole green-eyed Bontrager, she had thought it was worth a try. Unfortunately, neither her mother nor her father listened to her complaints, regardless of whether she was home or at the hardware store.
And, of course, it was damp and chilly in the stockroom as well. Despite the beautiful spring weather, the stone foundation seemed to retain moisture, especially since the building backed up to a hill. It always felt fifteen degrees colder in the back of the building. She should’ve thought about that before coming to work that morning. Her father always kept the heat down, even in the winter, so he certainly wasn’t going to turn it on in April.
His frugality sometimes bordered on miserly, at least in Myrna’s opinion.
Still, even knowing this, she hadn’t remembered to bring a sweater with her, and she certainly wasn’t going to wear her black shawl draped over her shoulders all day. It would be too cumbersome and get in the way of her work. So she was left shivering as she worked, her hands chilled to the bone from handling the damp rag as she wiped down the shelves. On a positive note, the more she cleaned, the more the room smelled like the fresh, oaky scent of Murphy’s Oil, and that was something she’d never complain about.
She wandered over to the door that separated the stockroom from the sales floor. Slowly, she opened it and peeked out. The store was practically empty. She knew her father had stepped out to deliver some packages to the post office, but where was Samuel? Her eyes traveled to the wall where the clock hung. It was almost time for lunch. Her brother was probably sitting outside eating his noon meal.
Feeling emboldened, she left the stockroom and stood near the register. She ran her fingers across the buttons. How long had it been since her father had permitted her to work behind the counter? Certainly a year or more. She had started working for her father when she turned seventeen. Just a few days each week. He’d let her interact with the customers during busy times if he was short staffed, but she was mostly charged with straightening up the shelves and managing the books—two tasks that kept her well hidden away.
But that had ended when she got into an argument with the Englische man from R.B. Construction.
Standing behind the counter, she tried to remember what had caused the heated exchange. Something about him having forgotten to pay his bill the previous month. When he arrived and wanted to make a big purchase for a new construction job, Myrna had stuck to her guns. Delinquent accounts meant no more credit.
Tapping her finger on the counter’s edge, she felt her pulse quicken as she recalled the argument. Her father had returned to the store in the middle of it and had refused to back her, extending more credit even though she knew it was a mistake.
He also let Myrna know that it was time for her to find another job.
She sighed, shaking her head at the memory. The man threatened to take his business elsewhere and her father blamed her for the soured relationship, but Myrna knew the truth: the man had taken advantage of her father and his belief in the universal goodness of human nature. It was too often that Simon’s trust was abused by certain of his Englische customers. And, as she could’ve predicted, her father had extended the man’s credit even further to appease him.
The bell over the door jingled, interrupting her thoughts. Myrna turned her attention to the noise. To her surprise, it wasn’t Samuel returning from wherever he had gone, but a customer, and he was walking directly toward her.
A tall man with broad shoulders and the familiar mustache-less beard worn by married Amish men stood in front of her. His dark hair poked out from the sides of his battered straw hat, perfect ringlets covering the tips of his ears. She’d never seen the man before, which wasn’t surprising, since many Amish men patronized her father’s store from surrounding areas. And he was older, probably in his early thirties. While she might have considered him a pleasant-looking man, the sober expression on his face made her wonder if something was amiss.
“May I help you?”
Upon hearing her voice, he paused and studied her for a long moment, his dark eyes flashing. He seemed transfixed when he gazed at her red hair, which was peeking out from the front of her kapp.
Myrna straightened her shoulders and tucked a loose strand behind her ear. It wasn’t unusual, his reaction. Many times, people seemed taken aback by her appearance. During her younger years, her mother always told her that people were curious because there weren’t many redheaded Amish children. But as she grew older, one of her friends commented that it was Myrna’s unusual beauty that attracted so much attention.
Myrna didn’t know about that. She often suspected it was her reputation, more than anything else, that made people stop and stare. But as she didn’t know this man who stood before her—a married man from the looks of his beard—she doubted that held true in this situation.
Still, the way he was looking at her was, indeed, puzzling. It was almost as if he had known her before. At first, anyway. And then his eyes changed, as if he had recalled something. Perhaps, she thought, he had heard about Simon Bontrager’s redheaded daughter.
Finally, the man cleared his throat. “You’re not Simon.”
She almost laughed. What a silly statement, she thought. “Obviously.”
The man’s cheeks turned pink. He shifted his weight as if uncomfortable. “Stupid comment, that,” he acknowledged. “I suppose I meant, where’s Simon?”
There was something endearing about the fellow’s awkwardness. She felt a quickening inside her chest and wondered who, exactly, he was. “I’m afraid I don’t know.” She tried to smile, hoping to put him more at ease. “I was working in the back, you see.” She gestured toward the door. “He must’ve stepped out for a moment. Not like him to up and leave that way without first telling me.”
“Hm.” It was a curiously soft noise that came from his throat, both guttural and husky. An acknowledgment without saying a word.
“So”—she widened her smile—“how may I help you?”
He gave her another long, uncomfortable look. “I don’t know you.”
Immediately, she felt her heart race. What was that supposed to mean? “Nee, you don’t.” She had to swallow to try to keep her temper in check. “But I’m behind this counter and can assist you, if you’d let me know what it is you need.”
For a moment, he chewed on the inside of his lower lip, his mouth pursing just a bit as if considering her. He frowned, his tanned brow wrinkling. Something about this man was different—his strange reaction, the way he didn’t speak much . . . and, of course, the dark expression on his face as he continued to study her.
She wondered at his delayed response. And yet, as his eyes met hers, Myrna realized that she was holding her breath, so she focused on her breathing, even more curious about the impact this stra
nger—this married stranger, she reminded herself again—was having on her. Swallowing, she averted her eyes, ashamed of herself for having such a strange reaction.
The front door opened once again, and her father entered. He paused when he noticed his daughter standing behind the counter facing a customer. But then, recognizing the man, he stepped forward to greet him.
“Zeke!” A smile crossed Simon’s face and he patted the man on his shoulder. “Long time since I’ve seen you,” he said, while giving Myrna a sharp look. “How’re things going?”
She knew what that look meant. Her father had repeatedly told her that she wasn’t to interact with customers. So, quietly, Myrna stepped back, then slipped into the shadows.
With her father engaged in conversation with this Zeke fellow, she stood in the doorway of the stockroom and watched, curious to witness the change in the man’s demeanor. Clearly he was more relaxed around Simon, and she was all but forgotten. She took advantage of the shadows to observe him as he spoke freely with her father, no longer awkward in his manner.
His expression changed while he talked with Simon. Although he still seemed serious, and there was something resigned about his appearance, he seemed much more comfortable than he had been a few moments earlier. But despite his broad shoulders and refined features, he had a stoic look about him. It was clear something was wrong. His smile was masked by a sorrowful look in his eyes. While curiosity made her want to learn more, she knew she was already facing a tongue-lashing from her father for having left the stockroom in the first place.
Sighing, she retreated into the darkness of the damp stockroom rather than risk upsetting her father even more.
* * *
Myrna sat at the kitchen table, drumming her fingers against the tablecloth. Outside, she could hear the cars passing by their house on North 700 West Street. It wasn’t quite rush hour yet, but it soon would be. The increasing traffic indicated as much. Over the years, an increasing number of cars cut through their rural street to bypass the heavier traffic on Highway 20. It was problematic, living just a mile from town, but something Myrna had learned to live with.
Until today.
With each car that passed, Myrna felt a rising pressure tighten her chest. Impatiently, she stood up and began to pace the room, her mind racing and her pulse quickening. She wasn’t certain how much longer she could work in her father’s store! It was depressing being stuck in the stockroom all day. She felt like a little mushroom kept in the dark. While she longed to be on the sales floor, working with customers, it was clear her father felt otherwise.
“Remember what happened the last time, Myrna?” was all he had replied when she had complained that morning.
Why, oh why, couldn’t she keep her opinions to herself?
But she always found it impossible to stop herself. Whenever she saw a person doing or saying something foolish, Myrna had to speak up. She cringed, remembering the exchange she’d had with one particular customer last year, just before the R.B. Construction incident. The man’s lack of knowledge about tools and the silly questions he’d asked had put her in rare form, and her patience had been tried.
If only her father hadn’t been nearby, overhearing her tell the man that the best thing he could do was hire a plumber! She was still paying the price for that exchange and for the extended credit argument, almost a year later.
Frustrated, mostly with herself but also with her mother because she was late returning home—where was she, anyway?—Myrna plopped back down in the kitchen chair and picked at her cuticles.
Finally, she heard the buggy pulling into the driveway. Myrna shut her eyes, saying a quick prayer, begging God for her mother to be in a good mood.
“What are you doing, Myrna, sitting here all alone like this?” Verna asked when she walked into the kitchen and set her purse down on the counter. As usual, her mother’s maternal concern kicked in, and she hurried over to where Myrna sat.
“You feeling poorly?” she asked as she pressed her hand to her daughter’s forehead. “Mayhaps you need something? Pain reliever?”
Myrna shook her head. “Nee, Maem,” she replied slowly, her words drawn out and deliberate. “I’m just cold, but I feel fine.”
“Cold?” Her mother slid into the chair next to her.
“Trying to thaw out a bit.”
Verna made a face. “What on earth?”
“It’s freezing at the store, Maem. Or, at least, in the stockroom.”
Upon hearing this, her mother relaxed. “Oh. That.”
“Ja, that,” Myrna said, her tone a bit sharper than she intended. “I might not be ill now, but I’ll surely catch my death of the cold if I have to spend my days cooped up in that dungeon!”
Verna chuckled.
“It’s not funny!”
She watched as her mother sobered. “Oh, Myrna, you’ve always loved it warmer than most. Mayhaps if you had a little fat on your body, you’d enjoy the cool air.”
At this comment, Myrna groaned. “Even old Miriam Schrock would freeze back there!”
“Myrna!”
“You know it’s true. Why, if Daed doesn’t turn on the heat, I’ll be in bed with pneumonia by Wednesday of next week.” She reached out and took her mother’s hands. “Please, Maem. Speak to him. Mayhaps he might let me work a bit out front—”
“Myrna,” her mother interrupted. “You know he can’t do that.”
“Why ever not?” she cried out. “I promise I won’t talk to the customers.”
The way her mother looked at her spoke volumes. It was clear she didn’t believe that was possible.
“Well, I’ll try not to, anyway,” Myrna added. “Why, I could be a great asset to him! Really, I could! I’m great with organizing, and trust me, Daed can surely use my help in that department. And I’m quick to learn about new products, so I can help the customers find what they need but also upsell them!”
Myrna watched her mother’s reaction, pleased to see her sigh in defeat.
“I can speak to him,” Verna said at last. “But I wouldn’t expect much from it, Myrna. He can’t afford to have you driving away clients with your stubborn opinions.”
Myrna smiled to herself. If anyone could get through to her father, it was her mother. “I won’t upset anyone, I promise.” She stretched out her fingers and wiggled them. “Remind me to bring gloves with me on Monday, Maem. You have no idea how cold it gets in there.”
“I don’t understand that. It’s been a beautiful April!”
Myrna made a noise, scoffing at her mother’s comment. “Well, you’d never know it in that stockroom, that’s for sure and certain.”
“Well, I can only promise to speak to your daed about working out front, Myrna. But I will certainly insist that he heat up that room a bit. No sense in you complaining every day about it,” Verna said.
“Danke, Maem.”
Her mother patted her hand in a motherly way. “Now, let’s get some supper started. Surely Daed and the boys will be home shortly, and knowing their appetites, they’ll be eager for a hot meal before Samuel and Timothy go out with their friends.” As her mother stood up, she glanced at Myrna. “You can start the stove, boil water for egg noodles, ja? It’ll warm you up some,” she teased.
“Doubtful,” Myrna shot back.
“Oh, Myrna,” her mother chuckled. “Come summer you’ll be pining to get to the stockroom each morning so you can enjoy the cool air.”
If I’m still there, Myrna thought.
She had no intention of spending her summer at her father’s store. As soon as she could, she was going to start looking for another job where they appreciated her skills, just as her mother had suggested. A job where she could use her organizational skills and one where she could take charge.
Now, if only she had an inkling of what kind of job that might be . . .
Chapter Four
After worship on Sunday, Edna stood at the sink, washing cups and serving platters. Usually, the younger women help
ed the hostess, but Edna often volunteered, too. She enjoyed the camaraderie among the women who washed the dishes. And, today, it was as good a place as any to learn of possible new job opportunities for Myrna.
Susan Schwartz walked into the kitchen, her hands holding a tray laden with dirty platters. With a heavy “oomph,” she set it on the counter next to the sink and rubbed her upper arm. “Don’t know when empty platters got so heavy,” she complained good-naturedly.
Edna laughed. “Mayhaps when we got older.”
With a loud guffaw, Susan pretended to scowl. “Speak for yourself, Edna. I’m still only thirty-five.”
“Ha!” Edna reached for an oval platter and began washing it in the sudsy water. “Plus thirty, I suspect.”
This time, it was Susan who laughed, her eyes narrowing as she did. “But you’ll never know for sure, will you, now?”
As Edna washed the platter, she recognized it as her own, the one she’d used to set out the cookies. She wasn’t surprised they’d gone so quickly.
As if reading her mind, Susan leaned her hip against the counter, still rubbing her arm. “Seems those young ones never get tired of your sugar cookies, Edna!” She gestured toward Edna’s hand, covered in suds as she ran a rag over the surface. “Empty again, I see. I think half of them were eaten by my own gross-sohn.” She laughed, her eyes full of warmth. “Even if I had the time to make sugar cookies at home, that little one would still tell me they weren’t as buttery and light as yours.”
Edna smiled, secretly delighted. She didn’t know what she would do if the children didn’t enjoy her cookies so much.
“It sure is nice that you and your friends bake the sweets for worship,” Susan said, reaching for a towel to help dry the freshly washed items Edna set on the counter. “Your cookie club sure is popular with die gleeni kinner.”
“After church, the little ones deserve a treat,” Edna agreed.