by Linda Byler
“The work of some extremely smart men.”
“Terrorists.”
“Arabs.”
“Oh, stop it. Those people wouldn’t bother with our ordinary horses.”
“I can’t think of one single person in a thousand-mile radius that would be brilliant enough to carry this off. Not a one.”
The conversation became more animated, each acquaintance contributing his voice, until it was hard to comprehend what they were really discussing. And they thought women at a quilting were bad! They couldn’t be much more talkative than this.
Now she heard Jim’s voice.
“Yeah, it’s weird. But hardly much weirder than a starved and dyin’ horse jumping down a bank out of the woods smack in front of my truck bringin’ the Amish girl this morning. That thing appeared outta nowhere. Hit the brakes and skidded ’fore we hit ’im.”
“Did you kill ’im?”
“No. I got ’er stopped in time. But don’t think the horse’ll make it. Skinniest thing I ever seed. Ever.”
There was a murmur among the men, nods of agreement as each contemplated the scene in his own imagination.
Sadie knew Jim was well-liked and highly esteemed among the men. The few times he gave his opinion, the men considered, talked about, and respected it.
“Easy for a horse to git pretty skinny in this weather.”
“He weren’t just skinny. He was pretty bad.”
“What happened to him?”
“That Fred Skinner came along in his cattle truck. City guy with him was gonna call the vet.”
The snorts were unanimous.
“Spend a couple hundred for the vet when the poor miserable creature’ll go the way of nature anyhow.”
“Yep.”
“Them city people.”
“Looks as if breakfast is ready.”
Sadie slipped through the swinging doors into the kitchen, unnoticed.
Now that bit of news was something to think about. And…well, she may as well give it all up. Maybe that horse lying on the road was really just like a mirage to a person dying of thirst and walking in a desert. You thought what you wanted was there, but it never really was, despite the fact that you were absolutely convinced of its existence. Maybe instead of a look in a horse’s beautiful eyes, it was only her own emotions—all a fleeting mirage, her imagination run wild.
It was probably the same with Mark. Whoever he was. Of course, any girl would react to someone as good-looking as him. What did Mam say? Don’t go by looks. So there you go. It wasn’t real attraction.
Sadie tackled the pans, scraping their residue into tall garbage cans lined with heavyweight garbage bags, getting them ready for the commercial dishwasher. Thankfully, today she would not encounter “Her Royal Highness, the lofty Barbara Caldwell,” as Sadie was prone to thinking of her.
Sadie had long decided some people were wealthy and you would never know by their attitude. Only their clothes, the cars they drove, or their homes revealed their monetary value. And some people… Well, Barbara was a piece of work. If she could, she would clean the floor with a Lysol disinfectant wipe after Sadie walked on it. She had no use for those pious, bearded people, even refusing to speak the name “Amish.” Sadie had found it extremely hard at first, cringing whenever Barbara approached, but, after three years, Barbara actually addressed Sadie, though only on rare occasions.
One of her favorite put-downs was asking Sadie to pick up the dry cleaning in town. Then she would wave her long, jeweled fingers and say, “Oh yes, I keep forgetting. You don’t have your license.”
Each time, Sadie ground her teeth in an effort not to tell Barbara that if she did have her license, she wouldn’t pick up her dry cleaning anyway. In fact, she wanted to say to Barbara that she could just heave herself and all her excess poundage off to the dry cleaners and pick it up herself. But her upbringing, of course, denied her that wonderful luxury.
Jim said Barbara wasn’t like that when he was around. But Dorothy heartily disagreed and told him so.
“You can’t be peaches and cream at one person’s table, then turn around and be sauerkraut at the next.”
Sadie never said much, if anything at all. She was taught at home not to speak ill of anyone, and Sadie knew without a doubt that was one of the hardest things for human nature to overcome. How could you respect someone who so obviously viewed you with only contempt?
Chapter 5
SADIE WAS ALWAYS HAPPY TO RETURN TO HER HOME in the evening. She just wished Jim would push that old truck a bit faster and never failed to be amazed at how slowly he navigated the winding, uphill drive to the house. Tonight, though, the snow made the hill treacherous, so she was glad he didn’t accelerate around the bend.
The warm, golden square windows of home were welcoming beacons through the grayish-white evening light, and Sadie could almost smell the good supper Mam had already prepared.
“See ya!” Sadie said, hopping lightly out of the old pickup.
“Mm-hm,” Jim grunted.
Sadie swung open the door to the kitchen, which was awash in the bright glow of the propane gas lamps set into the ornate wooden cabinet next to the kitchen cupboards.
“I’m home!” she sang out.
There was no answer, no supper on the stove, no table set by the French doors.
“Hey! I’m home!”
Leah came quietly into the kitchen, making no sound at all, her face pale, but smiling a welcome in the way sisters grin at one another after an absence.
Sisters were like that. A grin, a look, a soul connection, a mutual knowing that one was just as glad to see the other, an understanding of “Oh, goody, you’re home!” but with no words.
Leah was only two years younger than Sadie, and, at 18, one of the prettiest of the sisters. Blonde-haired, with the same blue eyes as Sadie, Leah was always light-hearted, happy, and upbeat about any situation. Mam said Leah was the sunshine of the family.
But today there was a soft, gray cloud over her sister’s blue eyes, and Sadie raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
“It’s Mam.”
“What?”
“I don’t know. She’s…” Leah shrugged her shoulders.
“She’s what?” Sadie asked, feeling a sickness rise in her stomach like the feeling she used to have in school before the Christmas program.
Leah shrugged again.
“I don’t know.”
Sadie faced her sister squarely, the sick feeling in her stomach launching an angry panic. She wanted to hit Leah to make her tell her what was wrong with Mam.
“Is she sick? Why do you act so dumb about this?”
Sadie fought to keep her voice level, to keep a rein on her sick panic so it wouldn’t make her cry or scream. She would do anything to stop Leah from looking like that.
“Sadie, stop.”
Leah turned her back, holding her shoulders stiffly erect as if to ward off Sadie’s obvious fear.
“Leah, is something wrong? Seriously. With our Mam?”
Leah stayed in that stiff position, and Sadie’s heart sank so low, she fought for breath. The lower your heart went, the harder it was to breathe, and breathing was definitely essential. It wasn’t that your heart literally sank. It was more like the sensation you had whenever something really, really scared you.
Sadie sat down hard, weak now, struggling to push back the looming fear. Sadie put her head in her hands, her thoughts flooding out any ability to speak rationally to her sister.
Nothing was wrong. Not really. Leah, can’t you see? Mam is okay. I haven’t noticed anything out of the ordinary. You haven’t either. She’s just tired. She’s weary of working. She loves us. She loves Dat. She has to. She loves Montana. She has to do that, too. Dat loves our mother, too. He has to. There is nothing wrong in this family. Turn around, Leah. Turn around and say it with me: There is nothing wrong in our family.
Leah turned quietly, as if any swift or sudden movement would enable the fear to gri
p them both.
“Sadie.”
Sadie lifted her head, meeting Leah’s eyes, and in that instant recognized with a heart-stopping knowledge that Leah knew, too.
Leah knew Mam had been … well … weird. She had been acting strangely, but not so strange that any of her daughters dared bring up the subject, ever.
They all loved Mam, and if she changed in some obvious ways, well, it was just Mam—just how some people became older. Mam had always been meticulous. Her housekeeping was her pride and joy. Her garden was tended lovingly.
Mam was always hoeing, mulching, or spraying, and her vegetable garden produced accordingly, which kept them busy canning and freezing all summer long.
One of Mam’s secrets to gardening was how she kept the weeds at bay. She attacked them with vengeance, using old, moldy mulch hay. She brought it in and spread it until the weeds had no chance of maturing or taking over everything.
Sadie could still feel the slimy hay in her arms, the outer layer scratching her legs as they lugged the gruesome stuff from the wagon to the corn rows. The cucumbers and zucchini squash grew in long, velvety spirals over thick chunks of “old hay,” as Mam called it. The old hay kept the plants moist. So they produced abundantly, as did all Mam’s vegetables even though the growing season was short in Montana.
Lime was absolutely necessary, Mam said. Pulverized lime was like talcum powder in a bag, and so smooth and cool, it was fun to bury your hands deep into the middle of it.
The strawberry patch was weeded, mulched with clean, yellow straw, and sprayed so it produced great, red succulent berries every year. There was nothing in the whole world better than sitting in the straw beside a plant loaded down with heavy, red berries and pinching off the green top before popping the berry into your mouth.
They grew their peas on great lengths of chicken wire, held up by wooden stakes that Dat pounded into the thawed soil in the spring when the stalks were still tiny. As the rain and sunshine urged them to grow, the peas climbed the chicken wire, and little white flowers bloomed with vigor. Later they would turn into long, green pods, heavy with little green peas.
Picking peas was not the girls’ favorite job, but sitting beneath the spreading maple trees on lawn chairs with bowls and buckets of peas to shell definitely was. They would spend all afternoon shelling them—pressing on one side with their thumbs and raking out all the little, green peas from inside the pods.
They talked and laughed and got silly, Mam being one of the silliest of all. And they would make great big sausage sandwiches with fresh new onions and radishes from the garden along with a gallon of grape Kool-Aid that was all purple and sugary and artificial and not one bit good for you, Mam said.
After the pea crop was over, they all had to help with the most hateful job in the garden. Taking down the pea wire and stripping off all those tangled vines was the slowest, most maddening task, and every one of the sisters thoroughly disliked it.
They always fought at one time or another. Often the sun got too hot, and no one was particularly happy, so they argued and sat down and refused to work and tattled accordingly.
Mam was always busy and … well … so very normal. Canning cucumbers, making strawberry jam, canning those little red beets that smelled like the wet earth when she cooked them soft in stainless steel stockpots. She would cook them, cool them, cut them into bite-sized pieces, and cover them with a pickling brew. Oh, they were so good in the wintertime with thick, cheesy, oniony, potato chowder.
All this went through Sadie’s mind as her eyes met Leah’s. Then Sadie turned her head to look away, out over the valley.
“We didn’t have red beets for a long time,” she whispered.
Leah nodded.
“It’s the little things: dust under the hutch in the dining room, unfinished quilts, the pills, the endless row of different homeopathic remedies…”
“But Sadie, she’s still all right, isn’t she?”
“Yes. She’s just changing. Getting older.”
“Hey! Why is there no supper?”
“Well…” Leah began.
Then she looked down, bending her head as great, tearing sobs tore at her throat. Sadie’s horror rose, a giant dragon waiting to consume her, maybe even slay her.
How could she? How could Mam be like this?
Hot tears pricked her own eyes, and she sat quietly, waiting until Leah’s tears subsided.
“Sadie, I think it’s pretty bad. For a few months now, I’ve watched Mam when she thinks she’s alone. She hoards things and…and…oh, I mean it, Sadie, it’s too painful to talk about. She keeps certain things like combs and dollar bills and…and hairpins in a certain drawer, and as long as that drawer is undisturbed, she appears …well … she is fairly normal. She works, she talks, and no one notices anything different.”
“I do.”
“You do?” Leah lifted her head, wiping at her eyes with the back of her hand.
“Well, she’s…I don’t know. Like this morning, she was leafing through a cookbook asking what we want for our Christmas menu. Christmas is over a month away. Almost two months. It’s as if…almost as if she isn’t really here. Here in this house. With us and Dat.”
Leah sat up, bringing her fist down on the table, startling Sadie.
“She isn’t here. Her heart and soul are still in Ohio.”
“But Leah, by all outward appearances, she wanted to come. She held Dat’s hand, her eyes sparkled, she was so excited. I can still see her sitting in the living room with Dat. Oh, I remember. I felt as if she was deserting me. I was so heartbroken about Paris. I felt as if she didn’t care about me or Paris, she was so completely with Dat.”
“She’s not with Dat anymore. Sadie, there’s a lot going on that can easily escape us. Dat and Mam are just keeping on for pride’s sake. It’s…not the way it should be.”
“Like…how?”
“Oh, just different ways. When did we last have Dat’s favorite supper? Huh?”
There was silence as the conversation fizzled. Was it all in their imaginations? Were they imagining the worst? Maybe it was normal for mothers to change after they turned 46.
“Where are Dat and Mam now?”
“They… argued, fought.”
“About what?”
“I don’t want to tell you. They didn’t know I overheard. I’d feel like a traitor if I spread it around.”
Suddenly anger consumed Sadie, sending its fiery tentacles around her body until she thought she would suffocate.
“All right, be that way—all your lofty pride intact, walking around with a serene expression when you know something is wrong—way wrong—with our mother. We have to face it. We can’t just sweep it under the carpet and then go around acting as if we are one perfect, happy family, when we know it isn’t true because it’s not.”
Leah sighed.
“Sit down and stop that. All right, Mam told Dat she wasn’t feeling good, but she refused to go get help. They…well, it wasn’t pretty. She finally agreed to go to the chiropractor in town.”
“As if a chiropractor is going to help.”
“Well, it’s something.”
“Pffff!”
Rebekah appeared, straight pins stuck in the front of her dress, thread stuck to her sleeve, an anxious expression in her eyes.
“What’s for supper? Where’s Mam and Dat?”
Reuben and Anna followed Rebekah into the room, laughing about something. Sadie could tell they had been in the basement playing their endlessly competitive games of ping-pong. Reuben was 10 years old now, old enough to let Anna know that his ping-pong game was worth worrying about.
Sadie groaned inwardly. Oh, they were so precious. So innocent and sweet and dear and good. Why couldn’t things just remain the way they used to be?
Sadie walked over to Reuben, wrapped her arms around him, and pulled him close, kissing the top of his thick, blonde hair. She got as far as “How are you…?” before he pulled away from her, straining at
her arms, pounding them with his fists, twisting his head, shouting, “Get away from me!” His eyes squinted to a mocking glare, but his mouth was smiling, although he tried desperately to hide that fact.
Ten-year-old brothers had a serious aversion to hugs.
Leah sat up then, bolstering a new-found courage, and said brightly, “Who’s hungry?”
“We all are,” Anna said.
“Everybody vote. Grilled cheese and tomato soup?”
“Ewww!”
“Hamburgers?”
“Had that last night!”
“Hot dogs?”
“No way. Not for supper.”
Sadie watched Leah summoning more strength, a wide smile appearing, as she said, “Eggs-in-a-nest? With homemade ketchup?”
“Pancakes!” Reuben yelled.
“Pancakes!” Anna echoed.
“All right, pancakes and eggs-in-a-nest it shall be.”
Leah marched resolutely to the kitchen cupboard, Rebekah at her heels, and Sadie slipped away, gratefully unnoticed.
Bless Leah’s heart. I don’t know if I could do that right now. I’m tired, I’m worried, and I’m going to my room.
Wearily, Sadie slowly climbed the stairs, supporting herself with the handrail. She entered the bathroom, lit the kerosene lamp suspended from the wall on a heavy hanger, and braced herself against the vanity top with her hands. Her hair looked horrible, her covering crooked, and there was a greasy sheen on her forehead. Her eyes were puffy and frightened, her whole face a mess.
Well, it’s been quite a day, she thought, turning away from the mirror and going to her bedroom.
She felt a strong sense of homecoming, rest, and peace as she entered the cool, beige room with its two large windows facing the west. Heavy, white curtains were parted on each side, held back with sand-colored tiebacks to match the bedspread. Her furniture was fairly new; a matching oak bedroom suite made by her Uncle John from the Ohio district where they had once lived. She had collected some pottery that was handmade in Brentwood, which was her pride and joy. White and beige candles and pictures in subdued hues completed the room.
There was a beige-colored sofa by the windows piled with darker beige pillows, and she sank gratefully into one corner, letting her head fall back as she closed her eyes.
