by Linda Byler
She entered the shop, her eyes downcast, and found her chair. She listened to the voice of the aging minister whose turn it was to speak as he expounded the Scripture in a meaningful way.
He spoke of faith, the essence of believing that which we cannot see, but Sarah’s mind was churning with unanswered questions now, her attention diverted by the bit of gossip from the kitchen.
That was all it was. Two young mothers bored with their own lives who circulated rumors like that among themselves to make things more interesting. It simply was not true, Sarah told herself.
After the last hymn had been sung, services were over. The single boys and girls filed out in solemn rows until they reached the open door. The small boys pushed out between the young men, eager to grab their black felt hats from the back of the bench wagon.
The bench wagon was a large trailer built to carry the wooden benches from one service location to the next, usually pulled by a team of strong draft horses. As time went on and more Amish left farming for other occupations, the need to hire a pickup truck to pull the bench wagon became more and more apparent. It was frowned upon at first, but common sense eclipsed tradition, and the practice was accepted. A tolerant hired driver patiently traveled at a slow pace, the tongue of the bench wagon secured firmly to the pickup truck’s hitch, rattling along from one Amish home to the next.
After everyone had left their appointed seats following the service, the murmurs swelled into a near roar as friends met and greeted one another. The men folded the legs of some of the benches and set them on trestles to create long tables with the remaining benches set along side.
Women scurried out with white tablecloths draped across their arms and snapped them across the tabletops that had been benches only five minutes before. Plastic totes containing plates, tumblers, saucers, knives, and forks appeared like magic as many willing helpers scurried from the house bearing trays of sliced homemade bread, plates of butter, and dishes of jelly. There was also a delicious concoction that Sarah always anticipated. It was made with boiled brown sugar and water that was cooled and poured over great gobs of peanut butter and marshmallow cream. It was a part of her life, a tasty tradition at church dinners.
Cheese spread, the smoked sweet bologna, dishes of pungent little slices of bread and butter pickles, savory red beets, seasoned pretzels, and snitz (dried apple) pie completed the meal.
In years past, apples had always been dried and stored in a cool place to be used later for snitz pies. Water was added, and the dried apples were cooked, mashed, and flavored with sugar and spices.
Somewhere along the way, a wily housewife had discovered an easier version for snitz pie. She mixed applesauce, apple butter, sugar, and spices with an almost identical result. It took only a few minutes, with no cooking or mashing necessary.
Snitz pies were delicious, in Sarah’s opinion, although each housewife’s version varied slightly. Sometimes a wedge of pie proved to be almost inedible, leaving a sour aftertaste when a well-meaning baker had spared the sugar and cinnamon.
Crusts varied as well. In some pies, the crust was thick and hard where the snitz had boiled its way out between the crimped edges, leaving a dark, brown gluey covering along the crust.
When a crust was too inedible, it was usually hidden discreetly beneath the lip of a saucer. In some cases, it was left boldly on the saucer and dumped unceremoniously into the waste can. Then the saucer was handed to the dishwashers, who usually asked what was wrong with the crust. Eyes rolled or eyebrows raised, but never a word was spoken.
The men ate at one table; the women at another. They usually filled a second time with younger men and boys, young women and girls. The men always filed into services by age, as did the women, an orderly routine that was copied at the tables where dinner was served.
It seemed a bit unfair that the hungry boys and girls had to wait until their elders had eaten, but with their hungry children in mind, the older folks ate their meals quickly, without loitering or negligent conversation.
Sarah did not wait on tables. She remained in her chair, away from prying eyes, watching the swish of skirts, the colorful children dashing to and from the tables to snitch a salty seasoned pretzel if they could get away with it.
Sarah watched a two-year-old boy climb up on a bench, lean his rounded little body across the table, and grab a handful of bologna, knocking over a tumbler of water in the process.
Gasps went up as Anna dashed to clamp her capable hands around the errant little boy’s middle and whisk him efficiently off the bench, the color in her cheeks giving away her impatience. The little boy stuffed a slice of bologna in his mouth, glared up at his abductor, and ambled off indignantly.
“People that don’t watch their children!” she hissed to Sarah.
Rachel came scurrying with a tea towel extended, clucking and wiping, leaving Sarah in awe of these rounded women who moved with the speed of lightning, more or less.
She wondered if Lee would ever gain weight. Well, it was nothing to her, now that he was going to Alaska, if such a thing was possible.
She was summoned to the table, sat with eyes averted, enduring the open stares of the young children around her.
Rosanna, her former student, slid onto the bench opposite Sarah and smiled. She noticed the open stares of the children, Sarah’s apparent unease, and spoke firmly, “Stop staring, girls. It’s not polite. She can’t help she was in an accident.”
The response was immediate. Faces lowered, with color rising in their cheeks. The girls mumbled apologies, their eyes blinking.
Sarah immediately felt sorry for the girls, especially the ones that had been her pupils at Ivy Run School.
“It’s okay, Rosanna. It really is. I know I look like a monster.”
That brought a giggle from Katie Mae, a third grader, who shook her head and told Sarah she looked like a nice monster.
“When I go back to school in the fall, I’ll look better, and we can really have an amazing health class with everything I learned about burns, right?”
Rosanna’s eyes stayed intently on Sarah’s face, until Sarah met them. The two raised eyebrows and exchanged knowing smiles.
A feeling of peace enveloped Sarah, a gradual sense of quiet, knowing she would go back to school, back to her teaching job, perhaps enabling her to help Rosanna find a sense of direction in the process.
There was so much more to life than finding a husband. First, she must heal, from the scars and burns, as well as the knowledge that she and Matthew were not to be. Not now, not ever. She knew it in her mind, but had her heart accepted it?
If Lee actually did go to Alaska, then she guessed that spoke of his character. Who did he think he was, anyway?
Sarah chomped down on a wedge of pie, and the sweet snitz filling fell to her plate. The girls opposite her covered their mouths with their hands to keep from laughing.
CHAPTER 10
IT WAS ON A HOT SUMMER’S EVENING THAT LEE rode down to Widow Lydia’s for the last time, his schedule prepared, his Amtrak ticket bought, his future life as an Alaskan mapped out.
He wouldn’t be back for the wedding, but it was alright. Melvin and Lydia could be married without him. He was sure they would have a very nice wedding, and the children would be happy to have a father again.
The hardest part was explaining his plans to Omar, without disclosing the truth. He tried to tell him it was a dream he’d always had. And now that Omar was old enough to take responsibility with the Belgians and his mother and Melvin were getting married in the fall, things would be just fine, Lee said.
Omar had squared his shoulders, believed him, and remained stoic, his young face showing strength, having weathered so much in his young life. He had survived the death of his abusive father, Aaron, two barn fires, and his mother’s mental anguish. Lee believed his leaving was only a small thing, and Omar would accept it. He’d have Melvin now.
His horse raised his head, then lowered it, as Lee slid from the saddle. H
e led him into the newly finished horse barn, almost identical to the last one. The hooves clopped on the clean, white cement as Lee eyed the fresh lumber appreciatively. He’d have to tell Melvin to build a closet for the harnesses.
He tied his horse and turned toward the door. He leaned against the side of the barn, watching the insects wheeling and darting through the still, hot air. It wouldn’t be long till the bats appeared, gobbling up their evening smorgasbord on wings.
The willow tree in the pasture was completely still, with not even a small shiver of the long thin leaves. Must be a thunderstorm brewing somewhere, as heavy as the air felt tonight.
Far away, the wail of a siren began, low at first, then more distinct. Likely a cop chasing someone out on the Old Philadelphia Pike. He’d miss this life, the hustle, the hurry.
Lee raised a hand to swat at a mosquito that was whining at his ear. The kitchen door opened, and Omar dashed across the porch and down to the barn waving.
“Hey!”
“I thought you might have gone to bed.”
“Me? Why would I go so early?”
“Sleepy? Tired?”
Omar cuffed Lee’s elbow.
“I am eighteen, not eight months old.”
Lee laughed with genuine pleasure.
“Think it will storm?”
“It could. It’s still.”
“Yeah.”
A comfortable silence lay between them, an easy, velvety feeling, like the evening with the heat, the quiet of the willow tree.
The wailing siren grew in magnitude and was joined by another.
“That sound will never fail to give me the creeps.”
“Yeah.”
“Think the fires are over, now that someone’s in jail?”
“I doubt it. I don’t know.”
Lee scuffed a heel against the edge of the cement, then lowered himself to sit on the edge, resting his arms on his knees.
Omar followed suit, and Lee looked at the youth’s profile.
“How’s your mam?”
“Good. Happy. Melvin makes her laugh.”
“That’s good.”
“Yeah. She had a tough time of it, before.”
“Did she?”
Omar nodded.
“Dat was not a nice person. I wouldn’t know what a kind father is like, except for you.”
“I’m not your dat.”
“Closest thing to it.”
Lee laughed, a derisive outburst, a mockery.
“Yeah, well, I’ll never be a father. That’s for sure.”
“What? Why are you saying that?”
Lee shrugged his shoulders.
“You could be, if you weren’t running off to Alaska.”
“You can’t change my mind, Omar.”
“I know.”
Suddenly Omar turned to face Lee and exclaimed loudly, “Why are you going? Really. If you want to see that state so bad, I’ll get you a book.”
“Omar!” Lydia called from the porch, her thin form upright as she leaned against the white post, her arm encircling it.
“Hey!”
“Come on up for mint tea and soft pretzels!”
Immediately, they were on their feet, moving toward the porch. Few things were as tempting as homemade soft pretzels, hot and buttery from a 500-degree oven. They were delicious dipped in warm cheese sauce or laced liberally with mustard, especially when there was ice-cold mint tea to accompany them.
They clattered onto the porch, joking, opened the screen door, and stopped short.
Sarah stood by the kitchen table, dressed in a soft shade of blue. She was wearing her covering all the time now, her hair growing fast, and a black bib apron covered her blue dress. She was pouring the tea in tall glasses filled half full with ice cubes.
She looked up, her eyes dancing, her wide mouth turned into an eager smile for Omar.
When she saw Lee, every attempt at self-control failed. She lowered the pitcher with a clunk, leaving two glasses unfilled. As the color left her face, her eyes became dark, as they did when she was confronted by surprise, or fear, or sadness.
Lee stopped, uncertain, as he struggled for composure as well.
“Lee!” Lydia broke the awkward silence with genuine welcome in her voice.
“Hello, Lydia. Sarah.”
“You are just in time. Come, let’s sit outside. Grab that tray, Sarah. You can put the tea on it.”
Little Aaron toddled along, dodging feet. The two older girls, Anna Mae and Rachel, hung shyly in the background as Sarah resumed filling the tall glasses, her hands shaking so that she needed both of them to steady the pitcher.
Why had he come? How could she survive this evening? She’d go. She’d tell them she was needed at home. She would not sit here and listen to Lee bragging about his upcoming Alaskan adventure.
But when she saw him leaning back in the wooden Adirondack chair, his golden head shining in the evening light, she hesitated. His wide shoulders exuded strength, the yellow shirt he was wearing a perfect backdrop for his tanned face. Her knees felt a slight loss of muscle tone, and she quickly set the tray of glasses on the wooden table, the ice clinking, the tea sloshing over the sides.
Lydia looked at Sarah’s face, then dabbed at the spilled tea with a corner of her apron. She passed the platter of pretzels and small dishes of cheese sauce, noticing immediately when Lee waved them away and Sarah shook her head.
Lee was talking.
Sarah shrank back against her chair, her arms folded tightly around her middle, her knees pressed together, tense.
“I’ll be back. I just don’t know when. Six months, maybe a year. I came to say goodbye. I’m leaving Thursday.”
Five days. This was Sunday evening. No. Three days. Four days.
“Where’s Melvin?” Omar asked suddenly.
“He’s late. Way late. You know, he’s with the fire company, and I heard the sirens, so perhaps he’s out on a call.”
“Could be.”
Sarah could only sip her tea, raising and lowering her glass, as if her arms were programmed like a robot, mechanical. As the twilight moved across the yard, enclosing the porch with a graying aura, she watched a light blink on in Elam’s house, upstairs. Matthew must be home early.
As if Lydia had read her mind, she inquired about Matthew Stoltzfus. Was he dating yet? You’d think it was too soon, but someone had seen him down at Rockvale Square with Rose Zook.
Omar said people jumped to conclusions. Maybe she’d just needed a ride, and there wasn’t a thing to it.
Lee said nothing, as the wall of tension between him and Sarah built itself up in the silence, sitting heavily, unseen, unspoken, but felt keenly.
“Aren’t you going to say anything, Sarah?” Omar asked. “You surely know what’s up with Matthew.”
Sarah choked on a mouthful of tea, coughed, and wiped her mouth with a napkin. She shook her head.
“I haven’t spoken to Matthew since I was at Crozer-Chester.”
The silence exploded as Omar pumped his fist into the air, yelling something about I told you so, you big old skeptic, you. He jumped sideways, slamming a fist into Lee’s arm with a smack. Lee grabbed his arm and grimaced in pain, before leaping to his feet as Omar took off down the porch steps and across the yard. Lee shot after Omar and easily overtook him, grabbed the waist of his trousers, and pulled him to the ground. They tussled a bit on the grass and then returned to the porch caught up in a new discussion about the Belgians.
As night fell, Sarah said she must be going. Everyone protested, saying the night was still young. They’d go inside and play a game, but Sarah shook her head, remaining firm.
Why sit here on Lydia’s front porch and prolong the torture of Lee’s leaving when all she wanted to do was pound him with her fists? She just wanted tell him how disagreeable he was, how stubborn.
She was just getting up to return her glass to the kitchen when a team came up the driveway. It turned towards the horse barn, the blue LED l
ights raking across the porch, the glare invading their privacy.
Melvin.
Lydia, clearly relieved, began babbling senselessly and begging Sarah to stay, but Sarah was afraid. She feared Melvin’s lack of restraint, his honesty, when she just wanted to cling to her pride, her silence the only hope of redemption.
She said goodnight, stepped down from the porch, and was ready to open the gate when she heard a frantic call.
“Sarah! What do you think you’re doing? Get back there!”
A wide smile immediately spread across Sarah’s face. He really meant it.
Hurrying up the slope from the barn, Melvin met Sarah at the gate.
“Just give it up, Sarah. Turn around. I’m here.”
“I have to go,” she answered.
“Why?”
“Because. I just have to.”
“Sarah, I haven’t seen you in ages. Come on. We’ll play Upwords. Just for you.”
She hesitated, weighing her options, but suddenly she had no choice as Melvin grasped her upper arms, turned her, and steered her back up to the front porch.
In the semidarkness, Melvin strained to see the occupants scattered along the width of the porch. He warmly greeted Lydia, his bride-to-be, then shouted overenthusiastically, “Lee! Long time, no see! What’s up?”
“Not much.”
“I hear you’re going to Alaska! Boy, I envy you. Why don’t you wait till we’re married, and we’ll go with you on our honeymoon?”
Lydia laughed and protested, while Omar yelled with delight. No one heard the telephone in the phone shanty when it began its incessant ringing—no one except little Aaron, who finally shouted, “Phone!”
“Let it go. They’ll leave a message.”
“I’ll get it.”
Omar made a dash for the phone shanty, slapped open the gate, and yanked the door open, catching the caller on the last ring. There was no sound from the phone shanty, only another siren wailing in the distance, then another.
When Omar stepped out of the shanty, he did not dash up to the porch. He walked, lifting the gate latch heavily, his steps leaden as he came. He leaned heavily on the porch post.
