by Linda Byler
“You know,” Tim said, slowly putting Anna on the edge of her seat, bristling with defense at the mere sound of his voice. “Couldn’t help overhearing your little conversation there. Looks like you got some guy trouble.”
He paused. “Is it true, Anna?”
Anna’s face flamed, and she ignored the use of her name.
“Like I said, Anna. I couldn’t help overhearing. Sounds as if you have some problems. Bill. His name Bill?”
Anna could not have been more contemptuous, her eyes flashing as she faced him squarely. “I wouldn’t say anything if I couldn’t hear.”
Tim laughed easily, then, his hand going to his mouth to cover the offending teeth. “Oh, I can hear all right. You just weren’t speaking very plainly.”
“I was, too!”
Tim shook his head.
Where did he come up with this sort of audacity? Sadie wondered. This poor self-conscious individual who could barely lift his head when they first met. With Anna he was at ease, completely in control with a sort of teasing banality. Was it Anna’s vulnerability? She was a scarred, troubled creature like himself. Whatever it was, Sadie realized he enjoyed Anna’s company or he would have left. Or perhaps he suspected he knew how to help her.
“As I was saying, you can’t have this Bill guy … ”
“Not Bill. Neil,” she broke in, quickly.
“Believe me, this guy does not want you. Not in the right way. I know. I’ve been there. You don’t want him. He’s no good.”
“What do you know about him? Nothing. Why don’t you just stay out of it?”
“Okay, I will.”
And he took down his coat and went outside, leaving Anna peering out the window, turning her head to watch as he slipped and slid down the sidewalks to the barn, his arms waving wildly to keep his balance.
“Now where’s he going?”
“I have no clue.”
Sadie smiled to herself, watching Anna. She was clearly frustrated but curious now. They ate a lunch of turkey, tomato, onion, and lettuce sandwiches on Kaiser rolls, with mustard, of course. Sadie knew Anna would not touch the sandwiches if there was as much as a speck of mayonnaise on them, the fat-laden condiment containing the ability to put 10 pounds on her.
After she had actually eaten half of a sandwich, Anna’s mood shifted. She became lighthearted, talkative. She related incidents of her weekends, who was dating whom, the pitiful creature that Sheryl had become after breaking up with Neil, hardly ever coming to the Sunday evening singings, how cute Reuben was, so certain the whole world was his, driving Charlie and that brand new buggy. When Sadie wondered at the ability of Charlie to keep up with the youth’s horses, Anna laughed, telling her old Charlie could still kick up his heels with the best of them. They were laughing when Tim came back into the house, but stopped when they saw his expression.
“Hey, Sadie, I hate to trouble you, but I had the barn door open, decided to clean out the stable, and this … this yellow … sort of yellow … horse came stumbling into the barn. Do you have a horse loose somewhere? He acted as if he’s been around the barn.”
Sadie dropped her spoon, heard it clatter to the floor as her mouth opened in disbelief.
“Y…Yellow?”
“Sort of.”
With a cry, Sadie ran to get her coat, pulled her boots on, tied her head scarf as she ran, slipping and falling the whole way to the barn, propelled by one single thought—Paris.
At first, she thought it was Paris. Then she thought it wasn’t. But when the dirty, unkempt, horse turned its head and nickered, she knew without a doubt it was her horse who had found its way back. She was thin, her coat was coarse and long, but it was Paris. Sadie was unaware of anyone or anything other than throwing her arms around the thin neck and staying there. She cried and whispered to Paris, told her of the times she missed her most, then stepped back to assess the damage that had been done to her beloved horse.
She appeared to have lost weight but was in better health than Nevaeh had been. She didn’t stand on the right hind foot. No matter, she’d heal everything up. Crying sometimes, then laughing to herself and talking, she was unaware of Tim’s and Anna’s presence until Tim cleared his throat self-consciously, the way he sniffed when he was ill at ease.
“I guess you know the horse” he said, finally.
“Yes, Tim, I do.”
Anna, completely forgetting her former animosity toward this stranger, filled him in with the details about Paris, the enduring relationship through all the trials. And now, after Sadie had given her up completely, she had come back. Tim’s face was an open book as Anna spoke. He watched her large eyes, the shadows of deprived nutrition beneath them, the thin, white hands gesticulating. They watched as Sadie continued stroking Paris before going to the wooden cupboard and taking down a currycomb.
Slowly, lovingly, she worked, cleaning the mane, the burrs and dirt falling on the cement floor of the forebay. Anna offered to help, but Sadie waved her away, so Tim told her she could help him clean the stable for Paris.
Anna looked at Tim, the pitchfork he held toward her, back at the stable, and then at Tim again. She wrinkled her nose and wrapped her coat tightly around herself, rocking back on her heels.
“I don’t know if I’m strong enough.”
“You would be if you’d eat normally.”
“Define normal!”
Tim laughed uproariously and admitted he was on the other end of what was considered normal. But she sure was on the extreme opposite. So which one was the healthiest? Sadie could tell that Anna knew the answer, but the younger sister went right ahead cleaning Paris’s coat as if she hadn’t heard.
Supper was not ready when Mark came home. The house was dark, chocolate-covered food all over everything. The fire burned low, but surprisingly, a bright light shone from the barn window. When he stepped inside, he couldn’t fathom the horse Sadie was still grooming, applying antiseptic to scratches and open wounds, while Tim swept the loose hay in a pile and fed it to Truman and Duke.
With a cry, Sadie dropped the antiseptic and ran to his waiting arms, hysterical with the joy of Paris’s return. Mark held her, soothed her, and held back his own emotion. He shook his head in disbelief, the only way he could convey his feelings.
When Tim joined them, Mark smiled at him and said he was genuinely glad Tim was back. Mark asked where he’d been. Tim looked down, scuffed the cement floor with the toe of his shoe.
“I had some business to take care of.”
“Okay,” was all Mark said, asking no questions.
Anna had taken her leave, declining Tim’s offer of assistance, obviously very uncomfortable under his watch. He said something, Anna replied, and she was off down the drive, turning to the left at an unsafe speed.
Paris had been sufficiently groomed, cleaned, and her wounds treated. Sadie returned Paris to her stall, which had been strewn with clean shavings as well as a large portion of oats, corn, molasses, and two blocks of good hay. Sadie finally turned to leave the barn, joining Mark who was patiently waiting by the door, the lantern in his hand creating a circle of yellow light around him. They walked to the house together, followed by Tim with a hand on Wolf’s collar, throwing a snowball for him before entering the house with them.
Sadie was starved, her stomach rumbling as she scooped up the chocolate candies and stacked them neatly in Tupperware containers, popping the seal to assure the airtight quality. Turning to Mark, she asked if it was all right to make “toste brode, millich und oya” (toast, milk and eggs).
“Sure, you know how much I like that,” Mark said grinning.
Timothy nodded. “Aunt Hannah made it.”
Heating a large saucepan, Sadie poured a generous amount of milk into it, then cracked open and deposited the insides of a dozen eggs, leaving them to poach. Opening the broiler of the gas stove, she carefully laid six slices of thick, homemade bread on the broiler rack, then stood up, closing it with her foot. Hurriedly, she set the table with
a clean tablecloth, three soup plates, utensils, a bowl of applesauce, some leftover red beets, and half a chocolate cake. When the eggs were soft-poached, the milk almost to the boiling point, the toast dark and crispy, Sadie put two slices of the toast in each bowl, set the eggs and milk on a hot pad in the middle of the table, then poured the cold water in each glass.
It seemed as if Tim’s self-consciousness became more noticeable when he was expected to bow his head for a silent prayer before mealtime. He never made eye contact, his sniffing became more frequent, and he shuffled his feet uncomfortably when Mark said it was time for “Patties down,” the Amish term, in child’s language, for silent prayer.
Tim helped himself to six of the eggs, as Sadie had expected, politely asking if she and Mark had all they wanted. He ladled enough milk over everything to fill the soup bowl to brimming, then added a liberal amount of salt and pepper before digging in. He ate all the red beets and half the applesauce, accompanied by a chunk of chocolate cake so large Sadie could not believe he ate it all in less than six bites.
They talked of Tim getting a job, of his offer to pay rent, and whether he was thinking of returning to the Amish. Mark did not set any rules, but by that first warning about not smoking, Tim knew about what was expected of him.
After Sadie washed dishes, Tim asked her what really was wrong with Anna. He spoke in a quiet, nervous manner that completely won Sadie over. As accurately as she could, she related Anna’s sad story about her obsession with Neil. But Tim said nothing at all when she finished. He made his way to the stairs with an abrupt “good night” before closing the door quite firmly.
Richard Caldwell had a fit, as did Jim Sevarr and the ranch hands who knew Sadie and Paris’s story. Richard Caldwell slapped his knees, gleeful in his exclamations, chortling about the rotten luck of the horse thieves or the tattered remains of the ones that had slipped between the cracks of the law.
“Good for ’em!” he yelled, his Schadenfreude completely consuming him. “For all they put you through,” he shouted, “good for ’em!”
Dorothy shook her head and said no good could come of it. She thought they were done with that cursed palomino once and for all. Sadie became so insulted she had to blink back tears.
“She ain’t a blessing, that’s sure, unless you figure every time Sadie got out of her scrapes alive was one. Ain’t no blessing to me, so she ain’t.”
Erma became completely defensive and said that palomino was not cursed and that was an awful term to use. Her face got red and she opened her mouth for her usual fiery retort. Sadie held a hand over her own mouth and shook her head, her eyes begging her to keep her peace. She knew Dorothy meant well; it was just her way of protecting Sadie.
They were into the Christmas season at the ranch, baking extra pies, dozens of cookies, and huge fruit cakes, besides the everyday cooking. The ranch was prospering; the price of beef spurred Richard Caldwell into acquiring more land, more cattle, as well as more horses and equipment. The usual 20 cowhands that ate in the huge dining room often doubled, especially for the evening meal.
Dorothy, who was in her element, barking orders, wearing the brilliant purple Crocs, would have to admit defeat around three or four o’clock every afternoon, succumbing to the pain in her lower back or a cramp in her leg. That was usually when the pressure was on to have the huge evening meal ready and waiting on the steam table, with napkins and utensils, everything clean and in perfect order.
So in the middle of everyone scurrying around in the usual manner, Dorothy sat, her one leg elevated on the seat of a kitchen chair, holding a bowl of macaroni and cheese and one of chocolate pudding. Erma’s baked beans had turned out a bit dry, so she was adding some warm water, leaning over the hot oven door, her brilliant red hair only a shade brighter than her face. Dorothy chewed with great enjoyment, savoring a too-large mouthful of macaroni and cheese, watching the heat rise in Erma’s face.
“Told you to do them in the electric roaster.”
Too slowly, Erma replaced the lid, shoved back the oven rack, and closed the door, adjusting the knob in front. She watched Dorothy slurp her coffee before spooning up more of the cheesy concoction, Erma’s eyes mere slits in her red face.
“I’m not used to electric roasters at home, Dorothy. And besides, they’re slow.”
“No, they ain’t.”
“Yes, they are.”
“No, they ain’t. I know that for a fact.”
“You better not eat all that chocolate pudding,” Erma said with concern, changing the subject as abruptly as she could.
“An’ jes’ why ever not?”
“I’d get terrible heartburn. Coffee, chocolate pudding, and macaroni and cheese.” Erma visibly shivered.
“Don’t know what heartburn is.”
“That’s good,” Erma said, rolling her eyes in Sadie’s direction. Sadie was slicing a roast of beef, the meat falling away under the direction of her knife.
“Is the gravy made?” Sadie asked curtly. Sometimes these stupid little spats just irked her, and today, patience was in short supply.
“Ain’t no hurry,” Dorothy said around her macaroni before slurping yet more coffee.
The kitchen door opened slowly. Steven Weaver poked his head through the opening and asked if they wanted a few bushels of Rome apples, leftover from the market in town.
“The guy said I can have ’em, but I have no use for ’em.”
Erma almost cried in her haste to fix her hair and covering, desperately spitting on her hands and smoothing the wayward tendrils, making her look like a skinny, wet cat. Oh, dear. Sadie cringed when Erma wiped her hands after washing them, then charged through the bathroom door, her elbow already pulled back like a bowstring, ready to fire. She literally slapped her hand into Steven’s, accompanied by her loud, jovial yell.
“Where you been, stranger? Haven’t seen hide nor hair of you in a coon’s age!”
Dorothy stopped chewing, her mouth a straight line, her cheeks bulging, as she opened her eyes wide, her eyebrows shooting straight up. And when Steven Weaver met Erma’s hand halfway and they laughed great guffaws of pure merriment together, it was obvious they were so happy to see each other. Sadie realized God had surely sent the perfect match for Erma Keim. Who else but Steven would enjoy a cymbal-crashing greeting like that? It was enough to send a half-dozen other men running for cover.
When Erma accompanied Steven to the door, offering to bring the apples in, Steven waved her away. But she charged straight through the door anyway, following him like a devoted puppy. When 10 minutes passed and no Erma or apples followed, Sadie smiled to herself. You go, Erma.
Sadie found Dorothy rattling bottles and mumbling to herself in the bathroom, the door of the medicine cabinet ajar. She just closed the door quietly and continued whipping potatoes.
That Sunday in church, Erma looked a bit crestfallen, for her. Her hair was slicked back tighter than usual with less shtrubles, her covering pulled forward well over her ears. Her usual effusiveness was dampened to a gentle, “How are you, Sadie? Nice dress.”
Sadie walked into the kitchen to stand with the women and noticed Erma following her, a wistful expression on her face. Sadie shook hands with her usual friends and family, noticing Mam’s new covering, then accepted everyone’s sincere congratulations on the return of her beloved horse. She acknowledged it humbly, her eyes shining nevertheless, the days of missing her horse gone now, reveling in the pleasure of seeing her, touching her.
When she watched the boys file in and Steven Weaver was not at the head of the line, she swallowed her disappointment. Surely he had not returned to Indiana, leaving Erma without hope! During the service Sadie prayed for her friend, for the strength she would need to rise above this, if, in fact, he had decided to return. Erma was such a dear person. So genuine, so human. Seemingly imperfect, but so unselfish, and above all, sincerely caring about everyone in the community, English people as well as her Amish. Surely God would not be so cruel.
> So often, though, this happened. Young men were lured to the west by the breathtaking scenery, the hunting, the adventure, but then yearned for their home folks, their busy way of life, and sooner or later, returned to their home state. The minister expounded the wisdom of Solomon, but Sadie was only half-listening, watching Erma Keim’s display of emotions across her face. Poor dear.
Chapter 15
THEY WENT HOME TO Dat and Mam’s for supper, a time of renewal, the scents of Mam’s kitchen bringing a lump of emotion to her throat. Mam was frying chicken, Mark’s favorite, and had a casserole of scalloped potatoes in the oven. Leah was tossing a salad and Rebekah was setting the table, both of them dressed in their Sunday best, waiting until Kevin and Junior came to pick them up. They talked as fast as they could about Tim, and about Anna’s meltdown, Mam staring in disbelief as Sadie related the whole incident.
“It’s that Neil,” she whispered. “I had no idea.” Helplessly, she looked at Rebekah. “I thought you said she liked Merv.”
“I thought she did!”
“Somebody is not communicating,” Sadie said firmly.
Mam turned the chicken, hissing and snapping in the pan, before turning to Sadie.
“And just how do you communicate with a rock? How? If I ask her questions, I get no answer. Only a shrug of her shoulders. It’s just as if she’s another girl. I know how skinny she is. I know, too, that the more I say, the worse it gets. It’s just a vicious circle, and as long as that Neil is in the picture, it’s not going to change.”
Mam choked back tears bravely, a matriarch over petty emotions, a strong pillar of the family, having overcome so much adversity herself. Mothers were like that. When the storms of life blew in, creating chaos, uprooting younger people as they struggled to understand situations in life that were beyond their control, talking, talking, restlessly trying to figure out situations, mothers wisely knew there was no use. God was up in his heaven and knew everything, including the reasons, something mortals did not have to know. That’s what faith was for, no doubt about it. Same as Dat. Except Dat was perhaps more of a disciplinarian. So parents were a wonderful thing, when it all came down to it.
