by Linda Byler
He would stop and hold as still as a hawk waiting to dive for a fish, his ears taking in the unbelievable sound of his daughter’s voice. Tears always rushed to his eyes as chills suffused his body. No matter what she sang—hymns, school songs, or a modern song she heard on the radio—her voice carried a tremor, a full-throated, wondrous gift that God bestowed on only a few.
Becky sang lustily at her job washing milkers. She pretended she was onstage and let her voice soar with her mind. When she lifted the heavy buckets from the rinse water, she threw back her head and let her voice rise, unaware of the fact that she brought her father to tears.
She would never be onstage. She would never be allowed. She was an Amish girl, and performing was severely frowned upon. But no one could stop her in the milk house. Here she was in her own domain. If one of her brothers opened a door and came in, it was like punching the power button on an electronic device. Off immediately.
She finished cleaning the milk house floor, hung the broom on the peg by its rawhide loop, and tiptoed across the wet floor, back into the cow stable to see if Dat had finished.
Catching sight of him, she yelled, “You done?”
“You mind sweeping the troughs?” he yelled back.
“No.”
Becky grabbed the stiff-bristled push broom, sweeping the silage tidily within reach of the cows’ eager snuffling. She swallowed, hungry now, anticipating her own breakfast. She hoped Mam would fry scrapple. It was so good with stewed crackers and homemade ketchup.
When she stepped outside, she was surprised to see low scudding clouds hiding the sun. Or most of it. Oops. Snow, Becky thought.
When gray clouds gave the sun the appearance of a distant flashlight, and a circle of color slightly brighter than the gray surrounded it, snow or rain was coming, depending on the season. Well, that was good. Christmas wasn’t far away, so she hoped there’d be snow. Perhaps it would stay cold, and they’d have a white Christmas this year.
The kitchen smelled wonderful. Becky swallowed as she washed her hands and peered into the oval mirror above the small sink in the Kesslehaus. Turning her face this way and that, she scrutinized the angry red pustules marching along her jawline. Instantly, her hand went up and her fingertips traced the raised bumps on her jaw. Leaning forward, she turned her head to find the offending yellowish tip of a pimple, squeezed as hard as she could, then drew in a sharp breath with the intensity of the pain as tears sprang to her eyes.
Ouchie, ouchie, she thought. It was all that grease in the kitchen at Fred’s. But why now?
Mam eyed her closely as she entered the kitchen. “Becky, have you been picking at your pimples again? How often do I have to tell you you’re only making the situation worse?”
In her frustration, Mam slopped a yellow puddle of orange juice on the white tablecloth. “Get a towel.”
Becky reached for a paper towel, handed it to her mother, and went to put slices of bread in the broiler pan without being told. There was always that, her sense of foresight, her ability to manage jobs in the kitchen, that pleased her mother.
As she turned to heat the coffee, she rubbed her fingertips along the side of her face, as if to obliterate the offending bumps from Mam’s eyesight.
She ate methodically, bending her head over her plate as she shoveled large portions of the delicious fried eggs, scrapple, and stewed crackers into her mouth. Bites of toast spread with butter and strawberry jam were pure ambrosia.
“No pancakes?”
Mam shook her head. “Shoofly.”
Dat said there was nothing better than fresh shoofly pie with his morning coffee. Nancy sniffed and went to the refrigerator for her container of Chobani vanilla yogurt, mixed with birdseed, as Becky called her minimal amount of Kashi granola. She had eaten one egg and one piece of dry toast before she tackled the unappetizing mix she daintily nibbled on now.
What a letdown it would be to eat like Nancy. Greek yogurt was disgusting. It tasted the way the used milk filters smelled, as they stuck to the side of the green garbage bag in the trash can placed beside the sink in the milk house.
She eyed the shoofly pie, then cut herself a sizable wedge, placing it carefully in a cereal bowl.
“Milk,” she said.
Mam handed her the small ceramic pitcher of milk, and she poured a steady stream over the pie until it was almost covered. Holding her spoon vertically, she cut off the tip of the wedge, turned it so that the milk would soak into the cakey part, then took a large bite with satisfaction. Not quite as good as pancakes soaked with butter and syrup, but far better than yogurt and granola.
“So, Becky, what are your plans for today?” Dat asked.
Becky’s hand went to the angry red pustules on her face, as if anyone addressing her would be talking to them. “I don’t know.”
“Nancy and I are going shopping in Concord. Would you want to go, too?” Mam asked, leaning back in her chair.
Becky’s hand stayed on her jawline. “I’d have to get money from my savings.”
“Did you spend everything you made at the diner?”
Becky nodded.
“On what? My word.”
“Books.”
“What kind of books?”
“Books I like.”
“Well, what kind, I meant. Christian stories? Books that build character? Or just trashy romance novels without morals that are not good for your soul?” Mam sipped her coffee, her eyes narrowed as she searched her daughter’s face.
“Interesting books. Stories that hold my attention. Real life. Worthwhile stories.”
Becky breathed again when Mam let it go.
The truth was, Becky had discovered a whole new, colorful world when she began reading books that captivated her attention. History, classics written in the twenties and thirties by authors who were long gone but used words and sentence structures in an entirely new way. Nancy glanced at her sharply, scraped out the last of her yogurt, and said, “You need to do something worthwhile during the day.”
“You need another job,” Mam chimed in.
“Find me one.”
Dat cleared his throat. “Why does she need one if she helps milk, feed calves, and does other chores? She’s so good in the barn, I don’t know why she needs to be pressured to find a job.”
Mam nodded, smiling. “I know what you’re saying, Enos. But you heard her. She spent her money. Now she has to get into her savings account to go shopping for Christmas. If she had a job, that would not be necessary.”
“I’ll provide money for her to go shopping.”
Becky picked at her chin, her eyes going from her father’s face to her mother’s.
“She’s worth more to me than all the boys, who go out and get a job after they turn sixteen. Nothing wrong with that either—they need to experience the world—but I’m just saying, if Becky wants to help around the farm, she can.”
“But in winter?” Mam protested.
“She works two hours every morning and evening. That’s four hours. That is a job.”
So Becky cashed a two-hundred-dollar check at the bank in Concord and went shopping with Mam and Nancy. The stores were festive with holiday finery and alive with Christmas music, piped in through speakers somewhere on the wall.
They went to Target, to Walmart, and Tractor Supply. They bought gifts for their grandparents, each other, the boys, the boss at market. They shopped for necessities as well. Thick stockings, wool socks, and underwear for the boys; Muck Boots for Dat, along with heavy shirts and long thermal underwear.
Becky was hungry to the point of collapse till Mam finally asked the surly, overweight driver to stop at McDonald’s, which instantly elevated his disposition to the point of being quite talkative.
Going to McDonald’s was a rare treat for Becky, as going out to eat was deemed simply unnecessary, unedich gelt chpent. Thrift was a virtue, and Amish people should eat at home, Mam fully believed. But at Christmas, they would indulge in the pleasure of a Big Mac or a chic
ken sandwich accompanied by a large cardboard container of the best fries on Earth.
Becky’s goodwill escalated right along with the driver’s. She praised Nancy’s choice of a black sweater she purchased at Target and became quite affable with Mam, who returned her smile with one of her own.
However, the TV mounted in the corner of the restaurant distracted Becky to such a degree that she forgot where she was for a short time. When an ad came on showing the disfigured face of a young teenaged girl, followed by the same girl with a creamy, smooth complexion after using a product called “Proactive,” Becky’s mind went on high alert, memorizing the number to call immediately. She rummaged in her purse, came up with a small notepad and ballpoint pen, and scribbled the number as fast as she could.
Mam raised her eyebrows. Nancy asked outright.
Becky pointed to the TV. “Something for my face.” She added, “Wish Amish people had TVs.”
That stirred up the soup in a satisfactory way. Mam’s eyebrows came down, followed by a snort of disapproval and a firm, “Becky!” while Nancy’s eyelids were lowered to half-mast, with a pitying, charitable version of patience written all over her face.
“Really, how childish.”
“It’s not childish. Some shows are informative.”
“How would you know?”
“The diner.”
“Oh.”
“I could always get a cell phone, I guess.”
That was like rocking the whole soup bowl until it sloshed over the sides and ran onto the floor, where it dripped like scalding coffee on Mam’s shoes.
“You’re not serious!” Nancy sputtered.
Mam looked as if she was trying to swallow a balloon, so Becky hastily assured her she was only kidding. You’d think she had asked to be flown to the moon.
Becky ate three fries in one bite, wiped the ketchup off her fingers, and reached for more. She pulled deeply on the plastic straw stuck into her large chocolate milkshake, marveling at the wondrous concoction made with milk and ice cream. She shoved a large portion of her burger into her mouth and chewed, returning Mam’s level gaze with one of her own. She watched Nancy squeeze some of the gluey purple dressing onto her Asian salad, pick up her fork, and convey a small amount to her mouth delicately, holding her fork with finesse. Whatever that meant. It was a word she had read somewhere, meaning something like expertly fancy. That’s what Nancy was, all right—classy.
Mam was in between. Not classy, really. Just ordinary. Eating a fish sandwich with coffee and cream. Perhaps she’d go back and order a small hot fudge sundae if the line wasn’t too long.
Becky’s spirits rose with the level of her blood sugar, the milkshake giving her a real high. Gathering the handles of her large black purse, she trilled, “Well, I’m off to the cell phone place!” Then she laughed aloud, chuckling to herself the whole way to the van, which was bulging with bags and boxes of Christmas items.
On the backseat on the way home, Becky began to regret her behavior at McDonald’s, questioning her own motives. Why was it so tempting to horrify Mam and Nancy?
She felt ashamed of herself and made plans to read her Bible that evening, then ask God to forgive her rebelliousness. Mam and Nancy were so perfect, that was the thing. So admiring of one another. They oohed and aahed about the same item—some candle or bedspread or rug or set of dishes—never asking what she thought.
It was as if she really wasn’t there. She didn’t rate very high on the scale of mattering. In plain words, she, or her opinion, didn’t matter. Who cared what she thought? And if she did voice an opinion, it was the wrong one, so she kept quiet, or like at McDonald’s, said rude and ignorant things and ate all the wrong food.
Again, Becky had to tap into her reserve of self-acceptance. She didn’t really care what they thought either. This thing could work both ways.
Then, since it was Christmas, and because that milkshake still served the purpose of keeping her spirits high, Becky smiled and noticed the Christmas trees and tinsel, the snowmen on porches, Santa Claus and his reindeer in the yards.
She was filled with happiness when the first few snowflakes hit the windshield. Her Christmas spirit widened as the driver flicked the knob to begin the windshield wipers, and the surrounding countryside looked as if someone had powdered it lightly with 10X sugar, like covered filled doughnuts. The atmosphere was gray and so heavy with snow that it turned blue-white, bits of snow zapping the windshield like millions of dust particles.
The driver gripped the steering wheel, grumbling to himself. Mam glanced over but said nothing. Nancy turned her head to the right, nervously chewing her lip. Becky remembered the Almond Joy candy bar in her purse. Better leave it.
She had just turned back to the window when she felt the van shudder, as if it had run over a giant comb. The driver shouted and hit the brakes. For one moment time stood still as Becky realized he had lost control of the vehicle. There was a hard jolt, a few bumps, and the van came to rest at an angle, halfway into a shallow ditch, with the snow coming down as steadily as before.
“Slippy. Road’s slippy,” was all the driver said. He climbed out, took stock of his situation, and scratched his balding head before opening the door and asking if they would mind giving him a bit of a shove.
Mam immediately said they’d be glad to help. Nancy sniffed and rolled her eyes at the driver’s incompetence, but she said nothing. Becky got out and leaned her strength against the hood of the van as the driver put it in reverse. A few good spins of the tires, and they got nowhere.
The driver called, “Don’t exert yourselves. I’ll call AAA.”
Becky waved him away. “We’ll get it out. Keep trying. Nancy, you help Mam on this corner, and I’ll push against the opposite side. One, two, three. PUSH!”
Becky’s face turned red with her mighty effort. The driver spun the wheels as the engine screamed over and over. Then there was a lurch, the crunch of gravel, and the solid thump of the back wheels hitting macadam. A car stopped, its four-ways blinking like cat eyes through the snow. A portly gentleman clad in a brilliant blue coat asked if they needed help.
“Nope. We’re out,” the driver said proudly for having taken care of the situation without outside help.
They crept home slowly after that, with Mam clutching the arm of the seat, her eyes never leaving the windshield, the oncoming traffic appearing like ghostly machines of death to her.
Nancy leaned over to fix her hair and covering in the rearview mirror.
Becky reached into her purse, unwrapped the Almond Joy, and ate both succulent pieces in two bites. Good thing she had weight and strength when something like this came along. She felt very pleased as she crumpled the wrapper.
CHAPTER 4
AND SO THE CHRISTMAS SEASON BEGAN IN EARNEST. Mam and the girls opened long cardboard rolls of brightly colored Christmas wrap and showed each other the gifts they had bought, fussing over them one by one. Then they stuck them back in their boxes and covered them in red wrapping paper, or blue, with snowmen, greens, or candy canes, but never with images of Santa Claus. That was just not something the Amish believed in, same as Halloween and all its imaginary witches and ghosts and goblins. If a Christmas wrap was adorned with the jolly face of Santa, it was put back, and a poinsettia motif might be chosen instead.
The women started their candy production. Mam cooked fudge and made Rice Krispies Treats. They made all the candy during the day when the four boys were at work, or else, Mam said, the confections would be eaten as fast as they finished them.
Becky sat on a kitchen chair with boxes of Ritz Crackers and a six-pound container of Jif peanut butter, working her way down the tubes of crackers. She spread a glob of peanut butter between two crackers, then placed each sandwich on a tray, ready for Nancy to dunk them into the bowl of melted chocolate. Nancy dipped each one, turned it with a fork, then fished it out, shaking off the excess chocolate with a few firm taps of the fork handle on the side of the bowl.
Tap
, tap, tap. Nancy kept coating the crackers, her eyes heavy from lack of sleep. It was Monday. The hymn-singing on Sunday night had run on endlessly, and she still had not been asked out on a real date by the highly esteemed but slippery Allen Kauffman.
Nancy’s mood meter was controlled completely by the amount of time she spent with him, the sentences they spoke, the looks they exchanged, and whether she had ridden with him in his new buggy. His carriage was upholstered in gray and silver paisley and had a cherry-colored glove compartment with more gadgets and doodads then any buggy Nancy had ever known.
A long ride in that buggy equaled a smiling Nancy on Monday morning. All her conversation threatened to sink into giddiness, and she was willing to help with even the meanest chores. But if she and Allen had barely talked and she had had no buggy ride, Monday morning meant sleepiness, yawning, and a general lack of enthusiasm.
When Allen Kauffman hadn’t been around at all, Nancy had long and serious conversations in the kitchen with Mam, after which her eyebrows would be raised, the anxiety in her voice pushing them to their limits. On those days, Becky rated about as high as a spider on the ceiling.
Today, as far as Becky could tell, the mood meter indicated that Allen had offered a greeting, maybe a sentence or two, but no conversation and, most assuredly, no buggy ride. Becky slapped peanut butter on two Ritz Crackers and squeezed them together, resisting the urge to lick the excess and return the crackers to the tray without telling anyone.
Mam was stirring a pot on the stove, her movements jerky, her eyebrows about three-fourths of the way to a nervous breakdown. Boredom needed to be dispelled, Becky decided.
Launching the million-dollar question, she asked Nancy if she knew Allen had taken Rachel Ann to the singing.
Nancy’s head swiveled like a whip. “Who?”
“Rachel Ann.”
“You mean, he asked her? And just the two of them went together?”
“Oh no, Jesse and David and Sarah Mae went, too.”
“Well, say what you mean, Becky. I thought you meant he took her alone.”
“What would you do if he did?”
