Which Way Home?

by Linda Byler

  “You’re right. You shouldn’t accept the farm.”

  “I’m going to live with—well, not with Walter and Emma, but in the empty house beside them. In the town of Lancaster on Mulberry Street.”

  Up went Bappie’s eyebrows. “What will you do for a living?”

  “They won’t charge me rent. I’ll make quilts.” She kept her love of herbs and doctoring hidden from Bappie.

  “I was hoping you would consent to live with me.” Bappie spoke softly, so unlike her.

  Hester saw the disappointment in her eyes, the dejection in her shoulders. Hester wavered in her decision. Should she accept her offer first? Indecision cracked the shaky new foundation Emma had placed beneath her so firmly only a few days ago.

  Suddenly Bappie sat upright, shrugged her shoulders, and said it was all right, she’d always done well on her own and would continue to.

  “I go to Lancaster’s curb market, selling garden things. I’ll see you on Friday and Saturday sometimes, maybe?”

  In that moment, Hester told her of the herbs, her plans to grow them, to bottle tinctures and teas, and to go wherever there was a need. And how William had not wanted her to do this.

  Bappie was enthralled. She asked dozens of questions, saying the need for a service such as she spoke of was large and growing.

  “Is there room for a garden in the back lot of Emma Ferree’s house?” Bappie asked finally.

  Hester considered, mulling over the fact that she did not really know this Barbara King, a distant relative of William’s. She watched the woman, warily. Reddish hair, a nose like a hawk, observant eyes, a long and lean and narrow face like William’s and Frances’s. The only thing soft about Bappie was her eyes, bright like polished stones, but guileless, and yes, soft. She was all sharp angles, no womanly curves anywhere, her black dress hanging as if from a coat rack, loose, empty, almost rectangular.

  Finally Hester decided the best way was total honesty. She had been betrayed too often. “Are you a cousin of Frances?”

  “First cousin not to her, but to Elias.”

  “So how do I know you’re nice, like him?”

  At this, Bappie hooted a strange laugh, almost like a screech owl at night or the clumsy squawk of the nighthawk. “Hester, you’re odd. You can’t go tiptoeing through life afraid everyone is not nice. Very few people are. Don’t be so serious. You wear your cap so far over your ears, every bit of your hair is covered. Who made you do that? Or were you always so plain, or whatever?”

  “William was very conservative.”

  “May he rest in peace,” Bappie said softly but her eyes flashed without piety. “I can bet a nickel that man was very much like his mother.” The words were out of her mouth before she could grab them back. Up went the hand, sideways across her mouth, her brown eyes like glistening river pebbles. “Sorry.”

  Hester shook her head, a smile curving her lips.

  “You know how beautiful you are, don’t you?” Bappie asked.

  Hester frowned and her eyebrows fell, a straight black line over brooding eyes. “Beauty is a curse.”

  Bappie stared at her, unblinking. “You really do believe that.”

  “Of course I do.”

  “Why?”

  “Someday I’ll tell you.”

  “Someday? Does that mean you’re asking me to live in Emma Ferree’s house in town?”

  “Are Amish women allowed to live in town? Does our Ordnung forbid it?”

  Bappie’s eyes turned bright with humor. “We’ll never know until we try it, will we?”

  When the spring rains turned to the heat of summer, Emma Ferree’s house was newly whitewashed, the windows polished, the floors scrubbed. There was new ticking in the mattresses, the fireplace was cleaned and whitewashed. Walter Trout repaired the front door, his face red and streaming in the summer sun.

  Hester accompanied Bappie to her house in the country, a low dwelling built of logs, fashioned in a peculiar style without an upstairs. It was extremely small, but sufficient for one person. It was built on the south corner of her brother Samuel’s farm, a former hut built by an earlier owner to house slaves.

  Bappie had beautiful furniture for a single woman. Fashioned in the old German style with intricate scrollwork, the blanket chests and cupboard doors were painted with delicate motifs carefully preserved from the old country.

  Bappie put Hester to work cleaning the furniture with oil soap, then polishing it with sheep’s wool. They packed it well with heavy blankets on a farm wagon Johnny loaned them. The massive Belgians stood, their heads drooping patiently as he helped them load the valuable pieces. He remained a gentleman, so impressing Bappie that she became quite flustered when she spoke to him.

  Hester sat perched on a wooden chest. The sun had climbed high at the noon hour. Heat shimmered across the cornfields. Bright butterflies hovered among the columbine, delicately feeding on the thin nectar of the lavender flowers, bobbing in the stillness.

  A meadowlark sang its lusty song, opening its bill like a pair of scissors. Chimney swifts wheeled in the hot, cloudless sky, dozens of them dipping and wheeling as one.

  Today there was a song in Hester’s heart, an old tune Kate used to sing while doing the wash. It welled up until Hester was humming softly so no one would hear. She lifted her face to the sun, glorying in the summer scents of the earth and the verdant crops, growing so lush and green. Here men’s axes had laid the heavy trees to the ground; then they’d used the lumber to build barns and houses for their growing families, a way of life Hester knew well.

  Foreign to her was the way of the nomadic Indian, she recognized. Over and over, gratitude for Emma Ferree’s sound advice lifted Hester’s spirits.

  Elias and Frances sent her away, wishing her the blessing, “Herr saya,” as they clasped her hands warmly in their own. Frances was glad to be rid of her, she knew, but still Hester admired the effort she put forth to stand beside her husband and wish her the usual German blessing.

  Naomi said she must come often to visit. Johnny shook her hand, holding it longer than necessary, but she endured his touch, shaking off the repulsiveness. To forgive, to let go, was the Amish way, and the way of all Christians who chose to follow Jesus’s teaching.

  Bappie turned. “You still back there?”

  Hester acknowledged her words with a wave.

  Walter and Emma awaited them, motioning them to the back alley. Walter helped Bappie guide the horses carefully to the back door, and the work of unloading the furniture began.

  They filled the house with the beautiful German pieces. They scattered bright hooked rugs of blue and purple, yellow and red, across polished oak floors.

  Hester put her wedding gifts—the towels and tablecloths, doilies and rugs that were made of rushes—with Bappie’s things. She placed the set of china with the blue pattern on the cupboard shelves alongside Bappie’s set of white dishes.

  Frances gave her William’s desk and his rocking chair, tears streaming as she presented them to Hester, her mouth compressed piously when she asked her to take good care of them. They put the desk in the living room with the rocking chair beside it. Hester placed one of her glass vases on the desk top, then picked a bouquet of white daisies to remember William. She could picture him rocking by the fireplace, content after supper, his dark head bent over the massive Bible on his lap.

  Bappie laid a small fire in the fireplace and made tea for her helpers. Walter and Emma sat side by side on the bench, watching with eager eyes as she cut a strawberry pie. Shoveling huge wedges onto the pretty blue dishes, Bappie winked broadly at Hester as Walter and Emma began enjoying the sweet dessert. Hester smiled, bending quickly to fold a tea towel into the cupboard drawer. She had the distinct feeling that life could become extremely interesting with Bappie, Walter, and Emma.

  Every week they drove Bappie’s team out to the homestead, as she called the house that was barely more than a hut. There they weeded and hoed the huge vegetable garden, toiling side by sid
e in the blazing sun. They picked the vegetables that were ripe, set traps for marauding raccoons and opossums, then loaded the weeks’ supply of vegetables for the downtown market. On the curb they set up wooden crates, then piled the freshly picked beans, red beets, and cucumbers in pleasing mounds, the tops of the beets dripping with fresh water, the way the townsfolk wanted them, Bappie said. Customers came, looked, and voiced their pleasure at Bappie’s fine vegetables.

  “No,” she’d say, “I’ll have cabbage next week.” Lifting her thumb and forefinger, she squeezed her eyes shut to mimic how very close the cabbage heads were to being the perfect size, but not quite yet.

  She was noisy, her voice rising above the cart wheels, the hooves of the horses, the other sellers hawking their wares. She flung her cap strings over her square shoulders. Her coppery hair gleamed from beneath the wide expanse of muslin, her bright eyes never missing a potential buyer.

  She sold peas in the pod for exorbitant prices, and raspberries fat and black and luscious with moisture. Wealthy, fair-skinned ladies fought for her smallest cucumbers, her ruffled heads of lettuce.

  Hester helped to set up and kept the piles looking fresh and succulent, her large, dark eyes taking in the way Bappie did business.

  The men came, staring at Hester, then looked away respectfully, bending to the wishes of their wives, although many discreetly glanced backward at the beauty of the new Amish girl.

  Bappie howled with unashamed glee as she loaded up the empty crates. Passersby frowned at the raucous sound, unable to believe their eyes and ears at that unmannerly vegetable seller. But Bappie sold every morsel, every leaf she brought.

  She and Hester counted the money at the kitchen table after the sun had gone down. Bappie leaned back in her chair, a pleased expression spreading across her features. “We’re all set, Hester. We’ll put enough by to hold us over the winter. I never sold so many vegetables. All you have to do is perch on a crate and look at the crowd.” She leaned forward, slapped the table, and said Frances would have a fit, now, wouldn’t she?

  CHAPTER 18

  IN AUGUST, THE SWEET CORN RIPENED. ROW AFTER row, the tall heavy stalks each contained one ear of corn, the kernels plump and moist, the silk blackening as the ears became ripe. So much corn required the heavy farm wagon and two Belgians, which took Bappie immediately to Johnny and Naomi’s front door in spite of Hester’s disapproval.

  When Hester refused to accompany her, Bappie drove off in a tiff, her cap strings flying out behind the back seat of Walter Trout’s one-seated buggy. Leaning forward, she rapped the silver mare to a fast trot, muttering to herself about stubborn Indian blood.

  Hester watched her go, her arms crossed tightly about her waist, her eyes flashing black heat. If Bappie insisted on hiring that offensive Johnny to haul her corn to market, she’d have to do it alone. Hester was not prepared to work freely in his presence. The moving had been bad enough. That Bappie certainly did have a mind of her own.

  The dew was heavy. So heavy, in fact, that by the time Bappie and Hester made their way down the first and second rows of sweet corn, they were soaked. Their kerchiefs clung to their sodden hair, the corn tassels dusted their heads with clinging, yellow pods. The cornstalks were wet and itchy, scraping their necks and faces like rasping claws. They made sacks out of their aprons, holding up the bottoms by two corners until they bulged with ears of corn, dew-laden and heavy. Bappie was frenzied in her movements, yanking the corn off the heavy stalks and filling her apron twice as fast as Hester.

  “This corn may as well be made of gold,” she crowed, her breath coming in gasps.

  “It’s about as heavy,” Hester called. She was happy, working in the early morning. Johnny had not showed up, thankfully allowing them the use of the wagon without his assistance.

  Up and down the rows the women toiled, loading the large green ears on the bed of the wagon. The sun was a pulsing red orb in a yellow sky that already reflected its heat. Not a cloud was in sight, not so much as a small breeze moved the wet cornstalks.

  Hester figured that if the wet heat continued, they’d have a thunderstorm. She eyed the perfectly staked tomatoes, the heavy, prickly vines of the cucumber plants, then lifted a hand to shade her eyes as she looked toward the sun. There it was. To the left of the sun was a brilliant flash of light like an uncolored rainbow, the harbinger of rain. The sun dog. Well, if the rainstorm came, they’d dig the vegetables out of the mud, the way Kate used to.

  Her thoughts were not on the mundane task of ripping off ears of corn, when suddenly a solid form ahead startled her so that she drew back, her eyes wide with alarm. “Oh!”

  His grin spreading widely, Johnny stood at the end of the row, his thumbs hooked in the side pockets of his broadfall trousers.

  “Hester! Didn’t mean to scare you.” His teeth flashed white in his dark face, the straw hat pulled low, his hair as dark as midnight, so like William’s.

  Hester said nothing, bending her head to her task.

  He refused to move, to allow her to step out of the row. His dark eyes glittered, black coals shaded by the filthy straw hat.

  He opened his mouth to speak, the black coals turned to slits. “You can’t always hide,” he sneered.

  “Johnny!” Bappie’s joyous greeting rang from a short distance away. He turned and patiently hailed Bappie, warmly lifting a hand in greeting. Bappie stumbled over her words, so effusive was her welcome. Johnny grinned, praised her growing of the vegetables, and said he’d never seen nicer corn. She’d get a good price today.

  Hester turned down another row. Her apron was bulging with the heavy ears, her dress was soaking wet, and she had no plans to step out for that man’s inspection. Discreetly, she emptied her apron in between the rows of corn and kept pulling ears, moving away from their voices.

  “Hester!”

  Bappie’s sharp call stopped her short. Slowly she emptied another apron-load of corn, straightened, and resumed picking furiously. The color in her cheeks heightened; her eyes were dark and brooding.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Picking corn.”

  “You’re dumping it on the ground!”

  “So.”

  “What ails you?”

  Angrily Bappie came stomping down the row, bending to pick up the corn Hester had unloaded. “What got over you?” she hissed.

  “Get that Johnny away from here,” Hester hissed back.

  “Why?”

  Hester’s face was terrible, her eyes boring into Bappie’s with an intensity she had never seen. “Just do what I said. I mean it.”

  Bappie rolled her eyes, but she obeyed. Quickly she loaded the last of the corn onto the wide bed of the wooden wagon, told Johnny to drive, and hopped up behind him, saying Hester would bring the team.

  Shrugging his shoulders, he could do nothing other than obey. He lifted the reins, hiyupping to the big, quiet Belgians. Only when the creak of the heavy wheels sounded in her ears did Hester emerge, watching the wagon until it disappeared behind a curtain of overhanging willow branches. Then she stepped out, smoothed down her apron, untied Bappie’s gray horse named Silver, and sat heavily on the open seat of the buggy.

  Johnny had already taken the team of Belgians home by the time Hester had changed into dry clothes, the blue dress and black cape and apron, topped by the muslin fabric of her cap, her face freshly washed.

  At the curb market, the corn was piled in a high, beautiful bin, green and white at the ends, dewdrops clinging to its dark silk. Carrots lay in bunches, bits of black soil clinging to their thick orange roots. Beside them, the first tomatoes, red-cheeked and inviting, added color to the green, lacy carrot tops.

  Immediately the buyers came, pushing, shoving, and carrying away great armloads of corn, wooden crates of it, and cloth bags stuffed full. The coins clinked into the cash box as Bappie yelled and made hand gestures, smiling and dipping her head when the praise became too effusive.

  Hester talked to perfect strangers, smiling
and handing tomatoes and carrots to fat, overdressed housewives and stick-thin women in ruffles, all sweating profusely in the sweltering heat.

  “De corn! De corn!” Beckoning excitedly, her face flushed to a high color, a German housewife plowed through the crowd, elbowing her way through the more well-to-do.

  “Step back. Watch it there,” came snorts of disapproval and words of rebuke, all to no avail. On she came.

  “De corn! De corn! Oy, so fresh! So yellow! Just picked!”

  Hester found herself laughing freely, the sound like water rippling over smooth stones. She lost herself in the mad, colorful crowd of pushing people. She heard Bappie’s words rising and falling, selling her vegetables. She wasn’t quiet, nor circumspect, and certainly not humble.

  But Hester was carried along by the gaiety, the high spirits that caused Bappie to talk constantly to her customers. Hester smiled without self-consciousness. She spoke to strangers. And she was surprised to find that they weren’t strangers after she had spoken to them. She learned from Bappie to be tolerant, happy to let go of her suspicion, her dislike of certain people. To Bappie, they were all the same. They bought her vegetables.

  Too tired to cook supper, and the house holding the heat like a tea kettle, Hester and Bappie collapsed in the backyard beneath the shade of a wilted lilac bush at the end of the market day. Bappie lay flat on her back, her knees bent upward, poking into the sky, all sharp angles and dark colors. She had thrown one arm over her forehead and was saying they made enough money to buy a house today.

  Hester lay on her stomach, her chin in her hands, her shoulders shaking as she laughed at Bappie’s ridiculous expansion of the coins in the wooden box.

  A low rumble of thunder grumbled in the distance. The evening sun shone on.

  “It’ll rain,” Hester said shortly.

  “Nah! What’s wrong with you? The sun’s shining as bright as ever.”

  “It’ll rain.”