At first I felt alarmed at how hard everyone works. After a couple days of this exhausting routine, I asked Aunt Katrina how it was humanly possible to keep this up. She explained that summer was always a busy time of year. “Our lives slow down in the wintertime,” she told me.
“That must be a relief,” I said as I switched hands on the handle of the butter churning jar and continued to turn it. The first time I did this task, I thought it was fun. But by the second time, I realized it was just work.
“This is only July,” Rachel warned me. “Wait until harvest time. You will work harder than ever then. In August and September we will be canning and drying and smoking food.”
“Ja,” Aunt Katrina agreed. “That is our busiest time. But the reward is having our pantry filled with good food for the winter.”
I’ve noticed the colorful jars of preserved food in their pantry—impressive rows of green beans, tomatoes, peaches, pears, applesauce, jams, and jellies. As curious as I am to see how this is all done, I suspect it will be hard work. Everything here is hard work.
It’s funny how my aunt often speaks of living simply, but none of the chores here seem particularly simple to me. For instance, to clean the floors, which has turned into my chore, instead of using a vacuum cleaner, like Mom and I used to do on the weekends at our apartment, first I must sweep the floors, without missing a corner or under the furniture. This includes the wooden stairway and the rooms upstairs. Then I must mop all the floors, which means heating the kettle and filling a bucket with hot, soapy water and then scrubbing every square inch with a rag mop. But it’s not enough to stop there. After that I must fill the bucket with clean water and rinse the whole thing. It is exhausting. I did it for the first time on Tuesday afternoon and the second time earlier this morning. Sure, the floors are super clean after I finish, but in no time at all they will be dirty again. After all, this is a farm. Of course, I can’t say this to my aunt.
So as I’m picking out the seam, I remind myself that this isn’t nearly as taxing as cleaning the floors. “Will you have a quilting group here tomorrow?” I ask Aunt Katrina.
“No, that is only on the first and third Saturday of the month. Not again until next week.” She holds out a portion of quilt that she’s put together. “So we have time to get some quilt tops ready.” She shows me how to use a wet dish towel and a heavy metal iron that’s sitting on the cookstove to press the seams open. I want to point out how much easier this would be with an electric iron, but I know it’s pointless. Being Amish means doing everything the hard way.
It’s hot in the kitchen, but Aunt Katrina insists that I keep the ironing board set up next to the cookstove, so I am sweating. Plus I manage to burn myself several times as I press the seams of the quilt pieces open. Suddenly the idea of working out in the garden is becoming more appealing, and I suspect Rachel knows what she’s doing to be out there instead of in here. Eventually it’s time to start preparing dinner, and my aunt tells me to put the quilting work away.
As I peel potatoes, I notice how red and chafed my hands have become. Mostly it’s due to washing dishes. It’s up to Rachel and me to wash up after every meal, and lately Rachel has stuck me with the washing part while she dries. She says it’s because she’s older, explaining how for years she had to wash while her sister Grace dried. It’s pointless to argue.
To say that my initial infatuation with being Amish is starting to fade some is an understatement. Especially since I haven’t seen Ezra once. I’ve also started to wonder about going back to the dawdi house to live because the work over there doesn’t seem as difficult or endless as it is here. However, every time I go to visit Mom, which has only been a few times this week, I get the impression that Mammi prefers I stay put.
“I am helping your mamm to get stronger each day,” she quietly told me yesterday. Mom was asleep, but Mammi assured me that she was resting because she was tired, not because she’d taken a pill.
“Really?” I peeked in through a crack in the door, satisfied that Mom appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
“Every day I get Anna out of bed in the morning and we walk around. Today we even went outside.”
“She walked outside?”
“Ja. And Jacob took a chair out there and she was able to sit in it.”
“That’s wonderful,” I told her.
“She will be well soon,” Mammi assured me. “I know it.”
“That is so good to hear,” I said happily. Part of me wanted to ask if she would be well enough to go home, but another part of me didn’t want to know this yet. Because of Ezra, I’m not ready to leave this place.
On Saturday morning, I make a point to find Jeremiah on his way into the house for breakfast. After greeting him, I quickly inquire as to whether the young people will be getting together again tonight. “Since it’s Saturday,” I say quietly, worried that my aunt or uncle or Rachel might pass by and question my interest in these nighttime activities.
“You mean a party?” he asks with a twinkle in his blue eyes.
“Ja.” I shrug, trying to appear nonchalant. “Does that happen every Saturday?”
He chuckles. “In the summertime it does.”
“Will you be going?”
He rubs his chin, then nods. “Ja. I think I will go.”
“Do you mind if I go too?”
“Is Rachel going?”
“I—uh—I don’t know.” I glance back toward the house. “Does she have to go?”
“No. I think it’s better if she does not go. Rachel does not like it so much.”
“So it’s all right if I go without her?” I ask hopefully.
He shrugs. “Ja. You can if you want. I will pick up my friend Jonah and his sister Lydia too.”
Feeling as if I’ve been given permission, I hurry back into the house to help with breakfast. My goal is to keep my plans for this evening to myself. It’s not that I want to leave Rachel out, but I know she doesn’t enjoy the gatherings anyway. There seems to be no need for her to feel pressured to go for my sake. Besides—and I know this is the real reason—I think it will be better for Ezra and me if Rachel stays home. And really, she’ll be happier too.
15
As Jeremiah drives the buggy to the party tonight, I start making a plan. As much as I enjoy kissing and being kissed by Ezra, tonight I’m going to try to focus more on talking to him. I want to hear how he really feels about being Amish. And I want to hear his reaction to the news that I plan to go to church with my relatives tomorrow. I’ve already talked to my uncle, and after asking me a few basic questions, he agreed that I was ready. He seemed pleased.
The truth is, I feel like I’m really putting myself out here. It’s like I’m conforming to being Amish, and primarily because of Ezra. I mean, I could just be laying low at the dawdi house, waiting for my mom to get well. I could still be wearing my own clothes, doing my own thing, helping Mammi when she needs it, but taking it a whole lot easier than I have been at my aunt and uncle’s house this past week. I feel like I’m playing by the Amish rules in order to prove to myself—and maybe to Ezra too—that I can do this. But what if I’m doing it for nothing?
Still, I can’t believe that could be true. I believe that Ezra loves me. I believe we belong together. But after a hard week like this has been, I need to hear it from his mouth.
“This is the Schrock farm,” Jeremiah calls out as he turns into a driveway. “Where Jonah and Lydia live.”
As the buggy pulls up to a house that looks similar to my uncle and aunt’s house, Jonah and Lydia come out. I remember Jonah from last week, but not Lydia. “How old is Lydia?” I ask Jeremiah as they jog over to us.
“She is Rachel’s age.”
I peer curiously at his face, noticing how he seems to be watching Lydia with great interest. “She’s pretty, isn’t she?” I say quietly.
He smiles. Jonah climbs in front, sitting next to him, and Lydia sits in back with me. I tell her who I am, but she just nods.
&
nbsp; “Ja. I know who you are.” She looks slightly disappointed. “Where is Rachel?”
“At home,” I tell her.
“I thought she was coming,” she says as the buggy starts moving. “Jonah told me she came last week.”
“Ja,” Jeremiah calls from the driver’s seat. “She did not want to come tonight.” He turns around to smile at Lydia. “But I am glad you came,” he tells her.
“Oh . . .” She giggles and gives me a funny look. “Rachel and I are both studying for baptism,” she confides to me.
“Are you and Rachel good friends?” I ask.
“Ja. We both want to be baptized in August.”
“That’s nice.”
“I hear that you and Ezra are . . . well . . .” She makes a perplexed frown. “Are you a couple?”
My cheeks warm as I nod. “Ja,” I say quietly.
She presses her lips tightly together, as if she’s uncertain about this. But then she reaches up and pokes her brother in the back. “Jonah, you should be talking to Rachel these days . . . ya know?”
He doesn’t respond.
“Jonah, can you hear me?”
“I hear ya, Lydia.”
“You told Daed you want to be baptized,” she says to him. “You should talk to Rachel about it, ya know?”
“Ja, ja.” Jonah elbows my cousin. “You too, Jeremiah,” he says in a joking manner. “You should be getting yourself ready to be baptized too. If you want to be talking to Lydia.” He laughs loudly like this is very funny.
I’m certainly no expert in such matters, but I’m beginning to see how courtship and baptism go hand in hand for Amish young people. I suppose it makes sense.
The gathering tonight is at a different barn. I don’t catch the name, but if I didn’t know it was a different barn, I doubt that I would’ve noticed much difference. The trampoline has been set up in this one too. According to Jeremiah, the trampoline travels around in the summertime. It seems like it would be work setting it up each time, but then these people seem to thrive on work.
To my relief Ezra is already here. I was secretly worried that he might not come tonight, but he comes directly to me and seems genuinely glad to see me. “I’ve missed you,” I tell him.
He grasps my hands, pulling me close to him. “I missed you too.”
I can smell beer on his breath, but his eyes still seem clear. “I hoped that I’d see you sometime during the week,” I say as he starts walking me away from the barn.
“We’ve been putting up hay,” he says. “The heat made it come early this year. We hope to get another crop by August.”
“Oh.” I glance over my shoulder, back to where the others are gathered. “Where are we going?”
“Someplace we can be alone,” he says mysteriously.
Okay, as much as this idea appeals to part of me, it worries me too. I remember how far things have gone with us already, and I don’t want to get too carried away. He walks me alongside a creek until we come to a brushy clump of trees. There I can see something glowing in the dusky light. He pushes back the brush, and we enter a small clearing where there’s a battery-operated lantern next to a blanket that’s spread on the ground. There’s also a bucket of water with a number of beer cans floating in it. I suspect the water is to keep them cool.
“What’s going on here?” I ask. “Private party?”
“I made us a place to be alone,” he says innocently, pulling me close to him again and leaning in for a kiss.
As badly as I want to kiss him, I put up my hand between us like a stop sign. “Can we talk a little first?” I say somewhat timidly.
He looks surprised but then nods, tossing his hat aside as he sits down on the blanket. “Ja.”
I sit down across from him, studying his handsome face in the flickering lantern light. It would be so easy to forget my earlier plan and go straight to kissing. Except that I know where that could lead.
“What do you want to talk about?” he asks as he reaches for a beer, holding it out to me.
I consider saying no but don’t want him to think I’m a party pooper, so I take it and carefully pop it open. I will pretend to sip it while we’re talking. “This week has been really weird,” I tell him.
“Weird?” He looks confused. “What happened?”
I explain how I’m living with my aunt and uncle, how I’m working so hard, how I’m pretending to be Amish. “I even talked to my uncle about going to church,” I say. “I plan to go in the morning.”
Ezra frowns.
“What’s wrong with that?” I ask.
He shrugs, taking a big swig of beer.
“You see,” I say slowly, “I’m wondering what it would be like to really be Amish. I want to find out more about it.”
“Why?” he demands.
Feeling confused, I look down at my lap. “Why not?” I ask quietly.
“You don’t want to be Amish,” he says gruffly.
“Why?” I look back at him.
“Because it’s too hard.”
“Too hard?”
“Ja. For an English girl.” He shakes his head. “It is too hard.”
“I’ve been doing it all week,” I point out.
“No, you are playing at being Amish. You are not really Amish.”
“But I could be Amish,” I argue.
With a beer in his hand, he points at me. “You want an Amish husband telling you what you can and cannot do?”
I make a half smile. “That depends on what he’s telling me to do.”
He starts to grin. “Ja, that is different, Shannon.”
I shrug. “If it was the right husband, I might not mind being told what to do,” I say honestly.
“I cannot believe that,” he says sternly. “You have had freedom. You have lived in the English world. You do not know what you are asking for.”
“You honestly think I couldn’t fit in here?” I demand.
“I think you would be crazy to want to fit in here.” He takes a long swig of beer, finishing it off, then crunches the can in his fist and tosses it aside. “I don’t even want to fit in here.”
“You don’t?”
“I told you already.” He reaches for another can. “I have my doubts about committing to the church.”
“Why?” I ask.
“Why?” he echoes in a slightly hopeless tone.
“Do you doubt God?”
He shrugs, taking another long sip.
“I do believe in God,” I tell him.
“Ja . . . that is good. But do you believe in the Ordnung?”
I pretend to take a sip.
“You do not even know what is in the Ordnung, do you?” he challenges me.
“You’re right. I don’t. But my uncle could teach me.”
“But could he make you understand it?” Ezra sticks his thumb under one of his suspender straps. “Could he make you understand why it is sin for us to wear a different kind of suspender than these? Or why we must rely on a horse and buggy instead of a car? Or why we cut our hay by hand instead of using a machine? Can he make you understand and accept all those things, Shannon?”
I press my lips together.
“No, I didn’t think so. I have lived here all my life and I do not understand.”
“But there are things about this life that I really like,” I say. “Things that I think I am beginning to understand.”
“That’s because you haven’t been here long enough.”
“You make it sound like you hate it here,” I say quietly.
“Sometimes I do hate it here.”
“Then why don’t you leave?” I ask.
He finishes that can of beer now, crunches the can, and tosses it aside. “Sometimes I think about it.”
I study him. “You’d leave your family and friends and your home?”
“I might.” He reaches for another can.
“But you’d be shunned.”
He nods.
“Where would you go? What would y
ou do?”
He shrugs as he takes another long swig.
I’m feeling lost now, like everything I’ve been dreaming of and working for has been ripped out of my hands. “Ezra,” I say quietly. “I thought you said that you loved me.” He looks into my eyes, but already his eyes are starting to look blurry again, similar to last week.
“I do love you.”
“I love you too,” I whisper.
He leans forward, and grasping the back of my head in his hand, he pulls me toward him for a kiss . . . then another. After several, I pull myself away, struggling to catch my breath.
“Don’t you think we could be happy together?” I ask him. “You and me . . . living here? Wouldn’t it be a good life?”
He throws back his head and laughs. I feel as if I’ve been slapped.
In the same instant, I jump to my feet. “Fine.” I toss my full beer can down to his refuse pile. “Go ahead and laugh! I can see I’ve been a complete fool.” I turn and push my way out of the thicket and start to run. Tears are streaming down my cheeks, and I feel stupid and sentimental and just plain foolish. I half expect him to follow me, but I don’t hear footsteps. So I stop running and just keep walking. But after a while, I realize that I don’t know where I am. The sky is black since the moon hasn’t risen, and all around me, everything looks dark. I can see lights in the distance, but they seem too far away to be the barn where the party is located.
I stop walking and listen, hoping I’ll hear the sounds of voices and be able to follow my ears, but all I hear are crickets and frogs. Now I’m starting to get scared. Why did I run off like that? And why didn’t Ezra follow me? I consider making an attempt to retrace my steps, but my pride won’t let me. Instead I sit down in the grass, which smells faintly of cows, and then I lie down on my back and I cry . . . and cry . . . and cry.
I can’t remember ever feeling this kind of hurt before. Even when my dad died, although it was horrible and sad and confusing, it didn’t seem to hurt like this does. Maybe it’s because I know my dad didn’t intentionally abandon me. He never meant to hurt me. But this feels like Ezra has willfully driven a knife right through my soul. Like I’ve been cut to the core and am bleeding to death. And it feels like he doesn’t even care.
My Amish Boyfriend Page 13
