The Homestead

by Linda Byler

  She refused to answer, as before.

  Sarah had begun to rise, a hand on the table to steady herself, her mouth open to speak, when Mose’s chair fell backward and clattered to the floor with the force of his rising. The kindness and warm benevolence with which he faced the world was erased by a black anger, the likes of which Sarah had never seen.

  He grabbed Hannah’s shoulders and shook her, from behind, her head flopping like a fish, but only once. Hannah wriggled from his grasp, lunged through the door, and was gone before anyone had time to stop her. Sarah ran outside, calling her daughter’s name, but she obeyed when Mose ordered her inside, saying she’d get over it. That girl needed her sails trimmed good and proper.

  His words proved true. Hannah crept up to bed, avoiding the steps that creaked, thinking no one would hear. But Sarah lay wide awake, worrying and praying alternately until she heard Hannah’s return, then wondered whether they were turning into uncouth heathens, same as the Jenkinses.

  CHAPTER 7

  As predicted, the miracle horse’s arrival came in the form of Hod Jenkins and his boys, who rode over to confirm the announcement of the calf roping and neighborhood picnic.

  They met Mose, who walked out of the house in the late afternoon, said he’d been resting, had a bit of a headache, blinking his eyes in the strong, hot sunlight. He scratched first one underarm and then the other and rolled up his shirt sleeves to reveal gray long-sleeved underwear. His hair was parted in sections, each chunk held together by a lack of washing. He yawned widely, revealing yellowed teeth caked with plaque.

  Hod threw him a shrewd glance, figured this guy was going downhill without brakes, but said nothing, just threw himself off his horse, strode over to stand beside him, surveying the unfinished barn, the partially tilled field.

  “Yer not up to par, then?”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Ain’t feelin’ good?”

  “Well, yes. Just a bit of a headache.”

  Hod nodded, his eyes searching the man’s circumstances. “Yer other horse run off?”

  “No, he’s dead.”

  Hod looked at Mose sharply. “He got colic?”

  “No, I must have worked him too hard. He went down and never got back up. I don’t know what was wrong with him.”

  “Yer horses gittin’ only grain?”

  Mose shook his head.

  “So now what’s yer plan?” Hod asked, shifting his toothpick to the opposite side of his mouth.

  “The Lord will provide. He always does.”

  Hod chuckled, deep and friendly, the crow’s feet around his eyes like fans crinkling out at the corners as his shoulders shook silently.

  “Wal, neighbor Mose, if’n I was you, I wouldn’t bet on a horse droppin’ out of the sky, but whatever you fancy, I suppose.”

  They spoke of the coming roundup. Hod urged him to bring the family, and they left soon after. Hod took notice of all three of his boys trying to look for Hannah behind each other’s backs and his chuckle increased to full blown mirth that he did nothing to hide. He just shook his head and knew the impossibility of all of it. Mose would have a fit. He chuckled again, shifted his toothpick, then looked to the left. His whole countenance changed to one of deep concern, then irritation.

  “How’s he gonna do that?” Clay asked, jerking his thumb in the direction of the field.

  “His horse died.”

  “Yeah.”

  But, as was the custom, nothing more was said.

  The bucket of carrots and the burlap bag of potatoes were stretched as far as they would go, the prairie hens Manny shot helping to round out the meals. But when Sarah found the bottom of the cornmeal barrel so close, she felt as if she could not take another day of her husband’s alternating between headaches, reading his Bible, or disappearing into the bedroom to pray.

  Hannah and Manny did their best to prepare logs for the barn, but progress was slow without their father’s help, the logs becoming smaller and more misshapen. Every day Sarah kept up a positive outlook, swept her house, cared for the children, cooked the frugal meals, and encouraged her husband whenever he needed it, which, increasingly, bordered on the impossible.

  When she looked back, the change in Mose was not slow in coming. Starting with the loss of the farm, the hard times when the animals’ worth dropped so dramatically, the desperation without forethought of using up the leftover grain to make illegal liquor, the childishness afterward, and now this—yes, it was strange behavior.

  To admit this to herself was frightening. How could she have escaped the fact that something was wrong with her husband? Should she try? Or should she accept it, unquestioning in her faith? She had no one but the belligerent Hannah, and they were barely on speaking terms.

  When the cornmeal ran out, the last potato was eaten, and one wrinkled carrot remained, Sarah followed her husband into the bedroom when he went through the door to pray.

  “Mose,” she said.

  “Do not disturb me, Sarah. I am entering holy ground.”

  “Mose, please listen. Our food is all gone. The children will be hungry in the morning. You must stop this. You must stop praying and fasting. You’re only working yourself into a frenzy. Mose, we must do something about our plight.”

  “The only plight, my Sarah, is yours. When our faith falters, we have a plight, whereas we have heavenly peace when we trust in the Lord with all our hearts.”

  “But, Mose, listen to reason. God provides when we do what our minds can direct. If our food is all gone, we must find some. Don’t you see?”

  “No. My face is turned to God alone. Leave me.”

  Sarah knew now that she must be strong. She squelched the sob that tore at her throat and swallowed a hard lump as her eyes remained dry. The fright she kept at bay by moving about the house, caring for the children, putting them to bed, everything proceeding normally for their sakes.

  It was the hunger in Manny’s eyes that brought on the boldness. She stopped Hannah midstride, laid a firm hand on her arm, and waited until she met her eyes. Sarah spoke in firm, even tones.

  “Hannah, you must ride out in the morning. We have one wrinkled carrot and a handful of flour. Neither one are enough to feed anyone breakfast. Your father is not well. I have no hope of being saved from starvation but you. Can you ride to the Jenkinses for help?

  Hannah stared at her mother. “You mean he’s crazy, or what?

  “He’s acting very strange is all I can say. I’m afraid it’s been going on longer than we think.”

  “You mean I have to go and beg?”

  “Yes, you must.”

  “Mam, I’m ashamed.”

  “I know, Hannah. I know. If you want me to go I will, except I’m not a good rider. We have only the one horse, and he’s not in the best shape to pull the wagon alone.”

  Hannah’s gaze flickered. Her shoulders lifted and then slumped. “What do we need?”

  “Everything, Hannah. Everything.”

  And so, midmorning Hannah rode out on Pete, the former beautiful, well-groomed muscular horse that had been worked too hard and spent months without grain. That was fine for animals accustomed to a steady diet of prairie grass, but not for this well-fed, well-cared-for Eastern horse.

  His hair was long and unkempt, although Hannah had done her best to brush out the worst of the dirt and tangles. His ribs were like a small train track, with his belly hanging down, loose, muscle loss evident from every side. Even his well-rounded haunches that had been taut and firm now quivered with deep vertical lines every time he took a step.

  Hannah felt hot tears prick her eyelids. She steadied herself with a deep breath and a measured squaring of her shoulders. Here she was, then, riding out to beg for food, set plumb down in the middle of nowhere, with people spread out like chaff scattered in the wind. Miles and miles of nothing but grass, driven in seventeen different directions by each gust of wind.

  Dat was out of his head, it appeared, and Mam was as scared as a ch
icken with a fox in the henhouse, fluttering around the house with a smile that wasn’t real. Just the corners of her mouth lifted to keep everyone else calm and let them think everything was fine with Dat, who held his head and moaned. Nothing to eat, a dead horse, and a stalled corn crop. If they all got on the train in Bismarck and went back home, there would be hope. Grandparents and aunts and uncles would all ask the church to help them with a fresh start.

  A cold fear swept through Hannah. This was the first time she was close to admitting defeat. But this ride to the Jenkinses had to be done. They could not survive on prairie hens and gophers. An occasional herd of antelope could be seen in the distance, but they moved swiftly, far away, a blur of brown and white, so that was out of the question.

  She hoped she would not miss the road to the Jenkinses. She kicked her heels into Pete’s side and was rewarded by flattened ears and the beginning of an easy lope. Her teeth rattled, her head was jarred on her shoulders, so she kicked him again, slapped the end of the reins against his neck, chirped, and urged him into a gallop.

  Pete’s hoof beats sounded dull and muffled on the track through the grass that served as a road. He soon tired, and reverted to his bumpy trot, then down to a slow walk.

  Hannah sighed, loosened the reins and looked around. It was a bright May morning with blue skies flecked with thin white clouds, like a bride’s veil, she thought. It was as if the brilliance of the sky was too bold, too bright, out of the Ordnung, and needed to be covered with a thin layer of white. Not that she’d ever be an English bride, having a worldly wedding and wearing a long white gown with a lot of her back bare for anyone to see.

  Once, back home, she’d seen all those beautiful dresses in a Sears, Roebuck & Co catalog from 1931. She had pored over them for days, whenever her mother wasn’t looking, eager to see how differently the lace draped around the tiny waists, down to the great swelling flow of the skirt just brushing the floor.

  She smiled to herself, thinking of the Amish way. She had been to weddings. In awe of the solemnity of the occasion, the sober-faced row of ministers, the bearded bishop speaking about Ruth and Boaz (what kind of name was that?), and all the other love stories in the Bible. Heiliche Schrift. Holy Bible. All that seemed dim and faraway, like a tarnished memory, one that had too many days and too many miles between now and back then.

  When her cousin Edna was married, her white Swiss organdy cape and apron was stiff and brand new, pinned up under her chin and close about her neck in modesty and dehmut. Her face was white and frozen, like a porcelain doll, as she sat erect and unmoving for the four-hour ceremony. When they (finally) stood in front of the bishop to say their vows, Edna looked as if she would fall over in a swoon, that’s how scared she was. Well, Hannah had decided right then and there that she’d be scared into a faint too if she had to marry Samuel Stoltzfus!

  He was thin as a stick and just as ugly. Mam had told her back then already to stop saying those things. It was brazen, loud-mouthed, and not spoken in Christian love. She guessed she should have sugared it down a little by saying only that he needed a few good home-cooked meals and that he wasn’t handsome.

  But it was true. Samuel was homely looking as all get out. Edna was no beauty, but she was a lot better looking than Samuel. She hoped they were happy in their little rental property. She should write to Edna. Dear Edna, we’re starving and Dat’s crazy!

  She smiled to herself thinking of Mam’s letters to her relatives, the eagerness in her voice when Abby offered her paper and pen, stamps and envelopes. Like water to a dying person.

  No doubt her letters spoke of only goodness—Abby’s birth, the new house (she wouldn’t mention not having a chimney), the Jenkins family’s generosity. Oh, it would all be sweetness and light—how Mose was tilling the soil, how Manny was turning into a man, so strong and able to help Mose. It was Mam’s way, the Stoltzfus pride, the ability to squeeze every drop of goodness out of the most horrid situation. Keeping the moldy cheese curds of life to herself, letting others see only what they could gather from the buttermilk that flowed from her cloth.

  Well, that didn’t sit right with Hannah. You were who you were, and if people didn’t like it, then that was tough. Out here on the prairie there was no one to worry about, no one who cared what you wore or how you talked or if you were clean or filthy dirty from a day’s hard work.

  She shaded her eyes with her hand and searched the surrounding area for signs of a barbed wire fence, a roof, or some sign of civilization. She should soon be at the Jenkins’ place.

  She leaned forward, patted Pete’s neck, and spoke to him, telling him he was a good horse, it wasn’t too far, and then he could rest. On the horizon, she saw a darker blur against the sky. She watched until she could see it was a spring wagon, or buckboard, as they called them out here. It was pulled by a lone horse. Who could it be, other than the Jenkinses?

  Warily, she watched them approach, clouds of dust billowing behind the rattling buckboard, the horse trotting at a brisk pace. She slowed Pete, waiting by the side of the road, thinking perhaps they would want to speak to her.

  Keenly aware of her poor horse, her dress, her white head covering, wearing men’s trousers, and riding bare back with no shoes, Hannah kept her eyes lowered, overcome with shame.

  “Whoa!” The rattling buckboard came to a halt, the black horse hitched to it prancing impatiently. The seat was high, which made the couple appear even larger than they were.

  “How do!” yelled the red-faced, heavyset man on the right. Hannah nodded, smiled only for an instant.

  “My, my, here we have a girl,” the woman burst out, identically heavyset and rosy-hued.

  Hannah thought fleetingly of two well-fed happy piglets, but banished the thought immediately, thinking of Mam and her admonishments.

  “You from hereabouts,” shouted the man, more a statement than a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  Hannah turned and pointed back the way she had come. “I’m Hannah Detweiler. My father’s name is Mose. We just arrived five, maybe six, months ago. We’re from Pennsylvania.”

  “Ah, hah, homesteading are you?”

  “Yes.”

  The woman’s hair was braided, then wound about her head like a crown. She wore no head covering, and her dress was a brilliant hue of pink, mostly made up of pink flowers and green vines. There was a row of buttons down the front of her dress, also pink. Her face was about the same shade of pink as her buttons, with a pert little nose and two bright blue eyes. She was actually pretty, in a pink sort of way.

  Her husband wore a hat that was not a Stetson, the way the Jenkins men wore. It had a soft, floppy brim, and it looked as if it was made of leather. His shirt was white, and he wore a leather vest that he had no hope of closing over his well-rounded stomach.

  Hannah swallowed, thinking of all the good, rich food they must enjoy, being so well fed and amiable.

  “Where are you off to?” asked the woman, leaning forward eagerly, her eyes searching Hannah’s face.

  “To the Jenkins’ place.”

  “That far? Oh, we didn’t tell you our names. My goodness gracious. We are Owen and Sylvia Klasserman. We live over thataway.” She pointed a short, square finger to the east, the sleeve on her dress riding up to reveal a pink, flapping underarm.

  “We must come look where you live. Detweiler, you said? We’re always happy to have new neighbors. We’ve lived here for thirty-some years now. Arrived here at the turn of the century. We’re from Sweden. Rode the whole way across the Atlantic when we were young, full of spit and looking for adventure. We sure got it, let me tell you. There ain’t one speck of bad weather God forgot to send on these Dakota plains, I can tell you right now.”

  Hannah smiled now, revealing her white teeth.

  “My, ain’t you just the purtiest thing! Too bad my boys is all married.” She narrowed her eyes, touched her own braid on top of her head, and asked if she was a nun, from the Catholics.
>
  “No, we’re from the Amish, in Lancaster County.”

  “What are they?” the man broke in, curiosity beaming bluely from beneath his hat brim.

  Hannah shrugged. A deep sense of shame kept her mute. How to describe their way of dress? Their beliefs? They would laugh at her if she tried. Perhaps they weren’t Christians, didn’t even believe in Jesus or anything. She wished she didn’t have to wear this covering anymore. It was just so strange looking, so out of place in a world where there was no one else just like you.

  “Just people like you,” Hannah muttered, hating the self-consciousness that welled up into a blush. She felt the warmth spreading across her cheeks.

  “Ain’t that the truth? Throw us all together in a pot and what you get is vegetable soup. All good, all together, a fine flavor.”

  Hannah swallowed, thinking of her mother’s vegetable soup in the fall when she cleaned out the garden, cut and sliced, diced and chopped, cooked and stewed potatoes, tomatoes, lima beans, green beans, carrots, onions, celery, parsley—and flavored it with beef broth. It was so good with applesauce to cool it down.

  “Wal, we best be on our way. We’re on our way to the Apents. They got a steer down, so we’ll help with the meat.”

  Hannah nodded and wondered who the Apents were and where they lived.

  Owen picked up the reins, clucked to his horse, and with a wave of fluttering hands, the large black horse drew them away.

  Hannah was hungry now, and thirsty. She hoped she’d soon be in sight of the Jenkins’ buildings, or at least see a few cattle dotting the green grass, black dots on green fabric.

  Someday, their own acreage would appear just like that. Branded cattle growing fat on the lush grass, a barn filled with hay in winter, the cattle driven to market, money in the bank. She’d already named the place the Bar S for Stoltzfus, her mother’s maiden name. Right now it was the Bar Someday, a future planned, the biggest obstacle persuading her father and Manny, who was as obstinate as Dat.

  She rode on, gratified to recognize the rolling of the land, the hollows and swells invisible from a distance but close to the Jenkinses. But as faithful Pete neared the outbuildings of the ranch, a sick feeling clenched her stomach. For a moment, she felt like throwing up. Where was her courage, her bluster, when she needed it?