A Courtship on Huckleberry Hill

by Jennifer Beckstrand

  The only thing that could ruin her plans was the school board, and to her surprise, she hadn’t heard one peep from them all week. After Sam Sensenig’s threats, she had half expected to be back in Ohio by now. Maybe he had actually discovered the truth. Or maybe he was keeping a list of all the bad things she was doing to his brother, waiting to go to the school board when he had a notebook full of sins they couldn’t possibly ignore.

  The teacher won’t let Wally go to the bathroom. The teacher threw Wally out at first seven times. The teacher makes Wally clean desks. The teacher wants to take away Wally’s income.

  Elsie pressed her fingers to her forehead. Reuben was another headache. His problems were born of a pain and loneliness Elsie couldn’t begin to imagine. But something told her that if she got Wally, Reuben would follow along. Reuben was loyal and eager. All he needed was a gute, strong friend to point him in the right direction.

  The good news was that, despite his resistance, Wally was making progress. On Tuesday he had strutted into the school and announced that he didn’t have to play softball ever again because his bruder had given him permission. Even though she’d been expecting that, Elsie had wanted to give Sam Sensenig a large piece of her mind—even if it meant having to be in the same room with him. Instead, she’d organized another softball game at recess and told Wally he’d have to be a base if he didn’t play. Wally had looked sufficiently shocked that his teacher could be so cruel. She had seen the wheels turning in his head. He would tattle to Sam the minute school was out. But then Jethro Glick, bless his heart, mocked Wally for being a fraidy cat. Jethro was a seventh grader and one of the few boys Wally and Reuben didn’t bully. Maybe because Jethro was as big as both of them. Or maybe because Jethro was just one of those kids who simply refused to be picked on.

  For some reason, Jethro’s taunts worked. A dare had been thrown down. Wally had joined their game and hit the ball three times. They’d all been piddly little hits, and Elsie had thrown him out every time, but Wally hadn’t fallen once on the way to first, and he hadn’t thrown any sort of a tantrum. They’d played four straight days of softball, and Wally had been getting a little better every time. Today, he’d hit the ball far enough that he almost made it to first before Tobias threw him out.

  Now Wally needed to realize that he could be a better hitter if he tried. Too bad she couldn’t plant the idea in his head. He’d have to figure it out for himself.

  Mammi stared at Elsie as if she was expecting an answer to a question Elsie hadn’t heard. Elsie was going to have to pay better attention. “Who is coming over, Mammi?”

  “He’s not,” Mammi said. “And neither is his family. It seems there is a barn raising tomorrow and he . . . and the family . . . are going.”

  Elsie knew her mammi well enough to be suspicious. “Who is he?”

  Mammi waved the paper in Elsie’s direction. “Ach. Nobody. Just a nice young man and his bruders and schwester. I was going to make my famous mushroom lasagna.”

  A nice young man. Ach. Would it do any good to scold Mammi for being persistent? Seeing as how the nice young man had canceled, Elsie didn’t see any reason to make a fuss about it. Of course, there was bound to be a next time. Soon it would be too cold for barn raisings, and the nice Amish boy would run out of excuses. Elsie stood and wrapped her arms around Mammi’s waist. Mammi was one of the few people Elsie could look in the eye when they stood next to each other. “Mammi, I know you mean well, but we agreed that you wouldn’t try to match me with anyone until January. I’m too busy to have a boyfriend.”

  Mammi laughed nervously. “Now what gives you the idea that this nice young man is meant for you? He’s too tall. Don’t you think he’s too tall, Felty?”

  “He’s as tall as me, and I’m not too tall for you, Banannie.”

  The little wrinkles bunched up around Mammi’s eyes. “Vell, I suppose he’s not too tall, but that doesn’t mean you’re a gute match. I can’t imagine that you like muscles or nice straight teeth. This young man has both. And he’s so very handsome. The girls keep an eye on him. I don’t suppose you’d like someone like that, would you?”

  Elsie shook her head and tried to push back the smile forming on her lips. Mammi was persistent and clever, and she had a little bit of a sneaky streak. “I’m sure that if so many girls are interested, it won’t take him long to find one to fall in love with. He doesn’t need me at all.”

  Mammi threw up her hands. “Ach, Elsie. You are the only one he needs. What am I going to do with you? How are you ever going to find a husband if you avoid perfectly nice young men with gute teeth?”

  Elsie grinned at her mammi. “He’s the one who canceled. Not me. He’s avoiding me. Did you make the mistake of telling him what I look like?”

  Mammi scolded Elsie with her eyes. “Stuff and nonsense. He never would have canceled if he knew what you look like. You are as fresh as a daisy and twice as pretty. But you’re right. If I want him to come over, I’m going to have to do more than crochet him a dishrag. He’s got to know how pretty you are.”

  Elsie shook her finger in her mammi’s direction. “Don’t you dare, Mammi. Leave the poor boy be.”

  Mammi sighed and made a big show of tearing up the note in her hand. “All right. I will do my best to wait patiently until January.” She threw the paper scraps in the garbage, but she wasn’t fooling anybody. Mammi wouldn’t rest until Elsie had met that nice young man months before January. Elsie would have to be extra vigilant.

  The only thing more horrible than the thought of a nice young man picked out especially by Mammi was the thought of Wally Sensenig’s awful brother Sam stomping up her steps at school.

  Elsie shuddered. Please, dear Lord, keep nice young men and Sam Sensenig far away.

  But especially Sam. He was worse than a three-year stomachache.

  * * *

  Sam spread fresh straw for the horse while Perry milked the cows. He and his brothers hurried through the chores so they could return to the barn raising by five. Sam had been at Hoover’s place for most of the day helping with the barn and had only come home to do the afternoon chores and fetch his bruders back. The barn had gone up fast, as it always did when thirty Amish neighbors got together to build something. They’d work until it got dark tonight, and then come back on Saturday morning to finish up.

  A barn raising was the best kind of community project. Amish and Englisch alike came together to help each other, each man working hard to build as sturdy a barn as possible. The women worked just as hard, fixing large amounts of food for a herd of hungry men, washing dishes, wiping tables, and doing it all over again at the next meal.

  Rose Mast had been at the Hoovers’ all day, making a point to serve Sam extra-large helpings. It was nice to have a friend who watched out for him like that, especially one who made such appeditlich sticky buns.

  Sam ran some fresh water into the trough and hung up his pitchfork. “Are you done, Perry?” he said.

  Perry stopped singing long enough to answer. “Almost. Three more minutes.”

  Sam strolled out of the barn and toward the house to check on Wally and Mamm before he left. Wally hobbled toward him on his crutches with a baseball bat and a ball in his hand. “Will you pitch to me?”

  “Pitch to you?”

  “I want to practice hitting.”

  Sam didn’t change his expression, even though firecrackers were going off inside his head. Wally wanted to practice hitting? He hadn’t willingly gone outside for three years. What had happened? Surely this wasn’t the new teacher’s doing.

  Nae, she was mean and uppity and a puny little thing. The last time they’d talked, Sam was certain she’d killed any excitement for the sport that Wally might have had.

  Sam resisted the urge to look at his pocket watch. They’d be late getting back to the barn raising, for sure and certain, but if Wally wanted to play ball, they’d play ball until they couldn’t stand it anymore. He nodded. “Let me get my mitt.”

  There
was an extra spring to Sam’s step as he jogged into the house. He wasn’t going to question Wally’s sudden interest in softball. If Sam acted like anything was amiss, Wally might decide he didn’t want to practice after all. Sam grabbed his mitt, and Perry’s as well. They’d need a catcher, and Perry wouldn’t mind. Perry was easy that way.

  Sam came back outside and directed Wally to a wide expanse of lawn behind the house. He found a good-sized rock in the flower bed and positioned it on the ground as home plate. He whistled to get Perry’s attention. Perry emerged from the barn, and Sam motioned for him to join them.

  “You wanna play ball with us?” Sam said.

  “Okay.” Perry turned his back on Wally, widened his eyes at Sam, and took his mitt. Even Perry recognized that something out of the ordinary was taking place in their backyard.

  “Okay, Wally,” Sam said, pointing to a spot near the house. “You stand here, and I’ll pitch from here.”

  “You’ve got to go farther back,” Wally said. “You’re too close.” Sam took a step back, and Wally shook his head. “Go back three giant steps. She stands right even with first base.”

  Sam backed up until Wally nodded. He was far away. Too far. Wally would never be able to hit the ball.

  Perry squatted behind Wally as Wally dropped his right crutch. With his other crutch tucked under his left arm, he raised the bat with his right hand and wrapped his left thumb and index finger around it. A shard of glass stabbed Sam right through the heart. Wally couldn’t hit the ball. He could barely stand and hold the bat at the same time. No wonder he had come home so upset on Monday. The teacher never should have expected this of him.

  Sam turned to stone as he gazed at his brother. Better to let him play video games for the rest of his life than to make him suffer this indignity. He couldn’t do it. He wouldn’t do it. “Maybe we should do this another day, Wally. I’ve got to get to the barn raising.”

  Wally made a face. “You were at the barn raising all day. Cum. I want to learn how to hit a home run and make Miss Stutzman mad.”

  Sam’s throat was so dry he couldn’t swallow. As gently as he could, he lobbed the ball in Wally’s direction, hoping the poor kid wouldn’t fall on his face when he swung the bat. Wally took an awkward swing, chopping down on the ball in order to keep his balance, but he managed to make contact. The ball traveled about four feet forward, but it was four more feet than Sam had expected. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Gute job, Wally. You hit it.”

  Wally sneered. “That wasn’t nothing. That was a little-kid hit. I want a home run. Teach me how to hit a home run.”

  It was no use. Wally would never get any power on that swing while trying to balance himself on a crutch, but it broke Sam’s heart to have to tell him that. “I . . . I don’t know, Wally. Just swing harder, I guess.”

  “I’m swinging as hard as I can.”

  Sam trudged to home plate. “Raise your bat. Let me see how you hold it.” Wally had less control of the bat because he was missing the last three fingers on his left hand, but his thumb and index finger gave him enough stability to hold the bat correctly. “Keep your finger and thumb on your left hand tight around the bat. That’s what gives you control. Now swing level instead of down. Try it.”

  Wally adjusted his swing by putting more weight on his leg. Sam pitched at least two dozen balls to him, and once he got the hang of the new swing, Wally hit a good portion of them. They went farther, but according to Wally, they were still “little-kid hits.”

  After the seventh hit that barely dribbled past Sam’s feet, Wally chucked the bat on the ground. “This is dumm. I can’t do it.” Sam wasn’t surprised when he saw the tantrum brewing. He was only surprised that it had taken so long.

  “It’s too hard with your crutch,” Perry said.

  “If you haven’t noticed, dumkoff, I only have one leg.”

  “Wally,” Sam barked. “That’s no way to talk to your bruder.”

  Perry shrugged. “You have a fake leg. You’re supposed to wear it so you don’t have to use the crutches.”

  “You know I can’t wear that.”

  A year after the accident, the doctors had fitted Wally with a prosthetic leg, but he had hated it from the very beginning because it hurt his stump. He’d only given the leg about three weeks before he gave up on it, but Sam had never insisted that Wally wear it. Things were hard enough for the kid. Sam hated seeing him in that much pain. The crutches were easier for Wally, and Sam didn’t have the heart to make Wally use the leg. During the summer, Sam had taken Wally to the doctor to have him fitted for a new, bigger leg, even though he hadn’t held out much hope that Wally would wear it. He had thought maybe Wally would try it now that he was bigger.

  “Why don’t you put your leg on?” Perry said, as if what he was suggesting was no big thing. “It wouldn’t hurt to see if you hit better.”

  “Yes, it would hurt.” Wally fell silent, leaned more heavily on his crutch, and stared at the bat in his hand. “I don’t know how to walk on it,” he murmured.

  Sam wasn’t quite sure what to say, but Perry persisted. “You don’t have to walk on it. Just use it to give you some balance.”

  Wally didn’t say anything for a full minute. “Okay.”

  Perry smiled. “Okay. I’ll go get it.” He tossed his mitt in the grass and ran into the house.

  It felt as if Sam was standing in the middle of a perfectly balanced seesaw, and he didn’t dare breathe for fear of sending the whole thing crashing to one side or the other. Were they really in the backyard playing softball together? Did Wally truly believe he could learn to hit the ball? Had he really agreed to put on his leg?

  Sam pretended to study a patch of lawn directly at his feet until Perry came running back carrying Wally’s leg and the sleeve that fit over his stump. Wally had refused to go to physical therapy to learn how to use it, but it might work well enough to give him some balance. And a little more power.

  Wally sat down on the ground, rolled up his pant leg, and spent several minutes trying to figure out how to put everything on correctly. The doctor had walked him through the steps in July, but Wally hadn’t planned on wearing it, so he had barely paid attention.

  Sam and Perry stood frozen in place, watching him intently while trying to pretend they weren’t paying attention to anything in particular.

  Wally slid the stretchy fabric sleeve over his stump, then picked up the prosthetic leg and slid the hard silicon sleeve over the stump. They had gotten Wally the leg with a normal-looking foot. Sam thought maybe he’d be more apt to wear it if it looked like a real leg.

  There was a locking pin at the bottom of the fabric sleeve that fit into the sleeve of the artificial leg. It took Wally several tries before the pin clicked into place, anchoring the leg to Wally’s stump.

  Wally finally finished and let Perry help him to his feet. He limped into position, and Sam was sure he’d fall on his face. But he stayed upright and held out his hand. “Give me the bat, Perry.”

  Perry handed Wally the bat and got out of the way. Wally took five very tentative practice swings and nearly lost his balance each time.

  Sam risked calling out a little advice. “Try putting more weight on it. Plant your feet.” Your feet. That had a nice sound to it.

  Wally adjusted his stance and grimaced. “It hurts.”

  “Just takes a little getting used to, and it will give your armpits a break.”

  Wally cracked a smile. “My armpits have calluses.”

  “Try a few more swings,” Sam said.

  Wally planted his feet and swung the bat, first in an easy, slow motion, and then harder and with more force as he felt more stable on his feet.

  “Keep your swing level. You’re not chopping wood.”

  “Throw it to me,” Wally said. He adjusted the position of his fake foot, swung the bat, and toppled onto his backside. Sam fully expected him to make a face, maybe pound his bat on the ground or toss it into the bu
shes. Instead, he acted as if he didn’t mind falling down and held out his bat to Perry. “Pull me up.” Perry nodded, grabbed the end of the bat, and pulled Wally to his feet. Wally planted his feet again and raised his bat. “Pitch it, Sam.”

  Sam tried not to let his hopes gallop away from him. Wally was standing on his own, eagerly waiting to hit a softball. He’d probably miss. He’d very likely fall over, but that didn’t seem to matter to him at the moment. He wanted to hit the ball.

  Sam’s first pitch was outside, and Wally didn’t even try to swing. Perry caught the ball and threw it back to Sam. “Strike one!” he yelled.

  Wally gave Perry a dirty look. “That was way outside. You need glasses.”

  Sam threw it again, and Wally swung hard and fast. He finished his swing before the ball even crossed home plate.

  “Watch the ball hit your bat,” Sam said.

  The third pitch did the trick. Wally concentrated hard on the ball and took a little desperation out of his swing. There was a satisfying crack when the ball met the bat and sailed a few feet over Sam’s head. It was an infield hit but the hardest one Wally had made yet.

  Wally dropped his bat and raised his hands into the air. “Woo-hoo!” he yelled. He fell on his seat again but kept cheering for himself while sitting on the ground.

  Perry slapped his hand against his mitt. “You hit it, Wally!”

  Wally reached out his hand to Perry. “Help me up. I want to hit again.”

  Sam grinned and jogged back to retrieve the ball. They might not make it back to the barn raising, but the look on Wally’s face was worth missing it for.

  Sam kept pitching, and Wally got better at hitting. Perry went into the house and recruited Maggie and Danny to field balls. After half an hour, Wally was consistently hitting it past what would have been second base, but Sam could tell he was getting tired. Sweat poured off his brow, and he panted hard to catch his breath.