by Linda Byler
Silently, a dark form joined them, unsnapping the cow’s restraints, his arms waving, shooing them out.
Omar!
“Do you have horses in here?”
“One!”
“It’s getting hot!”
“I’ll get him!”
The youth plunged into the far corner of the barn, only to be met by a determined Priscilla, hanging on to the halter of a magnificent Belgian.
“I got him. Get what you can from the milk house!”
Sarah had already headed that way and was met by a stream of firemen, their great pulsing beasts already parked, men swarming everywhere, shouting, organizing.
Lydia Esh was also in the milk house, blindly throwing out buckets, milking machines, water hoses, anything she could fling out the door, her mouth set grimly, determined to survive.
The night sky was no longer dark, lit by the roaring flames of yet another barn fire, and it wasn’t quite April, the month of their own fire.
Sarah heard strangled crying and looked to the old farmhouse, where she saw a cluster of shivering, frightened children cowering against the wooden bench by the door.
Quickly, she wound her way between the fire trucks, saw Dat and a few neighbor men backing a wagon away from the barn, and went to the children, herding them inside, lighting the propane lamp, assuring them they would be safe there in the house.
Anna Mae was Priscilla’s age, a dark-haired girl who was terrified senseless with the shock of the fire. She stood by the refrigerator crying, unable to help with the younger ones.
Sarah steered her to the couch, covered her shivering form with an afghan she found on the back of a chair, and then sat beside her, rubbing her back and speaking any word of comfort she could think of.
“Are we going to die?”
The quavering little voice came from a small boy. There was a hole in his pajama top, his hair was tousled, and he was hanging on to a raggedy teddy bear with one of its button eyes loose and dangling from a white thread.
Sarah scooped him up quickly, smoothed his hair, and assured him they would certainly not die. The firemen were there now, and they’d keep the house safe.
The neighbors poured in, standing in the yard, white-faced, disbelief stamped on their features. This time something would have to be done, their faces said.
To start a barn fire was one thing, but to take from a poor widow was quite another. It was a slap in the face to a community already downed by previous fires but a brutal blow for a woman who had already endured more than her share of grief and hardship.
The flames leaped into the night sky, but the steady streams of water sizzled and sputtered, battling the tongues of fire far into the night. The water from the great nozzles was not used sparingly. And the haymow contained less than a third of the year’s hay, so that helped.
In the course of the night, they soon realized there was more saved and less damage done because of the fire company’s timely arrival. Who had called?
Dat testified to hearing the sirens when they were barely out of their own driveway. And Elams hadn’t even been awake yet. Someone English? Some Amish on the road late at night?
Lydia Esh stood by the old tool shed, her work coat pinned securely with a large safety pin, and watched with hard resolve as the firemen worked to save whatever they could.
In the light of the flames, the cows stood, backed up against the peeling board fence, and watched warily. A neighbor man had taken the Belgian stallion home to his barn, away from the terrifying blaze.
Elam and Hannah came walking together, their faces grim with fear and—was it only weariness?
Hannah came into the kitchen, clucked and fussed. She told Sarah that this time it was completely senseless. A widow.
She praised Sarah effusively, saying of course she’d be the one here. But didn’t she have market tomorrow? Sarah nodded, but she she’d probably take off with an emergency like this in the neighborhood. She was willing to sacrifice a small portion of her wages if she could be of help to Lydia.
The widow seemed so alone, so gaunt, so determined. She had no husband to lean on, standing alone by the tool shed, and Sarah wondered what must be going through her mind.
Self-pity? Defeat? Prayer?
She moved to the kitchen window, still holding the small boy, in time to see Omar walk over to stand beside his mother. She turned her face to him, then slowly reached out and clasped his hand, before releasing it quickly as if that small gesture of love embarrassed her.
Then Priscilla also moved to her side, slid an arm beneath Lydia’s, and laid her head on her shoulder. Obviously moved, Lydia laid her cheek on top of Priscilla’s head, and they stood together, an example of shared experience, heartfelt mitt leidas (sympathy), a statue of neighborly love.
But what really moved Sarah was the figure of Omar, the oldest son, who stood with his wide shoulders held erect, mature beyond his years, holding heavy responsibility before his time.
As if Priscilla read Sarah’s thoughts, she moved to his side shyly but touched his arm and spoke. He inclined his head and answered, and that was where Priscilla stayed as the fire burned steadily into the night—at Omar’s side.
Sarah turned and opened a cupboard door to look for a kettle to heat water for coffee. She found one and filled it, then searched for coffee with Hannah’s help. Quietly, trying to hide the truth from each other, they slowly closed door after door before settling back on the couch, their eyes speaking. There was no coffee. There was only a scant amount of flour and sugar, a bag of oatmeal, a box of generic Corn Flakes.
“Siss net chide (It’s not right),” Hannah breathed finally.
Sarah shook her head dully.
Hannah got up, saying she’d go get coffee and wake Matthew. It was embarrassing, the way he slept.
Sarah had no idea Matthew was still in bed. My, he was quite a sound sleeper. Perhaps he was up, already starting the French toast he’d made on the morning of their own fire.
A smile of belonging played around her lips, and she cuddled the small Rebecca close. Always, Matthew’s love sustained her, lifted her spirits, no matter what.
When Hannah returned, she was pulling an express wagon laden with groceries. Sarah helped carry them in, amazed at Hannah’s “extras.”
The children were falling asleep again, so Anna Mae carried a few of them to her mother’s bed, emerging white-faced but helpful as reality sunk in.
They made coffee and then sliced bread for sandwiches. Lydia came into the house and said, oh no, they shouldn’t go to all that trouble, but she said it softly, as though if she spoke too loudly, her voice might break into tears, and she could not display weakness now.
Sarah spread mayonnaise on one piece of bread, mustard on the other, then layered the sweet Lebanon bologna and Swiss cheese between the slices and cut them diagonally while Hannah finished the coffee.
They put bags of pretzels, cans of beans and peaches and applesauce in the pantry. A large round container of oatmeal cookies and one of chocolate chip were stored away beside them.
Lydia watched and apologized. She said she was a bit short this month, but the milk check was due tomorrow.
Hannah was kind, telling her she’d get a lot more than that before this was all over, chuckling in a way that meant well for Lydia.
When the men slowly trooped in for refreshment, Sarah couldn’t help watching for Matthew, who remained maddeningly absent.
Hannah sidled up to her.
“He wasn’t feeling good last night. I think he took too much Tylenol for a headache.”
So that was it. Good. Sarah was relieved now, and she stopped watching the line of men. Matthew would be here if he felt well, that was one thing sure. He was so good-hearted, so neighborly.
The last one to come in was Omar, his face streaked and black, his eyes weary. Lee Glick walked with him, his own face darkened, highlighting the electric blue of his eyes. They were talking seriously but stopped when they reached the li
ght of the kitchen.
Lee thanked Sarah for the coffee, but she did not meet his eyes, finding a certain safety in avoiding them.
Lee stepped to the side of the kitchen with Omar following him the way a stray dog follows his benefactor, a look of adoration on his young, traumatized face.
Priscilla tried to be discreet, but her ears were tuned to everything Lee was saying, her eyes opening wide, snapping, alert. Finally, she just gave up and joined in the conversation. Whatever it was they were discussing, it was apparently an interesting subject for her as well.
Weariness overtook Sarah soon after the refreshments were served, and she looked around for Dat, caught his eye, and gestured to the clock.
He nodded. Relieved, Sarah moved to his side.
“Ready?”
“I’m falling asleep.”
She told Lydia they’d be back in the morning after a few hours of sleep. She told Priscilla to come, they were going home now.
“Hey, thanks. You…you saved the cows,” Omar said, talking mostly to Priscilla.
“You’re welcome.”
“Thank you, Sarah.”
“You’re welcome. You know we experienced the same thing, so we know exactly how you feel.”
He nodded shyly.
“Good night, Sarah.”
She looked up and met Lee’s blue eyes and immediately wished she hadn’t. The light in them questioned her, mocked her, put her on guard, as if she needed to explain her position in life, for being here, for dating Matthew, for…so many things.
She decided then that he was gros-feelich (proud) and she had chosen well, being with Matthew.
“You could at least have said goodnight to him,” Priscilla grumbled as they wound their way between the throbbing fire trucks.
Sarah said nothing.
“Did you hear what he was telling Omar?”
“What?”
“He’s interested in raising Belgians for profit. Lee is. He doesn’t think Omar knows the value of that big stallion. Oh my goodness, Sarah! That horse could walk right over you and not even know it.”
Sarah plodded along beside her sister as Priscilla babbled on about Omar and his Belgian and how kind that Lee was. Sarah’s head spun, and she wished Priscilla would just be quiet.
“Where was Matthew?”
“He didn’t feel good.”
“Poor baby.”
Sarah didn’t feel the remark deserved an answer, so she walked on under the early spring sky, the night air still sharp with cold. But she could hear the sweet sounds of the earth waiting to burst into new life. The peepers were still persistent, their shrill mating calls stirring some old, bittersweet memory for Sarah. She became nostalgic, thinking back to when life was less complicated, soft and innocent, the way the years of her youth had been for so long.
The stars twinkled down from the black velvet sky as if to remind Sarah of their steadfastness. They were a guiding light, a trusting age-old light that God had planned the same way he had planned the spring peepers, the changing seasons, and, above all, the design He had for her.
Unbidden and mysterious, two tears emerged, quivered, and slid slowly down her soft cheeks, lit only by the light of a waning moon and about two million stars.
Dat said if Lancaster County had responded well to disaster in the past, the caring was doubled, tripled, quadrupled for the poor widow after Hannah spread the word effusively and colorfully about the under-stocked pantry.
Even conservative members of the Old Order Amish voiced their outrage now. Something had to be done about all the fires. Old Dannie Fisher talked to the media, a vein of anger threaded through his dialogue, and no one blamed him. His old, bent straw hat was the focal point of the photograph on the front page of the Lancaster paper.
Ya, vell (Yes, well), they said. Enough is enough.
That poor Lydia Esh.
She’s so geduldich (patient).
Aaron had passed away after a long and painful battle with lung cancer. The medical expenses had climbed to phenomenal heights. Always she’d accept the alms and the deacon’s visits with a bent head and a strong face, any sorrow or self-pity veiled and hidden from view. She expressed gratitude quietly, showing no emotion, and no one could remember seeing her shed a tear at her husband’s funeral.
And now, with hundreds of men swarming about her property, vanloads of people arriving daily from neighboring counties and states, her situation spoken to the world through the eager media, she showed no emotion—only a certain clouding of her eyes.
Sarah was in the small wash house, sorting through boxes of groceries—tin cans of fruit in one box, beans, tomato sauce, and other vegetables in another, and cereal, flour, sugar, and all the other dry staples in another. Many friendly faces she did not know assisted with the pleasant work.
The day was sunny, as if God knew they needed good weather to begin building the widow’s barn. The mud was the biggest hurdle. Great deep pools of water had turned the already soaked fields into a quagmire. Load after load of stone was poured around the barn foundation, and still vehicles became hopelessly embedded in the wet ground.
Men called out, hammers rang, trucks groaned through the dirt and the mud and the gravel, and the sun shone as folks from all over came to the aid of Lydia and her children.
Someone had the idea to paint the interior of the house after noticing the stained, peeling walls and the lack of fresh, clean color. They’d buy paint after the barn was finished. They’d organize work days for different districts, have frolics to paint and clean, freshen the entire house. They’d plant the garden, mow the grass, plant some shrubbery, and build a fence.
Sarah approached Lydia that Monday, her eyes bright with the plans the women had devised. Lydia sat at the kitchen table, her angular frame so thin, her black apron hanging from her waist. Her hair was combed neatly, dark and sleek, her eyeglasses were sparkling clean, her covering clean but limp with frequent washings.
It was her eyes that concerned Sarah. They were veiled with a cloudiness, yes, but the inner light that everyone’s eyes contained simply was not there.
Sarah hesitated to let the word enter her mind, but Lydia’s eyes looked dead, lifeless, as if the spirit in them had left.
“Lydia.”
“Yes?”
She turned her head obediently, and Sarah shivered inwardly at the darkness—that was it—the darkness in her gray eyes.
“What would you say if we painted your house?”
“Oh, I guess that would be alright.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
“We’ll wait till the barn is finished. Wouldn’t it be nice to have a fresh, clean house?”
“Yes.”
Lydia was speaking in monosyllables, dully.
“Lydia, are you alright?”
Sarah leaned forward, put a hand on Lydia’s as a gesture of comfort, and was appalled when Lydia pulled her hand away from Sarah’s touch. Her lips drew back in a snarl, the darkness in her eyes became blacker, and she hissed, “Don’t touch me.”
Sarah gasped and turned her head as tears sprang to her eyes.
“I’m sorry.”
Immediately Lydia rose to her feet and left the room.
The remainder of the day was ruined for Sarah. She felt as if she had inadvertently overstepped a boundary, been too brash, too….she didn’t know what. She had only wanted to help.
She assisted the other women by mashing the huge vats of potatoes. She poured water into endless Styrofoam cups and washed dishes, but her heart was no longer in the duty she had previously performed so cheerfully.
Lydia moved among the clusters of people and did her tasks swiftly and efficiently, but alone.
When Sarah noticed Omar watching his mother, she decided to speak to him. She moved to a position where he could easily see her motioning to him with a crook of her finger to come outside with her.
“Omar, do you think your mother is alright?”
Om
ar was frightened by Sarah’s question. She could tell by the swift movement of his head, the wide opening of his eyes—so much like his mother’s but with a shock of dark hair falling over his forehead above them.
“Why do you ask?”
“She just seems to be half aware of…of everything.”
Omar said nothing. He just turned his head, his eyes searching the crowd, before speaking.
“She’s strong. She’ll be okay. It’s not like she hasn’t weathered a lot more than this.”
“Yes, of course. Your father’s illness. I realize that. As you say, she’ll be alright.”
Priscilla came out of the house to stand beside Sarah, and Omar’s eyes brightened immediately, the gray dancing with flecks of blue.
“Hey Priscilla.”
“How’s it going, Omar?”
“Alright, I guess. I just can’t keep up with everything. Or everybody. Sometimes I get the feeling this barn is taking on a life of its own, building itself.”
He grinned, his wide mouth revealing his perfect teeth, his face alight with a new energy.
“Oh, it’s wonderful, Omar!”
Priscilla spoke eloquently, and he looked away from the undiluted eagerness in her eyes. Lowering his head, he kicked at an emerging tuft of grass, then looked up, revealing the veil that had moved across his own eyes, darkening them—just like his mother’s.
“Yeah, well, we don’t deserve any of this.”
The words were harsh and imbedded with irony, self-mockery.
“Don’t say that, Omar.”
“I know what I’m saying. We’re not worthy.”
He turned on his heel and disappeared into the crowd, melting into it as if to find safety in the numbers. Sarah and Priscilla stood numbly, watching, keeping their thoughts to themselves.
The long lines of men snaked toward the house. The men filled Styrofoam trays with the good, hot food that had been donated and cooked by people from many different denominations or no denomination at all. All kinds of human hearts had been touched by the need of a poor young widow, and her situation had served to remove any fences of superiority or self-righteousness.
A need was being met, quite simply. More than one minister stood in his pulpit, or just stood without one, as was the Amish way, and spoke of the goodness of the human spirit in a world where pessimism is often the norm. Hadn’t the loaves and fishes been distributed and twelve baskets left over?
