by Linda Byler
Lavina, Hannah, Ida, and the two Emmas would all receive a tiny china tea set, each one in a different pattern, to set on their dressers in the bedrooms they shared, to hold and to admire.
They would all receive a handkerchief with a red poinsettia design, their very own Christmas handkerchief to take to the Christmas dinners, the envy of all the cousins.
Lydia and Rebecca would each be receiving a new doll with such a pretty face it almost looked real little girl. Annie had never seen such a doll, and had certainly never considered purchasing one. She looked up at Dan.
“Are you sure these are not app schtellt?”
“What? A doll? Now why would they be forbidden? And I don’t much care if they are. The little girls need a nice doll.”
Annie knew Dan was a bit liberal, but not quite to this extent. But it wouldn’t be right for her to question him again, so she smiled and nodded.
All her life, she had never owned a doll, not even a homemade rag doll. Her mother said they were idols, likeness made by man, teaching little girls to worship a manmade object. So she had poked holes in the largest corn cob she could find—two eyes, a nose, and a mouth—put her handkerchief on the head and another wrapped around the body, named her Veronica, and loved her with all her heart.
But this? This was too much. Yet she harbored a secret joy to think of Christmas morning.
Joel and John were not on the list, as Dan was carving and painting wooden horses and a wagon for them. He worked on the project for an hour or so every evening, sitting by the kitchen stove with a cardboard box on the floor to catch the shavings, his shoulders hunched in concentration.
It was those times when she wanted to tell him over and over how much she loved him, his solid, stable ways, his constant good humor. Would she never hear him kick his boots in a corner, slam a drawer, tug the roller towel that certain way that told her he was in a black mood? With Eli, she was often left wondering if she’d done—or not done—something to cause him to become so upset. And yet she had loved him wholeheartedly, never regretting their union.
Perhaps Dan and Annie had both been through the fire, had been shaped and molded and polished by their Creator, who worked in everyone’s life until they shone in His image.
Whatever the reason, she walked up to Dan every evening, put her arms around his solid strength, and quietly laid her head on his back as he bent over the carving. There were no words, and none were necessary.
On the way home, the parcel containing Christmas gifts stowed under the back seat, Dan asked if she would like to stop for a visit to her grandmother, old Lizzie King. Annie could feel the hesitation before she quickly agreed. No need to let Dan in on all that.
“Yes, yes, of course.”
She felt as if she was too loud and too eager, but was relieved when Dan merely smiled, her inner thoughts gone undetected.
Water under the bridge, she assured herself. All is gone and forgotten. She could not have prepared herself for the clenching in her chest as Dan guided the horse into the long lane that led to her grandparent’s home.
Her mother’s mother, her own blood relative, living out her years alone at the age of ninety-six.
Annie felt her heart quicken as they passed the old woodshed. No matter how desperately she had tried to do everything right, how many times had she been led to the woodshed strewn with shavings and slivers of bark, the smell of split wood, kerosene, and sawdust stinging her nose. It was there that her grandmother whipped her, the slice of the thin iron rod like a knife against her bare legs. It was only when she finally cried out, begged her to stop, that the rod was stilled, set in the corner to mock her own weakness, while her grandmother told her if she ever told her mother, there would be another whipping twice as bad.
Annie had never breathed a word of it.
These things must be forgotten, forgiven, buried forever in the haunted archives of human nature. Perhaps this was what she herself had experienced at the hand of her own grandmother, or mother, perhaps her own father. Who knew? Better to leave it buried, stomped beneath the fertile soil of forgiveness, the soil that God would nurture, heal with the growth of beautiful flowers and grasses, where butterflies and bees could drink their fill of sweet nectar.
To summon the courage to walk through the old door was a real test, to walk across the pine-boarded floor and shake the gnarled old hand, to allow the near blind eyes to search her face with recognition, a superhuman effort.
“Oh, Annie. It’s you.”
“Grandmother, this is Dan,” she said, her voice weaker than she wanted it to be.
Slowly, the head turned; the rheumy old eyes watered to focus.
“Ya, ya. I heard you married again.”
“Yes. I did.”
“Fourteen children you have.”
“Yes.”
The old face crumpled; a claw-like hand searched in a dress pocket for a handkerchief as dry rasps of sound came from the ridged old throat.
“Be nice to them. Be nice to the children.”
It was the last thing Annie expected to hear.
“Oh, we are. We try to be.”
“Gute. Gute. Annie, I’m sorry . . . for, you know . . .” She began to cry then, one slow tear down her wrinkled cheek.
“Ach, Grandmother. Don’t cry,” Annie said, touched and confused by the sudden display of emotion.
There was so much more to say, but somehow, the words didn’t really matter. Annie took her grandmother’s hand and held it, and that was enough.
On the way home, Dan asked gently what that had all been about. Annie found herself telling him everything, the words opening a locked room in her heart, tears flowing freely in the cold breeze. When she was done, she felt like a weight had been lifted from her chest.
Dan let her speak, listening in compassionate silence, placing an arm around her shoulder and drawing her close when she began to weep.
“There’s one more thing,” she said, looking down at her lap.
“What’s that?” he asked softly, almost a whisper.
“Sometimes . . .” She choked back a sob before continuing. “Sometimes I lose my patience, or I feel coldhearted toward our children, Dan. And I wonder if I am no better than my grandmother was to me. Dan, I’m afraid I don’t deserve a kindhearted man like you.”
He slowed the horses and turned his face toward her, looking very serious. They were on a quiet side road now, away from traffic and houses. “Annie, you cannot believe that,” he said, with a voice that was deep, gentle, but firm. “You mustn’t. You are exactly what our children need. You are kind and loving and wise. You are exactly what I need.”
He pulled the horses to a stop. Annie turned her face toward his, searching his eyes and finding every evidence that he meant the words with his whole heart.
“Annie, no one is perfect—it is God who works through us to give us strength and goodness and love. But you, Annie . . . you are about as perfect as a woman can be. You are just right for our family, just right for me. I love you, Annie.”
He leaned down and kissed her tears away, flooding her with a warmth and freedom she had never before known.
Chapter Ten
HOW COULD ANNIE FULLY DESCRIBE THE delight and anticipation with which she wrapped the gifts in newspaper and tied them with string?
She had never given Christmas gifts such as these, never spent money on a gift for her children. Sometimes, Eli had purchased a bag of oranges, or a small sack filled with hard candies, but never had she has much as imagined spending egg money for anything other than basic necessities, or handing it to Eli to help with the payment for the farm. She battled her guilt, from time to time, until she confided in Dan, and he again told her the Lord wanted to give his children happiness, things to enjoy, and gradually Annie allowed herself to accept his views. He even showed her the verse in the Bible that spoke of Jesus giving abundant life to His followers. “Of course you can live abundantly without possessions,” he said, “but there is nothing
wrong with enjoying God’s physical blessings in our lives.”
As if that extravagance wasn’t enough, they made another trip to town to buy supplies for candy and cookies, pies and cakes. They met acquaintances, stopped to visit outside Zimmerman’s grocery, shared news in the parking lot by the hitching rack in the cold gray air, the women clutching their black woolen shawls around their bodies, the men settling their black hats more firmly as the cold breeze toyed with the brims.
Becky Zook was a small, rotund woman with a face like a round, glistening plum. Her cheeks bobbed and wagged against the sides of her black bonnet as she spoke, her eyes darting from Dan’s face to Annie’s. “My oh, it’s good to see you out and about together. I haven’t been able to visit yet, which is no excuse. I’m sure you wondered where I was all this time.”
Annie assured her it was quite all right. She didn’t say out loud that her absence hadn’t even crossed her mind. She hardly knew the woman.
“We live across the Pequea from you. Our land borders Elam and Rachel’s farm. You know, Elam Beiler. They have that poor child.”
“Oh, yes. We go to the same church. Yes, of course.”
“See, they just divided our district a while back. Before you married Dan.”
Here she stepped up and placed a gloved hand on Annie’s forearm, her eyes filling with tears like two wet diamonds, the love and concern as priceless.
“I can’t tell you how glad I am he has a wife. He did his best all those years, and presented a brave face to the rest of us, but I can’t imagine what the poor man has seen in his life. You know his first wife was opp im kopp, don’t you?”
Annie’s eyes went to her husband uneasily. Here was a subject as prickly as a cactus. It felt far too much like gossip, and gossiping about her husband’s late wife seemed especially wrong.
“But she was, you know. She was never quite right in the head.”
She persisted until Annie said, quietly, “I am sure God had mercy and understanding for her condition.”
Becky nodded, then tilted her head to one side, and pursed her lips. “The pneumonia was a mercy. I was always afraid she would . . .”
And here she stepped even closer, her breath a hot wave of half-digested food “. . . end it all by her own hand. And everyone knew those kinds of people are not buried in the cemetery, but outside the fence.”
She stepped back, her eyes on Annie’s face, watching her response.
“Well, God’s ways are not our ways,” was all Annie could think to say.
“Ach, yes, yes of course. Well, I do admire your attitude about it. Now tell me, how are the children doing? Do you find it hard to accept Dan’s boys?”
“The children are doing well, really.”
She ignored the second question, more anxious than ever to escape the conversation. She was relieved when Dan turned, asked if she was ready to go.
They bought white sugar and food coloring, boxes of confectionery sugar and chocolate, cocoa powder and coconut, all luxury items that were unnecessary, but Annie’s protests did no good. Behind the cereal aisle, he told her if she didn’t hush up, he would kiss her and he didn’t care who saw them, either.
They were laughing together, Annie’s face flushed with pleasure, when they ran into her mother, her face white and drawn, her lips pursed in distaste.
“Oh, Mam, how are you?” Annie asked breathlessly.
“Good. And you?”
“We are good,” Dan answered.
“Well, I would imagine Annie can speak for herself,” was her tart reply.
“I am well, Mam.”
“Well, the children are adjusting, I presume.”
“Yes, they are.”
“I must be along. I am in town for chicken feed.”
Mercifully, her black bonnet was drawn well over her face, like the blinders on a horse’s bridle, and she could not see the bulging shopping bag in Dan’s hand.
On the way home, a comfortable silence stretched between Dan and Annie, each lost in their own thoughts, not in a troubled fashion, but contemplating the great worth of community and friends. The ability to come and go as they pleased, the religious freedom the Amish enjoyed, and what the forefathers had done to establish this way of life.
The task of raising the fourteen children seemed daunting, but with God’s help and guidance, it would be possible for all of them to keep the faith, to continue the plain way of life.
The cookie and candy making began in earnest in the week before Christmas. After the children went off to school (would she ever become used to packing eleven lunches?), she sat with Suvilla and went through all her recipes. Molasses cookies were Dan’s favorites, and the ones with the least expensive ingredients. Sugar cookies would be replaced by sand tarts, which were thinner than sugar cookies but could still be cut into shapes with the aluminum cookie cutters, brushed with beaten egg, and dotted with raisins or colored sugar. There would be soft cookies with apples and nuts, glazed with a thin white frosting, also sprinkled with sugar. Oatmeal cookies would be next, and finally chocolate cookies with confectioner’s sugar sprinkled across the tops.
They would make a cake roll, filled with strawberry jam. Then a huge three-layer nut cake made with the walnuts from the black walnut tree in the backyard, covered in brown sugar icing flavored with maple syrup. And for pies there would be mincemeat, pumpkin, and apple-raisin.
Suvilla’s cheeks were flushed with anticipation, the sullen, rebellious look gone for now. The kitchen was awash in wintery sunlight and the promise of all the sweets they would soon be making. Suvilla loved to cook and bake, and she was good at it—she mixed bread dough with the best, and set cakes on the counter that always turned out light and airy.
“So, what do you suggest we start first?” Annie asked. Suvilla glanced at her mother, a challenge returning to her eyes.
“Why ask me? It’s up to you.”
“Not just me. We can decide together.”
“If I was the boss—which I’m not, of course—I’d do everything but the sand tarts. You chill the dough outside, right?”
Annie nodded.
“Then maybe the little ones can help when they come home from school. What do you think?”
“An excellent idea, Suvilla. That is thoughtful of you, and I appreciate that so much.”
Suvilla flushed, rose to her feet self-consciously, then bent to retrieve the large bowl she would be using to mix the molasses cookies. Annie watched her face, amazed to find her oldest daughter blinking away tears. She must remember to praise her more, she thought.
The house was filled with the smell of sugar and cinnamon, molasses and ginger. Sheets of cookies were emptied onto a clean white tablecloth, the kitchen range keeping a steady heat as they controlled the fire with just the right amount of wood, a skill perfected by years of experience. As the sun warmed the cold, snowy landscape, the temperature in the kitchen climbed steadily, until they admitted it was uncomfortable and opened a window to allow in a cooling draught.
When Dan came in for lunch, he was handed a cold ham sandwich with a cup of tea and told to taste test the cookies. He laughed and admitted to hoping they would give him that job. Annie marveled yet again at how easy it was to be with Dan. With Eli, he might have praised her for all her hard work, or he might have been in a dark mood and eaten lunch quickly before storming back outside to continue his work, leaving Annie to wonder if he disapproved of her baking.
It was only Suvilla being in the kitchen that kept Annie from putting her arms around Dan and telling him how much she appreciated his steady good nature. Annie had come to see that Suvilla had a problem with her adoration of her new husband. Perhaps Suvilla felt her mother was too happy, a bit loose with her show of love. Did she think Annie had moved on too quickly after Eli’s death?
For the thousandth time, Annie whispered a prayer for the Lord to show her the way, to bless her navigation through the treacherous path of being a mother and stepmother. But this time, Dan’s re
assuring words echoed in her mind, reminding her that reaching for perfection would only lead to despair. She told God she would never be perfect, but that He had placed her here and so she trusted that He would help her through the tough times. She thanked Him for Dan’s gentle love and asked Him to keep knitting their family together.
When the whole flock of children clattered into the washhouse after school, kicking boots into corners, hanging coats, hats, and bonnets haphazardly across hooks, flinging scarves and mittens in the general direction of the cardboard box meant to hold them all, Annie found herself braced for the chaos that would be sure to follow. She was grateful Suvilla had had the foresight to pack most of the cookies away in tins so they’d be out of sight, leaving only a few plates of assorted cookies on the table.
“Cookies!” Ida yelled, her normal exuberance elevated to hysteria. Not to be outdone, the two Emmas and Lydia ran in circles, lifted both arms in a hallelujah dance of joy, while Joel and John promptly leaped onto the table and gathered handfuls of molasses and oatmeal.
“No, no, no, no,” Suvilla said loudly above the general hubbub. She grabbed them both by one arm and hauled back. They howled in protest, which brought Annie to the scene, telling them to replace the cookies and wash their hands first.
Amos, Ephraim, and Enos remembered their manners, and stood with hands in their pockets, feigning disinterest, before asking in gruff voices how many they were allowed to have.
Glasses of milk were poured, and Annie stood back, watching helplessly as the cookies disappeared before her eyes. It seemed like a matter of seconds before the tabletop was sadly depleted.
“Well, children,” Annie said.
“What?”
“All of our cookies are gone!” she wailed in mock despair.
Faces were lifted with howls of glee, swift denials in the form of “I only had two!” followed by fair accusations of the truth. It was absolute bedlam. Finally Suvilla shouted over the din that she was going to get the washing off the line, that it was hopeless in here.
