by Linda Byler
Elam and Sarah lived in a daudyhaus, the small house uf da hof attached to the rambling old farmhouse of their daughter Salome, married to Henry King, and their large family. The children were accustomed to helping s’ Daudys. The arrangement worked well and everyone got along just fine until Daudy had a stroke.
At first when he came home from the hospital, Salome and Henry took over the fasarking of Daudy. They bathed him and fed him, balanced the checkbook, paid the bills, changed the propane tank in the cabinet of the gas lamp, did all the laundry when Mommy fell on the slippery Kesslehaus floor, cooked their meals, did the cleaning, and brought in the mail and the phone messages.
All the siblings came to visit. Everyone came regularly. They offered their assistance, wrote checks and hid them under the sugar bowl, then went home to their own busy lives, filled with children and jobs and community responsibilities.
Little by little, these extra duties wore Salome down. Like water on rocks, it rounded all her sharp corners, took away her spunkiness, and made her compliant. She was tumbled along by the demands of her ailing parents until she became weary, and bitterness sprouted like moss all over her. It was becoming too much.
Mam would come in from the phone shanty, her mouth compressed, shaking her head as she launched into yet another vivid account of da Enos sei schveshta Mary and what was wrong with her, not even offering to take her turn because she went to market. Well, which was more important, Mam would like to know, that market in Crompton or her own parents who were not long for this world, you mark my words, Nancy. Money was all that woman cared about, never mind what Enos said. Salome wouldn’t be able to take it mitt die zeit, that was all there was to it. But Mam guessed that if everyone was too dense to see what this was doing to Salome, then they’d sit up and take notice once she was hauled off to Green Pastures, Nancy, you mark my words.
Mam’s self-righteous ramblings rained from the ceiling, destroying Becky’s concentration as effectively as Fourth of July fireworks. She marveled at her mother’s ability to judge Mary so harshly, especially when she and Dat were too far away to help. She was amazed, too, at how efficiently she drew Nancy into the conversation and erased Becky as if she had been drawn on a chalkboard. One swift swab with the wet rag of her high opinion of Nancy, and Becky had disappeared from her mother’s mind. You mark my words, Nancy.
But it was Becky who marked her words. She not only marked them. She filed them away in the cabinet that was her bright mind, storing them efficiently so she could take them out and examine them from time to time.
Then a letter came from Mary. Mam’s head moved from side to side, her fingers gripped the white tablet paper, her lips moved in concentration, and she clucked as she read.
Her shoulders drooped, she sighed, then got herself a cup of coffee and began to talk—to Nancy.
Mommy had shingles. She was sure the painful virus that produced that terrible rash came from stress. Salome wasn’t always nice to Mommy, especially when it came to the wash. Mommy wanted to do her own wash while she still could.
Salome thought she wasn’t fit. She’d pinched her finger until it bled in the wringer, left the diesel engine running until the air compressor released the valve, then fell on the slippery floor.
Mommy fought valiantly for her rights. She was small and thin, with skin like parchment paper, but when her voice took on that hard quality and her words were thrown like painful pebbles, Salome did not flinch.
“Mommy, du bisht net fit.”
So Mommy pouted. She didn’t help hull peas in June, which she loved to do. It took all her willpower to stay in her own house and not join the happy, talkative pea-hullers on the shady front porch, drinking tea and eating pretzels and raw peas. Forgiveness would come, but Salome needed to know that she was not pleased.
Mam clucked to Nancy. “That must be awful hard on Mommy. There stands her wringer washer and the double tubs. You know how she rinses her wash twice, once in Downy and once in vinegar. You know how white her whites are. And Salome is a slop with the wash. I’m sorry, Nancy, but she is. I never saw the likes. She’s too much in a hurry to change water, so she washes the colored clothes first, and it’s simply hesslich how the men’s white socks look. I folded her wash already, and those men’s socks are stiff and gray. You can’t fold them the way I do, they’re too stiff. I can’t imagine what Mommy has to give up, letting Salome do her wash. She could still do it.”
Behind her book, Becky thought her thoughts. She couldn’t see Mam having the added responsibility of an aging person, who was not very strong or capable, doing laundry close by. She’d be a nervous wreck. Why she barely ever let Becky drive the pony, and certainly never let her walk alone to the river. But Becky said nothing.
Nancy did. In fact, Mam and Nancy became quite huffy about the way Mommy was being treated, whereupon Mam sat down and wrote Mary a letter, saying Salome had no right taking away Mommy’s right to wash. Now with English people taking the keys to their aging parent’s car, that was entirely different—there were other lives involved. But no one was going to get hurt allowing Mommy to wash with a wringer washer.
So Mary rode her scooter over to Salome, threw it in the front yard, and had a talk with her. She felt Salome should allow Mommy to do her own wash, never saying a word about Sadie’s letter. Better she doesn’t know, she thought.
Salome kept her eyes downcast, made a heroic effort and swallowed the quick retort that rose to her lips, nodded her head, and agreed. All right, she said, all right. If that’s how you feel. It must have helped that she had prayed fervently just that morning, please, Lord, help me to be kind and considerate this day.
She smiled a small smile, afraid to smile too widely lest she appear outwardly the way she felt inwardly—like the smiling wolf in the Little Red Riding Hood story. Ah, the tempest that rages within us all, she thought.
So Mommy did her wash. Her shingles got better, everyone took their turn at night the way they were supposed to, and the months went by.
Then Daudy was afflicted with bedsores. Half the family favored natural home remedies. “Keep him out of the hospital. Costs are high.”
The other half thought he needed medical attention and hauled him off to the family doctor, who put him on antibiotics for infection, which displeased the other half immensely. But they gave themselves up in the Amish way of seeking to yield to the other—relinquishing your own way for someone else’s—which, they all knew through errforing, is easier said than done.
Especially when it came to antibiotics.
“Awful unhealthy.”
“Kills everything, even the good bacteria.”
“Give him probiotics at noon,” they said.
Salome said she would, and forgot.
When Abner came to take his turn that evening, Daudy complained of a dreadful stomachache. When Salome was asked about the probiotic, she threw her hands in the air and apologized. Abner lowered his eyebrows and told his sister they were extremely important, and not to let it happen again.
That was when Henry found his wife in the bedroom, curled in a fetal position, soaked Kleenexes in her hand, moaning softly as she cried. He became alarmed, took her in his strong arms, and murmured endearing words. He stepped up his share of caring for Daudy, and things went smoothly for a while longer, Salome’s strength shored up by the sturdy pillars of her husband’s love and admiration.
All of this went through sixteen-year-old Becky’s head as she lay beneath the cozy quilts in her flannel pajamas on a cold night during the Christmas season. Here at Round Oaks she had witnessed the English way. English people, for one thing, had only two or three children, whereas the plain folks mostly had a whole pile. So Amish families had more help. They would never put their parents or siblings in a nursing home. It simply was not their way, which was an admirable trait.
Or was supposed to be. And was. Much of the time.
But as in all things where people are involved, it had its ups and downs, its good and,
yes, bad. If you leveled everything out in Dat’s family of Eshes, Salome definitely had way more than her share. If you put everything on a hanging scale, Salome’s responsibility was so heavy, her side would sink straight to the bottom.
So what alternative did English people have in a situation such as Harold’s? None. Not with having only two girls living thousands of miles away, his wife gone, and Harold unable to care for himself.
Yes, he was lonely, but he was also being taken care of. He paid to be there. And the caregivers were being paid, so he was not a burden to anyone. He was part of their job. He was part of the means by which they made money.
He had rights, so if things went awry, he could complain. And did, likely.
But there poor Daudy sat on his bedsores, without the normal sensation of pain he had prior to his stroke, and afraid to be a bother to his children. He probably wasn’t as lonely as Harold, but a form of shame covered him like a net, and he floundered in it like a trapped fish.
Daudy had been strong, efficient in all his work, never been beholden to anyone. He hadn’t planned on spending his golden years needing help to do almost everything, with one useless side of his body attached like the wrong piece of a jigsaw puzzle.
Pity for her grandfather welled up in Becky, causing pain that was almost physical. She wasn’t that close to him, especially now that she lived so far away in Wisconsin and saw him once a year or less, but he was Dat’s own father and had been as strong and as capable in his time.
So here was the thing. She couldn’t do anything for Daudy except send him a card and write to him, which she did quite regularly. But she could visit Harold and other aging patients at Round Oaks.
Suddenly she was wide awake. She flipped on her back and opened her eyes wide, staring at the darkened ceiling. She could get a job at Round Oaks! She could help all those dear lonely souls, giving them their pills, singing to them, reading to them. She could learn how to change sheets and bathe them.
She wondered if she had to take a course and if her parents would allow this. She would ask. Definitely she would bring up the subject at the breakfast table and hope for the best.
It took her a long time to get to sleep, thinking of all the possibilities, the wonder of having a real job she would be so passionate about. This was not merely working for someone to make money; this felt more like a calling, something she could do that made her happy just thinking about it.
To her parents’ credit, they listened. Fairly. They did not break in while she was talking; they did not make fun of her or become impatient. Becky blushed to tell them that Harold said she had a nice voice (she didn’t mention Aretha Franklin) and that he wanted her to visit, but she thought working there would be perfect.
“You need your GED to work at a place like that,” Nancy said, drily, her eyebrows raised.
“Then I’ll do it. You can do it by mail.”
“No, you can’t. It’s all online these days,” Nancy said, sure of herself from her pedestal and squashing Becky’s dream with her superiority.
“Then I’ll use the neighbor’s computer. I’ll do it.”
Dat and Mam shook their heads from side to side at the same time.
“No,” Dat said.
“Huh-uh,” Mam said.
“You wouldn’t know the first thing about it,” Nancy said.
“I could learn.”
“You are not allowed to go online to earn your GED. Not on a computer, and certainly not at a neighbor’s house. You may, of course, visit this old fellow, but as far as getting a job, I believe that is out of the question.” Dat as usual spoke kindly, building the fence of discipline around his daughter with love. Becky knew she would not resist.
She did talk to Jake and Junior about it and said she was going to get a 12-volt battery, an inverter, and a computer. They hooted and roared with laughter, saying you needed a lot more than that to operate one—some kind of line or something from the phone company.
Becky threw a grooming brush at them, then swept the concrete floor of the horse barn and cried. She blubbered and hiccupped and sniffed. She lifted the corner of her apron to her nose and blew. That was gross, but there was no one to see.
She dried her face, marched solidly into the house, cut two slices of homemade bread, got down a pan, and slammed it on the burner. She toasted the butter-covered bread, spread it with peanut butter and strawberry jelly, put it on a plate, and took it to her room, along with two hard pretzels and three slices of white American cheese. She decided enough is enough. She’d get even with that Jake and Junior. Meanies. She wasn’t done yet.
Christmas came.
On the evening of the twenty-fourth, which was their time to exchange gifts, Dat and Mam were both in a festive mood, handing out packages, smiling, and receiving gifts from the six children. A general chaos filled the well lit living room.
They enjoyed the gifts, ate cookies, candy, snack mix, and tangerines, sang Christmas carols, and held long and varied conversations. It was a time of closeness, a time of cheer and good wishes among all the children. Becky had even let go of her anger at Jake and Junior, choosing instead to walk around with her nose in the air, ignoring them completely, which seemed to work pretty well.
And then it was off to the Christmas singing.
Dat and Mam chose to stay home, Mam explaining that her headache was threatening to turn into a migraine because she had a lot to do before the twenty-seventh. That’s when Dat’s family would be visiting from Lancaster, close to fifty people arriving on a chartered bus.
The driveway leading to the Aaron Stoltzfus farm was alive with lights, strings of them—double yellow or silver headlights from the buggies that wound their way in the lane to the singing. The Christmas Eve singing was always special, like a giant open house. Everyone from miles around was invited—parents, grandparents, youth, school-aged children, toddlers, and babies. The singing of the German Christmas hymns they all loved so much rose steadily in volume as more and more folks arrived.
Becky was glad to see her friends but was surprised to find herself alone in the shop after Rachel Ann and Betty ran off, giggling between themselves. They hadn’t bothered asking her to accompany them, so Becky shrugged her shoulders and sat on a tool bench, hoisting herself up with the aid of an overturned five-gallon bucket.
She was startled to see the lanky form of Daniel meandering across the shop, walking as if he had all night to reach his destination and not concerned whether he got there then. She groaned inwardly, wishing he’d go away. His small, light-colored eyes lit up as he approached.
“Merry Christmas, Becky!”
“Thank you. Merry Christmas to you, too.”
“Daniel.”
“Oh, yes, Daniel.” She laughed in spite of her annoyance.
Without hesitation, blushing, or any sign of shyness, he said flatly, “Your voice is amazing. Do you mind if I sit close to you at every singing from now on?”
“Well, no, I guess not.”
“Good. I’m going to then.” His face was almost level with hers, seated high up on the tool bench the way she was, so when he smiled at her, she smiled back.
He sighed, leaned his elbows on the tool bench, and watched the knot of boys grow bigger. Turning his head, he looked at Rachel Ann and Betty as they ran past, squealing like newborn piggies.
“That should get someone’s attention,” he said, drily.
Becky snorted. “They hope.”
“Why aren’t you with them?”
“They ran off. I can’t keep up. Besides, they don’t really want me. My close friend and cousin is dating now, so I sort of got pushed onto them.”
Daniel nodded but remained quiet.
“You just turned sixteen, right?”
“A couple months ago.”
“You seem older.”
“Do I?”
“Yeah.”
The conversation turned to the evening singing at Round Oaks, and Becky found herself telling Daniel the w
hole story of Harold Epstein, about the loneliness in his eyes, her own grandparents, and the differences in their care.
He listened, nodded, watched her face, and nodded again, speaking a greeting to others as they walked by, but mostly he listened to her observations about life. When she finished, she felt a flush of humility creep across her face, figuring he’d think her stupid. Either way, she didn’t care. It had helped to talk about it.
Finally, he said, “You might not need your high school diploma. I’d think that would be up to the administration at Round Oaks. Unless all these homes have a basic set of rules. I don’t know. It might be worth a try to ask if they’d consider hiring you.”
“You think?”
“I dunno. Might.”
She almost said, “Go with me,” but caught herself. She didn’t even like him, so why would she ask him to accompany her on a mission that was so important? Nothing fazed this guy, that was the thing. It seemed he viewed the world through those unblinking, calm eyes and didn’t get riled about anything.
“It could be worth a try,” she agreed.
Jake stuck his head in a side door. “Becky. I’m leaving. If you want a ride, come on.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
She leaned over to pick up her coat, accidentally brushing Daniel’s shoulder with her arm. “Sorry.”
“It’s okay.”
He stood directly in front of her, looked into her eyes, then down to the five-gallon bucket. “How’d you get up there?”
She nodded toward the bucket.
He kicked it away, his eyes creased by his smile. “Now you have to stay up there. Jake will leave without you.”
“Put the bucket back. Give it here. Put it back.” Becky felt the irritation. He was about as annoying as a clogged drain. She wished she could hit him with a plunger.
