Big Decisions

by Linda Byler

  Suddenly she felt quite warm, so she stopped sewing and went to check the fire. She was alarmed to find the stove radiating much more heat than usual. She quickly turned the knob to shut down the draft and was rewarded with an instant crackling sound as the wood lost the draft that had caused it to overheat. Anxiously Lizzie put her hand close to the stovepipe. It didn’t feel red hot. Everything would be all right, she thought, hurriedly returning to her sewing while Laura slept.

  The wind increased its fury, whining and making the snow swirl in great expanses across the countryside. Lizzie could hardly understand how Stephen could get to work on a day like this. But she shrugged off her concern, knowing he would be safe as long as his crew worked on the interior part of the new building.

  She resumed sewing, then stopped to listen. What was that noise? A bumping sound seemed to be coming from upstairs. Bump! There it was again. It sounded like someone dropping a stone or a brick on the floor.

  Hurriedly she left the sewing machine and stood, barely daring to breathe, at the open stairway listening. Bump! Another one! What if someone was up there, trying to lure her upstairs so he could grab her as she opened the door?

  Now she heard another sound, only a bit lighter, like popping. Pop! Pop! Oh, dear! Lizzie looked left and right frantically before realizing there was only one thing to do. She had to charge up the stairs and see for herself what was making that unusual noise.

  Quickly, she raced up the stairs, flung open the door, and peered inside. Nothing. The bed with its multicolored Sunshine and Shadow quilt stood against the opposite wall. The rugs lay straight beside the bed and in front of the dresser.

  She dashed across the hallway, opened the door on the opposite side, and instantly knew there was something wrong when a wall of warm air hit her. It was much too hot in the room. Reaching out tentatively, she touched the wall surrounding the chimney and yanked back her hand when the drywall burned her fingers.

  Pop!

  Now she heard the sound quite clearly, coming from the chimney. The chimney was on fire, popping and crackling in its ferocity. Laura! Her baby! She was all alone and had to call the fire department with no telephone in the house. Dat’s phone shanty at the bottom of the hill was farther away than their next-door neighbors, a young English couple named Lance and Alice Wingert, with three children. She wondered wildly if Alice was home and which direction she should go. She could not waste one moment. The chimney was burning, and perhaps their little house would be next.

  Dashing down the stairs, she grabbed the heaviest homemade comforter in the bedroom, threw on her coat and scarf, rolled Laura in the comforter, hearing her cries of protest, and dashed outside, running a short distance from the house.

  The cold and the wind hit her with unbelievable force as she turned to look at the top of the chimney. She began crying as the evil-looking flames leaped out and danced around the top of the chimney while black smoke pour out in thick plumes.

  Oh, dear God, don’t let our little house and all our stuff burn, she prayed, as she ran as best she could, carrying Laura in the heavy comforter. Never had the short distance between her house and the Wingerts’ home seemed so far. She finally slipped between the shrubs by their back door. She tried not to pound madly, but knocked louder and more quickly than usual until Alice opened the door, peering out at Lizzie.

  “The … the house! The chimney is burning! I need to call 911!” Lizzie burst out.

  “Oh, my! Where? Your house! Come in! Hurry!”

  She stood aside as Lizzie hurried past, then reached for the phone and dialed 911, those blessed three little numbers that meant help would be on the way soon. Alice spoke in a clear articulate voice, giving the operator the correct address and describing the house.

  “You go back now, stand in your driveway, and direct the fire trucks,” Alice ordered, taking control of the situation quickly. “I’ll watch Laura.”

  “But … she doesn’t have a bottle!” Lizzie said hopelessly.

  “She has her pacifier. She’ll be fine. Go!”

  So Laura ran, sobs catching in her throat as she saw the bright orange flames still leaping from the chimney. She had never felt quite so helpless or so inadequate in all her life. What would Stephen say? That was the most terrible thought.

  She stood, then, in the gently curving driveway in the bitter cold with the strong winds blowing her skirt around her legs. She watched the chimney burning, until she finally, blessedly, heard the wail of the fire siren. Even then, it seemed like a very long time before the huge red trucks, with all the white and gold lettering, the fancy silver grillwork, and the yellow whirling lights on top of their cabs, actually came into view.

  Lizzie waved her arms, pointing, but it was a useless gesture, as they had likely spotted the burning chimney half a mile away, since the house sat on top of a hill.

  “We can’t get up the drive!”

  The firefighter rushing past her explained this to her, as he held a large fire extinguisher with both arms. He was followed by another, and then another fireman. There was nothing left for her to do except follow as they dashed up the front porch steps and into the living room, already on their way upstairs before Lizzie entered the house.

  She stood at the bottom of the stairs, breathing hard, hearing the sound of chopping, followed by the hiss of the fire extinguishers. More men came charging in through the front door and up the stairway, their heavy firefighting gear clanking as they went. Then there was nothing to do but wait. She listened anxiously to the firemen stomping about upstairs, talking in low tones, until she smelled a smoky sulfurous odor wafting down the stairway, swirling around the living room.

  Lizzie coughed, barely able to contain her curiosity, wondering if her house would burn down after all the firemen did to stop the burning chimney. She bit down hard on a fingernail and watched anxiously up the stairway as a fireman came back down, looking as if he wanted to talk to her.

  “Do you live here?” he asked kindly.

  “Y…Yes,” Lizzie answered uncertainly, not sure if he would scold her for letting the stove become overheated.

  “Let me tell you, you are a very fortunate young lady. The chimney block was so hot the rafters were beginning to burn behind the drywall. Five more minutes and your roof would have been aflame.”

  Lizzie watched him speak, her eyes wide, barely able to comprehend what he was saying.

  Five more minutes!

  What if she hadn’t heard that sound? Or had not gone immediately for help? Or what if Alice had not been home? Oh, surely God had heard her prayers and had not let the house burn to the ground. Their very own house!

  “You have a bit of a mess upstairs, but everything is replaceable. I suppose your husband isn’t home?”

  “No, he isn’t. He’ll be home around six.”

  “The fire in the stove will be out, so you’ll have to find another source of heat until he returns. In this cold…Is there any way you can get ahold of him at work?”

  Lizzie nodded, remembering the phone number stuck to the refrigerator door. After thanking the firemen, she ran over to the Wingerts, made the phone call to Stephen, and then ran back to the house with Laura still wrapped in the comforter. Already, the house was cool, so she turned the oven on and propped the door open, figuring that would help a small amount until Stephen arrived. Laura was screaming at the top of her lungs, protesting the great weight of the comforter wrapped around her, trying with all her mighty little strength to worm her way out of it.

  Lizzie laughed, calm now and so relieved that the fire was extinguished. She wrapped Laura tightly, telling her she should be grateful for the warmth of the big comforter instead of complaining like that. Finally Stephen arrived. His face was pale; his eyes wide with alarm. Lizzie felt like crying when she caught sight of him climbing out of the truck, but she didn’t.

  “What in the world, Lizzie!” he burst out, as he came through the back door.

  “It … it just …”

&nb
sp; “Are you all right? What about Laura?” he asked, coming over to peer into the heavy comforter.

  “Yes, we are both all right, Stephen. It was…was my fault, letting the stove get so hot.”

  “No, Lizzie, not entirely. I never did feel safe building that chimney cheaply like that. Now we’ll do something different. I’ll go to the lumber company in town today and ask them what to do.”

  Lizzie followed him upstairs to see the damage the firemen had made in order to extinguish the flames. There were huge, ragged holes chopped in the drywall, and when they peered into the wall, they could see the shiny blackness of the charred rafters. The entire room had a smoky, sulfurous smell, and the chimney still radiated some heat behind the battered drywall.

  Stephen gave a low whistle as he laid his hand on the chimney block.

  “That’s scary, Lizzie. We came so close to losing everything.”

  Lizzie nodded soberly.

  “But…you and Laura are all right, and that’s what matters most.”

  Lizzie blinked back tears of gratitude as she hugged Stephen, thankful that he was not angry and that it had not been her fault. Well, at least not completely.

  That evening Dat and Jason helped Stephen install a new stainless steel chimney. Stephen explained everything to Lizzie. He showed her the instructions, and how black soot, the buildup from burning green wood, couldn’t accumulate on the sides of the chimney.

  When the whole setup was complete, Lizzie could not believe how thankful she felt as the fire crackled and popped, and the heat spread throughout the cold house. Everything felt safe and secure, cozy and homey again. She was so grateful that they were here in their own little house with their possessions intact, and with the danger that had threatened to take everything extinguished.

  That spring, after the harsh winter winds had slowed to a warm, gentle breeze and the melting snow ran in little rivulets into the spouting, splashing onto the ground and turning it into soft, spring mud, Stephen built a barn. The nice little building with brown siding matched the house and had a roof that wasn’t straight, but was bent in the middle—a hip roof Stephen called it.

  Lizzie loved the little barn. It completed the property, making it look much more like an Amish homestead and not just a house on top of a hill. Stephen built stables, one for George and one for an extra horse when company came, or in case they ever decided to buy a new horse, which Lizzie doubted would ever happen. Stephen thought one horse was enough. She would have loved to fill the barn with miniature ponies like Teeny and Tiny, the ponies Dat bought when Lizzie was little. But Stephen did not like ponies at all, saying they were stubborn little creatures, and why would she want a pony? If she wanted a pony, she could just walk down over the hill and drive her parents’ ponies.

  He would get a dog, he said. Lizzie said, no, she didn’t like dogs. If she couldn’t have ponies, then he couldn’t have a dog. She didn’t feel very virtuous after she stated that a bit too forcefully, but she figured it didn’t hurt Stephen to hear it. Otherwise, he’d become too selfish and just walk all over her, and didn’t the marriage books say the wife shouldn’t be a doormat? Lizzie figured she was coming pretty close to being a doormat, not being allowed to have ponies. Stephen wanted to go and buy a dog that ran all over the neighborhood and dug in her flower beds and barked up an insane storm every time someone came for a visit. She didn’t like dogs, and that was that.

  She thought Stephen was being very quiet after she said that, so she kept watching him out of the corners of her eyes when he wasn’t looking. Was he angry, or just thinking about buying a pony for her?

  Probably that’s what it was. He was planning a surprise for her, putting a cute pony in that extra stall when she least expected it. But when she asked him a question at bedtime and he didn’t answer, she figured it didn’t take that much thinking to decide to buy a pony. He was mad.

  Oh, well, he’ll get over it, she thought unhappily. We’re not having a dog. In fact, she so desperately didn’t want a dog that she didn’t care if she was being virtuous or not. Dogs were annoying.

  Chapter 20

  LIZZIE LOVED TAKING HER baby to church. There was just something about it that made her feel quite capable, so much like a real mother who knew what she was doing, even if she didn’t. Every two weeks, on Saturday evening, she would get out the little straw basket with a lid on it, called a kaevly in Pennsylvania Dutch. Stephen’s mother had ordered it for her and had given it to her as a baby gift.

  In this little basket, Lizzie put a neat stack of snowy white cloth diapers, smelling so fresh and clean, she loved to bury her nose into them and take a deep breath of the scented softness. On top of this stack of diapers, she folded a pair of rubber panties, the stretchable little outer garment that held the wetness against the diaper, a clean pair of white tights, and a clean T-shirt, just in case she might need them.

  Beside that pile of baby necessities, she placed one little jar of baby food, usually fruit-flavored. Lizzie’s favorite flavor was Tutti-Frutti. It tasted so good she probably ate half of it, licking the spoon while she fed Laura. She also had a small container of rice cereal with a tiny bit of sugar sprinkled on top, a small baby-sized spoon, and a bottle containing a wee bit of apple juice mixed with water. She also added bottles of soy formula, two extra bibs, and the best part, baby toys.

  It was fun to pick out the cutest toys to put in her kaevly, because she felt classy when other mothers watched what she gave her baby to play with during church. A string of pink and white glass beads with small key chains attached and little plastic rings kept Laura entertained for awhile.

  She picked out a dress for Laura the evening before, sometimes pink or navy blue, just whatever she felt like. Often she would match the color with her own, especially if she was wearing a pretty color, like burgundy or forest green.

  She completed Laura’s outfit with one of the little homemade bibs Lizzie had bought at the dry-goods store in Lampeter. The bibs were usually crocheted or surrounded by lace of the same color as the baby’s dress. Oh, it was all so much fun and exciting to take your baby to church, that she wished they would have services every Sunday instead of only on alternating ones.

  In the wintertime, she dressed Laura in a little pink sweater set with a pretty blanket to match. On top of that Lizzie pinned a little black, woolen shawl securely around her that was just like her own, except it was baby-sized, of course. On Laura’s head, she placed a stiff little royal blue bonnet, just like her own, except baby-sized as well, and tied it securely under her chin.

  She thought the shawl and bonnet were the cutest things she had ever seen, with Laura’s little brown face peering out from the dark shades of fabric. So cute, in fact, that she squeezed and squeezed her before putting her own shawl and bonnet on. She carefully held Laura beneath the folds of her shawl when they went outside to protect her from the cold. She carried the kaevly with the other hand and went down the steps to where Stephen was waiting with George and the buggy.

  When they arrived at church, Mom or KatieAnn or Susan would come with their arms extended to take Laura. Lizzie felt so loved and important and so Amish and motherly. Stephen’s mother would fuss over her, making Lizzie feel happy and cuddly and warm inside, secure in the fact that she belonged to a group of family and friends. A complete circle of contentment.

  Sometimes Laura would have a genuine crying spell, when nothing seemed to pacify her. Lizzie would take her away from where the service was being held, often upstairs, and rock her or feed her or do whatever it took to get her to stop crying. Often a friend and her fussy baby joined her, and they talked about babies, their sleep patterns, how much they weighed, or whatever.

  Church wasn’t nearly as boring when you had a baby to take care of, especially when a minister droned on and on and wasn’t very interesting. Then Lizzie just up and took Laura upstairs, whether she was crying or not. People didn’t know what was wrong with her baby, and really, they didn’t need to know.


  Sometimes she would put a package of cheese crackers in her kaevly and eat them while she fed Laura, because it got late and she became very hungry. The thing was, when they served lunch, she was never able to sit at the first women’s table because they were seated according to their ages. So she had to wait with the younger women and girls till the older ones had eaten. It seemed as if that table of older women always took their time, drinking coffee and talking way too much.

  On this fine spring morning, Stephen brushed and brushed George with careful attention, put the glossy black harness on his back, and then attached all the buckles and straps before putting the horse back in his stall. He went to the house to dress in his traditional white shirt, black broadfall pants, and black vest with hooks and eyes that closed down the front.

  Humming under his breath, he opened the back door. He was amazed to find Lizzie hunched over the table with a small dish of water. She held a fine-toothed black comb, called a shtrale, in Dutch, and two tiny pieces of metal he remembered his mother using at home.

  Lizzie did not look up when he entered, so he walked over to the table, peering down to see how she was faring.

  “Bobbies?” he asked.

  His wife nodded grimly, intent on parting Laura’s silky baby hair in the middle and creating a wet strand on each side of Laura’s forehead. Lizzie intended to roll the tip of each strand upward and around a sliver of soft bendable metal. With that action, she would form a small roll of hair on each side of Laura’s forehead, called bobbies. It was an old traditional way of keeping a baby’s thin hair from hanging in her face without cutting it.

  Stephen soon sensed that Lizzie was pretty close to panicking, so he walked quietly away, down the hallway and into the bedroom. Lizzie wet the shtrale once more in the tiny dish of water and pulled it through Laura’s hair on the left side of her part. Carefully holding the small bendable piece of metal, Lizzie began rolling upward, just as Laura turned her head, leaving Lizzie holding the metal, but no hair. She glanced with apprehension at the clock. Only 15 more minutes and they would have to leave, no doubt about it.