Davey's Daughter

by Linda Byler

  “It is.”

  At the breakfast table, the steaming dishes between them, their hunger slowly satisfied, they spoke of Matthew and Sarah. Dat succeeded at hiding his surprise, and Levi slid his gaze slyly to the side and announced that there would be a wedding soon. Sarah laughed happily and said yes, there might be, but not till next year.

  Priscilla watched Sarah’s face and kept her innermost thoughts to herself. She congratulated her with as much genuine honesty as she could muster, but all was lost on the jubilant Sarah.

  Suzie was the only one to remain silent, keeping her eyes averted, pouring syrup on a buttered pancake with great concentration.

  “Suzie!” Levi tapped her arm. “Aren’t you going to say something to Sarah?”

  “Yes, of course. I just guess my teacher will be disappointed. Matthew comes down to school almost every evening,” she said.

  Mam’s eyes met Dat’s, and both raised their eyebrows, their faces completely rearranged seconds later, although there was no need as Sarah was oblivious to their exchange.

  “Who is your teacher?” Levi asked quickly.

  “You know.”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “Her name is Naomi Ann.”

  “Who?”

  “Oh, you don’t know her.” Suzie waved a hand, eliminating the need for further questioning.

  Soon the Monday that had begun so favorably was clouded when Sarah caught sight of her mother sitting alone in the middle of little Mervin’s twin bed. Her shoulders sagged with the weight of her grief as she held a pair of his flannel pajamas to her face and inhaled their smell, her zeit-lang (longing) for her youngest child encompassing her spirit yet again. Sarah stopped as she passed the door of his room and then went in to sit silently beside her mother, her hands in her lap, her head bent.

  Finally, when a broken sob rose to the surface, she slid a comforting arm around her mother’s heaving shoulders and said, “Don’t, Mam. Please don’t.”

  There was no answer, only small pitiful sounds coming from the pajamas.

  Sarah’s own eyes filled with tears, but something—what was it?—kept her from feeling deeply sympathetic. Did Mam really have to be like this, now?

  Choking, Mam dropped the pajamas in her lap, wiped her eyes with the always useful corner of her apron, and took a deep, shaking breath.

  “Sometimes, on days like this, when I’m not really pushed to get a lot of work done, I come up here to Mervin’s room, just to remember. It helps to hold his clothes, feel them, inhale the odor of him. Or I guess what’s left of him.”

  Sarah nodded, unable to form the words expected of her.

  Sniffing, her mother straightened and reached for the small cedar chest containing his treasures, her fingers lifting each one—a steel sinker, a pencil sharpener, a bit of paper, two quarters, a dime, a spool of white thread. Then she replaced them, closing the lid, a finality, once more grasping for strength to sustain her.

  “Oh, he was just so small. The water so horrible and strong. It must have thrown him around like a rag doll. I always hope he bumped his head and passed out, that he didn’t suffer, swallowing that awful water. He was so little, so alone, and I wasn’t there to help him.”

  Lost in the throes of her agony, she stared, unseeing, at the opposite wall, unable to rise above the bitterness of her small son’s drowning.

  “Why do you still feel this way, Mam? It’s almost eight months since he died.”

  “I know. Time passing by helps, but I still need my personal time to grieve every now and then. He was my baby.”

  Mam turned her head then, taking Sarah completely by surprise, and said, “Let’s talk about you now.”

  “Why me?”

  “Oh, I’d think you’d be so very excited about dating Matthew.”

  “I am, Mam. It’s every bit as unreal as you imagine.”

  Mam nodded, flipped a covering sting behind her back. “So now we need to have the talk about dating, too.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Mam watched Sarah’s face, the color spreading across it, the averted eyes, and knew suddenly why she had felt this sense of sadness, the grieving for her lost son, which had to be faced as well as this talk with her daughter.

  Her voice fell firmly on Sarah’s ears.

  “You know that I cannot be untrue to you, Sarah.”

  Groping for words, Sarah’s mouth opened and closed again.

  “I want you to be happy.”

  Mam watched Sarah’s profile, the bowed head, the way the curls sprang from her forehead like they had done when she was a little girl. Mervin’s age.

  How precious these daughters had been arriving in succession after four boys! Little Sarah, her hair a riot always, the mothers clucking and exclaiming, saying that the paternal grandmother had given her that wavy hair—that’s what.

  Here she was, concerned about Sarah but grieving for Mervin when, after all, Mervin was fer-sarked now, wasn’t he? But what about Sarah?

  “You know I have my concerns about Matthew. He’s always been a magnet for girls, and I’m just so afraid….”

  “Stop it, Mam,” Sarah’s voice cut in, sharp, frightened. “You don’t want me to be happy, or you wouldn’t talk to me this way. Matthew really does love me, Mam. He…he kisses me. He…he likes me much more than other girls. I know I can keep him happy. I can be his girl, and he will not want anyone else.”

  Mam thought of backing down, of trying to believe her daughter. She thought of putting her up on the same pedestal where she’d perched Allen, thinking he was so much more than he was. In her eyes, in those days, Allen had done no wrong. Whatever he thought, Mam thought. Whatever he did, Mam thought was just great as well.

  That, she knew now, was the surest, fastest path to a very real tumble off the pedestal, hurting more than one person in a clumsy plunge seen by everyone who had predicted it.

  Mam had learned her lesson when Allen had moped around the house, sighing and crying after his beloved Katie broke off the relationship. He lost his position as foreman of his uncle’s framing crew soon after.

  To exalt one’s offspring, to esteem them with pride, was not the way of the fruits of the Spirit, the humility and love of Christ’s way, she had learned and learned well.

  “Sarah, you stop.” Mam’s voice was terrible, cutting through all the assurance Sarah had piled around her sleeping conscience.

  “First of all, young lady, he kisses you? And how much do you think that has to do with real love? The kind that lasts.”

  “Everything!” Sarah burst out passionately now.

  Mam shook her head in disbelief. “Have I not taught you anything?”

  “Why would you have? I never dated. That should be reason enough, don’t you think?”

  “Sarah, you must listen to me. You said he asked you for a first date and yet he has already kissed you? More than once? I am having a fit, seriously.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to have one then.”

  With that, Sarah propelled herself off the bed and strode purposefully into her room, closing the door with more force than necessary.

  Up came Mam’s head. She stretched both arms high, got off the bed, and followed her daughter’s footsteps. She yanked open the door and stood there, her feet planted firmly, her eyebrows lowered, her fists on her hips.

  “You will not slam a door in my face!”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Of course you did.”

  Then Mam talked, really talked. She warned Sarah of the dangers of confusing love with want or need. She said it was the confusion that follows the heels of living by your own will, tricking yourself into believing that God approves of your will.

  Sarah calmed under Mam’s words, spoken with authority, although not without kindness. Mam assured her she would stand by her choice, and only God knew what the end result would be.

  “I think you are old enough to make sensible choices, Sarah, but this is not one of them, allowing yoursel
f this intimacy with him before you are dating. It’s just not good, and I’m afraid nothing good will come of it.”

  Sarah said nothing.

  “I’ll have to ask you to promise me you’ll speak to Matthew about this.”

  “I can’t, Mam!” Sarah wailed.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s asking too much. It’s…it’s all I have.”

  Sinking down beside Sarah, Mam realized from this statement just how great the danger really was, and she quaked in her shoes.

  Oh my dear, small Mervin! I grieve for you when you are so safe, in a much better place with the Heavenly Father and all the angels. Here on earth, we are faced by this real adversary. How should she go about this?

  In her wise way, Mam decided to wait. She needed to talk to Davey. They had a Christmas dinner to attend, and Sarah must have a bit of time as well.

  So she held her troubled daughter in her arms, rested her forehead on Sarah’s cheek, and told her to be very careful and to pray. God always answers the prayers of the humble, and she had so much more to offer Matthew—a good personality, a sweetness of character, and, of course, she was pretty, if that meant something.

  Sarah laughed softly. She shook her head, but she knew without a doubt that she could not do what Mam required of her. It was too much.

  By March, the customers at the farmer’s market in New Jersey were always impatient for the arrival of new spring onions, red radishes, and asparagus from Lancaster County. Sarah worked at the bakery, which took up one part of the huge brick building where many vendors plied their wares.

  Today, Sarah was in a sunny mood, laughing at a heavyset matron who asked her why anyone could ever be anxious when these warm cinnamon rolls were so delicious and available the whole year round.

  She stood behind a plexiglass wall, rolling a strip of soft dough for the cinnamon rolls, the wooden rolling pin making a clacking noise as she bore down on both handles, her arms rounded, muscular.

  “Do you have a moment?”

  Sarah looked up, surprised to find her friend, Ashley, from the leather goods stand. She was a thin, pale girl who seemed as if her world was filled with anxiety.

  They had more than just a passing friendship now. Sarah felt sorry for Ashley and was often unable to put her large, frightened eyes out of her mind.

  Sarah asked for permission to take a break, and the two girls walked together through the market. They slid into a booth close to the soft pretzel stand, where the warm, yeasty smells made their stomachs rumble.

  “Did you eat?” Sarah asked.

  “No.”

  “You want to?”

  “It’s okay. I don’t have any money.”

  “I’ll buy you a pretzel.”

  “No.”

  Ashley had never allowed Sarah to learn much about her, other than the fact that her father owned the leather goods shop. But she was a nice girl even if she was timid and shy. And she had shown an interest in the survivors of the latest barn fire, where the house had burned as well as the barn.

  Ashley wore a dull, washed-out sweatshirt, not quite green and not gray, her hair hanging thinly on either side of her face, and a….

  Sarah gasped.

  “Ashley! What happened to your eye?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. It…I…like…I hit the corner of a cupboard door. At night. It was dark. Dumb.”

  Ashley bent to retrieve her purse, winced, then let it go, placing both hands on the table before picking at her fingernail, examining her hands very closely.

  “Ashley. Is something wrong?”

  “No.”

  The word was emphatic, followed by a swift shaking of her head. Suddenly, she gripped the table’s edge, her eyes opened wide, and she met Sarah’s eyes with intensity.

  “Well, not really. But…”

  Sarah waited.

  “Since you’re dating, do you, like, know your boyfriend really well? Do you know where he goes and what he does?”

  Catching the inside of her lip with her teeth, Ashley’s eyes were pools of raw concern.

  Sarah laughed softly.

  “Well, Ashley. I can’t always compare some things with you. Our people live very quiet lives, in a way. Usually Matthew goes to work, comes home, reads, helps his mother, or plays baseball or volleyball sometimes. Just ordinary, dull stuff. So I don’t feel as if I need to know where he is or where he goes throughout the week.”

  “Oh,” Ashley said softly. “So, if my, like, boyfriend, disappears sometimes, would you worry if you were me?”

  “Disappears? You mean he leaves for weeks or months?”

  “Weeks…sometimes just days.”

  “He doesn’t tell you what he’s doing?”

  “If I ask, he says he’s just working or going to school or visiting.”

  “Well, then I guess he is.”

  “Yeah.”

  Sarah smiled reassuringly at her friend, bringing a warmth to her eyes, which crinkled at the sides as a smile spread across her wan face.

  “Well, yeah, whatever,” she said, trying to reassure herself.

  “I mean, if you love him, I think you should be able to trust him. It seems those two sort of go together.”

  “You’re right.”

  Ashley looked off across the market at the lights, the signs, the milling customers, her eyes wide, unseeing.

  “How’s…those people?”

  “You mean Reuben Kauffmans?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. They really are strong people.”

  “That’s awesome. I have to go.”

  Ashley slipped away, disappearing into the crowd, the way she often seemed to do, leaving Sarah to shrug her shoulders and move off in search of something to eat.

  Sarah never tired of the market’s wide array of foods. She tried something new almost every week, when she was working on Fridays and Saturdays.

  She bought a bowl of creamy potato soup, ate it with a dish of applesauce, and started back to work. She was suddenly stopped by the sound of voices behind the crowded display of leather products.

  “You can’t go around asking questions!”

  There was a murmured reply and a louder voice, threatening, angry.

  Sarah shivered as she hurried on, looking back over her shoulder after she passed. Something just wasn’t quite right.

  The spring peepers kept Priscilla awake that evening, so she got up to close her bedroom window on the east side of the house, figuring the bit of fresh air could be sacrificed for some peace and quiet.

  She was bone weary after helping Mam with the Friday cleaning, helping Dat with the milking, and washing the carriage for church on Sunday. She had begun to think she was about as handy as that Robinson Crusoe’s man Friday, doing everything and anything no one else had time to do.

  She could hardly wait until the year passed and she would turn sixteen years of age. Then she would be allowed to work at the farmer’s market with Sarah. Life was just so boring at fifteen.

  Priscilla pushed aside the curtain, and a flickering, orange light entered her line of vision only a second before she screamed and screamed, a long, drawn out, shrill cry of alarm that brought a yell of response from the bedroom below.

  “Fire! Fire! Dat! Dat! It’s a fire!”

  She couldn’t move. She stood rooted to the spot by the window, her hands grabbing the windowsill, her nails digging into the varnished wood. She could see the flames already, beginning to leap wickedly in the night sky, illuminating the billows of smoke.

  Sarah rushed into Priscilla’s room, confused, having just fallen asleep after her long day at market.

  “Oh no!”

  Her hands went to her mouth, as if to keep the words from escaping. They heard Dat. He was running, opening the kitchen door. Levi bellowed from his room, a cry of alarm asking for someone to tell him what was going on.

  “It’s…it’s at Elam’s!”

  “No! It’s up the road.”

  “Surely not at Lydi
a’s!”

  “Oh no!”

  The girls dressed hurriedly, grabbed sweaters and headscarves, and followed Dat out the front door. They walked quickly, the sound of the fire sirens a comfort now, assuring them that help was on the way.

  They hurried past Elam and Hannah’s, whose house was dark, which seemed unbelievable, but Sarah didn’t want to alarm them. Besides, she looked terrible and didn’t want Matthew to see her like that.

  “Ach my.”

  Dat said the only thing he could think to say, the pity so overwhelming.

  Yes, it was the barn belonging to the struggling Widow Lydia Esh. It was a rather large, old one, the paint peeling like white fur down its sides, the roof in good repair even though the metal was mismatched.

  She kept a respectable herd of cows, and her oldest son, Omar, a square-shouldered, responsible seventeen-year-old, managed the animals with surprising expertise.

  “There’s no one awake!” Priscilla gasped.

  With no thought other than the poor widow asleep in her bed, the girls ran, their speed increasing as they rounded the bend, hurtled down an incline, and raced up to the porch, their breath coming in gasps as they pounded on the front door.

  The night their own barn had burned was still fresh in their minds. They opened the screen door and banged harder, yelling with all their might, the cows bawling in the background.

  “Get the cows!”

  Leaving the porch, they evaluated the distance from the licking flames to the cow stable. They might be able to save some of them.

  Priscilla was yelling, crying, spurred on by a sense of duty borne of her own heartbreaking experience. She had no thought for her own safety, only that of the very necessary cows, the widow’s livelihood, her bread and butter.

  They raced through the door and searched for chains, snaps, anything that would give them a clue as to how the cows were tied.

  “Snaps!” Priscilla shouted.

  Sarah fell and started to crawl along the floor but bumped into the large face of a cow that was clearly terrified. She groped along its neck, found the collar, then the chain and the metal clasp, and clicked it open.

  Bawling, the cow backed out, followed by four or five more.