by Linda Byler
She slept well enough, but at 5:30 her heart raced, wondering why he wasn’t up, the propane lamp lit, going to do chores. Was he dead? People passed away in their sleep. Was he so angry that he would leave or just stay lying on the couch all day? Perhaps, like Mam, he was depressed, and it was all her fault.
Nervously, she cleared her throat, waiting for Mark to come into the bed, lifting the covers the way he always did, taking her into his arms, apologizing, clearing the air. This would never happen again. Never.
But he didn’t. He showered and shaved, banged doors, slammed drawers, and said absolutely nothing. Sadie’s heart wavered within her. She tried meeting his eyes, but they were flat, black, unseeing. Breakfast was as silent as the evening meal had been.
“But Dorothy!” Sadie wailed at work, sitting at the table, her untouched coffee turning cold in its ironstone mug.
“You need to stand up to your man. He’s controlling you with his temper. Huh-uh. You ain’t allowin’ it. It ain’t gonna happen.”
“How can I love him so much, and yet last night when he lay on our clean, new couch with his dirty work clothes ignoring me, I … I almost hated him. He makes me so mad I don’t know what to do. Just because I told him about that stupid quirt.”
Dorothy buttered a warm biscuit, her arms beneath the too-short sleeves of her white T-shirt flapping with each stroke.
“Sounds a lot like marriage to me,” she chortled.
“But what causes it? Why can’t he take any correction or … Oh, whatever.”
Sadie’s voice ended in a wail.
“What’d I tell you? He’s a tough one. Most men don’t like for their women to tell ’em what to do. The normal ones. Your man ain’t normal. So keep yer mouth shut.”
Sadie winced.“What if I don’t like the way he uses that quirt?”
“Shut up about it, or learn to live with his moods, then, if yer not going to stand up to him and tell him to grow up.”
“What do you mean, grow up? Reuben is 15 years old, and he never ever acted like Mark.”
“Reuben had a normal childhood.”
“But how can Mark go through life like this, always blaming his childhood?”
Sadie lifted her hands on each side of her head, bringing down two fingers of each hand, mocking the word childhood.
“I mean, it’s a crutch. Suppose I would go lay on the couch and pout because he did something I disapproved of? There wouldn’t be a whole lot going on at our house.”
Dorothy’s arms wobbled along with the rest of her as she shook with glee, infused in her own delight of finding out how human Amish people were, obviously. She buttered another biscuit, popped half into her mouth, then flipped the bacon on the hot griddle.
“I ain’t no shrink. I don’t have all the answers.”
She looked at the clock.
“Five more minutes and it’s Erma Time.”
Dorothy shoveled bacon into the steel pan, and Sadie lifted herself off the chair, placing her mug of coffee into the microwave and punching the minute button.
She was busily flipping pancakes when Erma Keim breezed in, her red hair frozen and her covering smashed beyond help by a brilliant purple head scarf. The freckles on her nose were unforgiving, doing absolutely nothing for her very white skin.
As usual, her mood was ebullient, which was about the only word to describe Erma. Gregarious was another, Sadie thought wryly, watching her with tired, creased eyes.
“Good morning, my ladies! Top of the morning to ya! Did you hear the Chinook, Sadie? Waters going to be running shortly. Snow melting! Whoo-ee!”
Dorothy shook her head, then turned to watch Erma as she fairly danced to the coat hooks and shimmied her way out of her black wool coat.
“Ya musta slept good,” she observed dryly.
“Oh, I did! Pillows from Fred Ketty’s store. Did you know she has super-good quality foam pillows? She’s really getting that little dry goods store up and running.”
Suddenly a wave of longing wrapped itself around Sadie, bringing with it a sort of wanting, an unnamed but nonetheless real feeling of wishing. Yes, to be straightforward, she wished she was Erma Keim. No one else to worry about. No relationship as tricky as a cracked egg to juggle continuously.
She shouldn’t have married. The thought squashed her whole day. The vacuum cleaner clogged, she broke the leaf off a rabbit statue, her back hurt, her head swam with a million negative thoughts. Black crows of unsettling resolve about her future and her past added to the mountain of unscalable heights growing out of this one incident.
She told Erma Keim her apple pies needed more brown sugar and hurt Dorothy’s feelings when she criticized her ability to keep the refrigerator organized.
“You don’t need butter in three places, Dorothy. The butter goes in the door. The one to the left.”
She swiped furiously with a cloth wrung from a bucket of Mr. Clean and piping hot water. Her hands were red, chapped, and she had a nasty hangnail, that annoying little piece of skin that got so painfully in the way of every task.
“Well, ain’t we Miss Hoity-toity, now? That butter to the right is old. Outdated. I’ll use it for bakin’. So don’t tell me where to put my butter. I know what I’m doin’.”
Sadie knew she should have apologized, but she was too upset to do it. Why was one’s whole life upside down and strewn about when you fought with your man?
She didn’t want to go home. She wanted Mam. She wanted to be in her old room, giggling with Leah and Rebekah and Anna, not a care in the world, except who was cute, who they would like to date, while eating sour cream and onion powder on a big bowl of freshly popped corn.
Why did she ever think Mark was handsome? How disturbing was that? Those huge feet sticking out from the much too short afghan, unwashed socks, smelling—no, reeking—of his work as a farrier.
Bouncing home in Jim Sevarr’s rusted old pickup truck, she slunk against the door, her face pale, her mouth an upside-down “U” of disenchantment. Jim shifted his toothpick, watched her sideways, turned the steering wheel with gnarled fingers, then sighed.
“Wal, Missy, ya look under the weather, now, don’t cha?”
“Oh, I don’t know.”
“Honeymoon over, eh?”
“I guess.”
“We is all alike, honey. Black, white, suntanned, or Amish, Chinese, or Tippecanoe. Two people git hitched, problems follow 99 percent o’ the time. Ya gotta work through ’em. See what works. See what don’t. Learn by it. Appreciate what you got. My Dorothy’s a salty one, now ain’t she? Tells me off, but no more harm than a fly.”
Slowly Sadie turned her head, watching the lined features, the creases opening and closing like an accordion as the words slowly came from his mouth, the toothpick disappearing as he shifted it to the other side. That was quite a speech for Jim. The equivalent of an hour, actually.
“Well, Mark is more harmful than a fly,” she burst out.
“I doubt it.”
“He is!”
“What happened?”
In brief detail Sadie told him, finishing with Mark’s black silences.
“It’s a tough one. I used to do that. Hang in there. It’ll get better as time goes on.”
The truck ground to a halt, and Sadie hopped down.
“See you in the morning,” she called.
Jim touched his hat brim, ground the gears of the truck, and was off down the drive. Wolf bounded up, his nose snuffling the creases of her coat. She ruffled his ears, stroked the broad face, and walked slowly up the melting, snowy path to the door of the washhouse. Mark wasn’t home yet.
Laundry hung on the great, wooden rack, waiting to be folded. In winter, clothes were dried on lines in the basement, if there was a woodstove, or on racks in the washhouse or kitchen.
There were many different kinds of clothes-drying racks. Some were round and made of PVC pipe, with wooden clothespins attached to the ring by a small chain to hang small articles like socks, washcloths, or u
nderwear. Wooden racks mounted to the wall had arms you could spread out. These held all the laundry you could fit on them. Clothes dried quickly by the wall behind a good stove. The large adjustable wooden folding racks that sat on the floor were used for hanging larger items like Tshirts and denim trousers. Dresses on hangers were all drip-dried in the washhouse beside the gleaming new wringer washer.
Whenever possible, Sadie hung clothes outside in spite of the cold, even though she’d bring in half-dry, half-frozen laundry. It still retained that outdoor scent. The clean, sun-washed fragrance never ceased to make her heart glad.
Today, however, the laundry didn’t stir any gladness at all. It just hung there, stiff, still damp in the armpits and hems, smelling vaguely of old Snuggle and residue of Tide and bleach. She noticed the gray stains on the heels of Mark’s socks, which increased her feeling of inadequacy.
The kitchen was dark. What was that smell? Going to the waste can, she flipped back the lid, bent, and sniffed. Eww! She remembered then, the plastic wrap of the tray of chicken legs and thighs, the yellow Styrofoam tray containing the heavy padding of chicken juices and blood. When did they have fried chicken? Saturday evening. Her stomach churning, she grabbed the top of the waste can, fairly hurled it onto the countertop, hauled the garbage bag out, and swung it through the door and out to the garbage can, replacing the lid with a bang.
Now what to make for supper? If Dorothy wouldn’t have been quite so testy, she would have asked her for a small portion of the chicken and dumplings she made in the gigantic cauldron, as Sadie called it, for the ranch hands’ evening meal. After Sadie had complained about the unorganized refrigerator, Dorothy sizzled with displeasure. Her mouth a thin line, her eyes snapping, she did not stop to have her afternoon tea and leftovers, but moved grimly, methodically, until Sadie felt like screaming at the top of her voice, especially when Erma Keim began singing, “When the Roll is Called up Yonder” in a reedy, high voice that sounded like tree frogs in the early spring.
Opening the refrigerator, Sadie found a square Tupperware container of leftover spaghetti and meatballs. She’d warm that in a saucepan with a bit of water, open a can of green beans, and use Mam’s leftover homemade bread for garlic toast, all possible in 10 or 15 minutes.
She set the table, pleased with her supper, her thriftiness, the cheese and garlic wafting from the oven making her hungry at last. When Mark did come home, her heart skipped, then plodded on, giving her a headache in her right temple. Eagerly she searched his face, ready to welcome him home, put the ugliness behind them.
He put his lunch bucket on the counter, followed by his Coleman water jug, then disappeared through the laundry-room door. She heard him wash up, wanted to follow him, plead with him, but stayed where she was. Quickly, she dished up the steaming spaghetti, added a pat of butter to the green beans, and arranged the garlic toast on a pretty platter. Mark came in and sat at the table, averting his eyes. Nervously, Sadie poured the water from the blue pitcher in the refrigerator, spilling some beside Mark’s glass. With a gesture of annoyance he got up, yanked a paper towel from the roll, and wiped at the spill before throwing the towel in the trash can.
They bowed their heads in silence. Mark cleared his throat. He surveyed the food, then said gruffly, “What is this?”
“What?”
“This?” He pointed to the garlic toast that minutes before had been so inviting.
“It’s garlic toast. With cheese.”
“It smells like feet.”
“It’s the Parmesan.”
“You know I don’t like string beans.”
Sadie literally counted to 10. In her mind, she said the numbers, a first-grader in the class called “Marriage.” What had Jim said? See what works. See what don’t. She knew what “don’t.” Criticism of any kind. Ever. Was it because of the quirt? This senseless criticism of her cooking? Is this the way it works?
She watched as he helped himself to a large portion of the spaghetti and meatballs, ignoring the string beans and garlic toast. Going to the refrigerator, he bent to find the applesauce, then dumped half the container onto his plate, spooning it up as fast as he could. Like a hog.
Sadie couldn’t help her thoughts. She had a notion to say it, but instantly knew she wouldn’t. Well, okay. If this was how he was going to be, she’d learn from it. See what works. See what don’t. Learn from it.
She spent another night alone in bed, but she did not cry. She read part of a book called Love and Respect she had received as a wedding gift, her feelings numb, the words jangling through her nerves that only felt dead.
In the morning, when she sprayed the couch with Febreeze and threw the beige-colored afghan into the rinse tubs to be washed, she cried great big tears of disappointment and hurt.
When she arrived at the ranch, there was an ambulance parked at the barn. She forgot all her personal struggles. A hand went to her mouth as she lifted questioning eyes to Jim Sevarr’s concerned face. He hopped down quickly, disappeared behind the entry door, and reappeared after a heart-stopping few minutes.
“It’s Lothario Bean. The Mexican. Got kicked by the new mustang. Better git off to the house.”
Sadie did as she was told, finding Dorothy and Erma by the window, their eyes wide with concern.
“It’s Lothario Bean. He was kicked.”
Erma’s hand went to her mouth, her eyes opened wide, popped out the way they did when she was concerned or surprised. There was an air of solemnity about the three of them all morning after the ambulance careened out the drive, lights flashing, sirens screaming, sending chills of dread up Sadie’s spine. When Jim Sevarr came slowly into the kitchen, his eyes soft, Sadie knew before Jim said a word that Lothario Bean had died.
“Smashed his skull. Bled internally. Didn’t last long.”
Erma cried quietly. Dorothy shook her head, brought a box of tissues to her, said it was a pity. That dear man was the salt of the earth, and what would that poor widow do? And those beautiful daughters? Sadie cried for the little Mexican. She was glad he was a Christian. She imagined his great enjoyment in this wonderful place called heaven. He had been such a loving man.
When Mark came home from work, he found Sadie curled on the recliner, still numb, her eyes red from crying. There was no supper on the table, the house was dark and cold, the laundry still hung on the rack stiff and dry. Sadie was beyond caring. If he wanted to go ahead and muddle around in his black fog of silence and self-pity, he could. She was not going to apologize if she didn’t do anything wrong. So she turned her face away and did not say one word. If he wanted to know something, he could ask.
She heard him go outside. Wearily, stiff with cold, she got up, made her way to the bathroom, then soaked in a long, hot bath, shampooing her hair over and over. Wrapped in a heavy robe, she took two Tylenol for her pounding headache and laid back on the recliner.
It was 8:00 before Mark came in. He stood awkwardly by the table, his arms at his side, watching her. He turned to go to the refrigerator, then changed his mind, going to the pantry, and emerging with a box of cereal. His shoulders were as wide as ever, bent over the dish, as he hungrily shoveled the food into his mouth. His dark hair was disheveled, in need of a good wash.
She would have to tell him about Lothario Bean. If she waited for him to speak first, they’d grow old like this. It was ridiculous. She would have to be the one to make amends, innocent or not. She knew better now. See what works. See what don’t. Learn by it.
Slowly, she let down the footrest of the recliner. Mark turned, a question in his eyes.
“Lothario Bean was kicked by a horse at the ranch. He’s dead.”
“No!” Mark’s voice was incredulous, filled with raw disbelief. Then, “Aw, the poor man.”
He came over, scooped her out of the chair as if she was a child, then held her on his lap as he kissed her, gently, tenderly, murmuring words of endearment. Sadie told him she was sorry about the quirt, and he said it was okay, he was acting childish
as well. All of Sadie’s happiness came back multiplied by 10.
Chapter 7
THEY ALL ATTENDED LOTHARIO Bean’s Catholic funeral service, Richard Caldwell and his wife, Barbara, seated with the many Latino relatives. Mark and Sadie were amazed at the similarities to the Amish, the close sense of community, the caring love shown for each other by these dark-skinned people from Mexico. Lothario Bean’s daughters surrounded their mother, who was dressed in traditional black, a veil over her face. Bravely his wife received condolences from the many people he had encountered in his life.
Afterward at the ranch, they had a memorial service of sorts, seated informally in the dining room, eating pulled pork sandwiches and scalding hot bean soup, coffee, and Erma’s banana cream pies, filled with sliced bananas and piled high with genuine whipped cream. They reminisced about past events, Lothario Bean’s eagerness to please, the humility he possessed, his outstanding love and support for his wife and daughters. A new sense of closeness enveloped them. This mixture of cultures, all human beings now, wrapped in a sense of loss felt so strongly that it was touchable, a thing to be cherished.
Sadie never wanted to quit her job at the ranch, knowing she had an extended family in all of them. Mark told her she could work as long as she wanted. They didn’t need the money now, but if that’s what she wanted to do, she should.
Richard Caldwell hired an Amish man to replace Lothario Bean. He had just moved into the area from Indiana. Richard Caldwell asked Sadie if she knew him at all. She didn’t.
“He says he’s worked with horses since he’s three years old, which I think is a bit unlikely, but you never know. Check him out for me tomorrow morning, okay?”
So when breakfast was served, she lingered, wrapping silverware, filling the ice bin, observing from the background as the ranch hands filed in. She heard him before she actually saw him. He had a deep, hearty laugh, which seemed to never stop. It rolled out of him after every sentence, each of which was punctuated by what could only be described as enthusiastic listening. He had to be a great personality.
