by Linda Byler
“Oh, I did. I’m ready to drop. Then Waynie was a mess with his teething, and Fannie had to go wash for Elam sei Katie. She has Lyme disease, you know. Hiya, Benjamin! Hiya. Come here, you sweet bundle. Oh Ruth, he’s so cute. Gel, Benjy? Hi, Lillian. How’s her head? Komm, Lillian. I want to see your head. Gooka-mol (Let me see).”
Lillian stood stock-still as Mamie’s fingers explored the surface of the little skull, her eyes lifted solemnly to Mamie’s kind face.
“The bump went away now, so it’s better,” she announced solemnly.
“Ach ya, gel?”
Mamie sat down, unwrapped little Benjamin, took Lillian’s proffered coat, and left Ruth to search the room for other familiar faces.
The men were assembling on folding chairs, their beards wagging as they talked. They were dressed in colorful shirts, pastel blues and beiges with an occasional navy or burgundy. They smiled as they greeted one another with firm handshakes or familiar claps on the shoulder.
Ruth turned away, the loss of Ben—the raw absence of him—so unbearable when his brother, Sam, arrived. He smiled, then caught her eye and waved. So much like Ben. No one could ever replace his memory, she knew now. That knowledge was engraved into her being, like the words that were etched on his perfect gravestone.
“Ruth, what? A shadow just passed across your face. You’re missing Ben, gel? Ach my, Ruth. Maybe you shouldn’t have come. You poor thing. I can’t stand it. Komm, sits ana (sit down).”
Mamie slipped a heavy arm around Ruth’s drooping form, and the hurt was replaced by her friend’s pure kindness along with the scent of her lack of a good antiperspirant—the only blight on their friendship. Ruth had never worked up the audacity to mention it. She winced now but resigned herself and chose to accept the kindness, regardless of the less than fresh Mamie.
“It’s okay. I’m just being childish,” Ruth whispered.
The two greeted others who came by to shake hands, give an occasional hug, and offer words of friendliness. They asked how she was, always. And always, Ruth would smile and say, “Goot (Good),” nod her head, and hope the person holding her hand would believe it.
No, I’m not always goot. My money is all but gone once again, Lillian is driving me batty, and I miss Ben so much right this minute, I could just run home and wrap up in a blanket and turn my face to the wall. My spigot leaks—the one in the laundry room—and a section of spouting is loose. So don’t ask me how I am, because I’ll just have to put on that false veneer of shining goodness that comes from generation after generation of pasted smiles and hidden suffering.
Ruth knew the Amish were always expected to be goot. It is bred in them, this taking up of their crosses, bowing of their heads, and repetition of “Thy will be done.” They carry on, and when the load becomes unbearable, they still endure it. It is the Amish way. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Ruth allowed a small sigh to escape.
As the girls filed in, shaking hands and greeting the women with polite smiles, Ruth turned her attention to look with interest at the different colors and styles of the dresses as well as the hairstyles. She noted which ones were neat and which could use a little work.
How well she remembered the anticipation of each hymn singing when she was young. Would this be the evening Ben would notice her? Would he be seated close by or much too far away toward the other end of the table?
Always, there had been Ben. She was fifteen when she spoke to him that first time. She’d fallen hard and had never been the same. It was at a volleyball game on a lovely summer evening. She was not yet sixteen, so she wasn’t actually rumspringing, but he’d come over to her and Rachel and said, “Hello, Ruth, how are you?”
Their time together had been so short, and yet her mind was packed with many memories of their love. It remained a wondrous thing to file away those golden mental files that hung neatly in her special place labeled “Marriage, a heaven on earth.” For she had loved him, given herself to him, and adored the ground he walked on.
Could she ever love again, in that same way? No. A steely resolve closed her heart to the thought. It seemed wrong somehow. She felt sure Ben would not want her to consider a second love.
You need to care for our children, Ruth.
Ruth blinked, frightened, her eyes wide. Who had spoken?
She looked left, then right, and then straight ahead and directly into the deep brown eyes of that bachelor who was single but dating Anna—Paul King’s Anna. Ruth tried to look away, but she was held by his gaze that was asking her questions again.
How can eyes speak? she wondered much later that night. Those eyes had asked, Who are you, Ruth? How can I ever get to know you?
At the moment, because she had felt flushed and brazen and was still pondering whose voice she had heard speaking to her about the children, she had finally lowered her head. Her downcast eyes and the heavy lashes sweeping her softly blushing cheeks—none of it was lost on Mamie, who sat straight up and blinked. She pursed her lips, clasped her hands firmly in her lap, and knew.
The singing rose and fell. The lovely old hymns of the forefathers were coupled with choruses of English songs as the men’s deep voices blended in complete harmony with the lighter tones of the women.
Ruth cuddled Benjamin, bent over him, and kissed his downy cheeks as she pondered her explosion of emotion, masked, of course, by her steadiness of character.
The coffee was piping hot, and the assortment of cookies and bars and pretzels and cheese and popcorn passed from person to person in a steady stream as the voices of young and old raised in cheery banter during the fellowship that always followed an shoene singin (a nice singing).
Eventually the horses were brought and attached to cold buggies, the headlights illuminating the person connecting the britchments and leather pulls to shafts. Friends called out their well wishes, and a few men hurried to help an insecure sixteen year old with a rowdy, misbehaving horse. This was common on cold, late evenings when the horses were tired of standing tied side by side in unfamiliar barns or along cold fences.
Ruth hurried the children along, careful to hold Benjamin close, warning Elmer to keep hold of Lillian’s hand.
Suddenly a dark figure emerged and stepped in front of her, blocking her way.
She stopped, hesitant.
A deep, craggy voice spoke out of the blackness.
“May I ask your name?” He was breathing too fast.
Startled, not thinking, she said quickly, “Ruth Miller.”
“These are your children?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry if I appear rude. I’m John Beiler.”
He extended a hand. Ruth shifted Benjamin, found the stranger’s hand, and shook it politely.
“I would offer a ride, but I think your house is not far away.”
“No.”
“John!”
An irritated voice broke through the stillness as a tall, dark figure appeared, threw herself at John, and clasping his hand and looking up into his face, said, “Where were you? I’ve been ready to go for a long time.”
“I’m sorry.”
Nodding his head at Ruth, he moved off, firmly pulled along by his fiancé, evidently, leaving Ruth shaking her head at the boldness of girls in this modern day.
Ruth couldn’t fall asleep. She finally got up, took down the flashlight that hung from the hook in the pantry, and found the trustworthy bottle of Tylenol P.M. Sleeping pills or not, sometimes they were a necessity to help her cope with the problems as they approached. Lack of rest was her biggest hurdle. She had learned that the hard way.
Thoughts tumbled about, turning a labyrinth of normal thinking into a hopeless puzzle. Why had she heard that? Those words? Were angels among us, she prayed. Please God, why? “You need to care for our children.” As if it were Ben. It wasn’t his voice, exactly, but more like a loud thought. Or a thoug
ht out loud. Was she losing her mind?
And those eyes. Oh, dear God. She was so ashamed. But, yes, they were like Ben’s. Too much so. Heavenly Father, please keep me from falling in love. It’s wrong for me, now.
In the morning, when Roy went to feed Pete and Oatmeal, he came back immediately, saying there was a box on the porch, a banana box, the kind they got from B. B.’s Store.
Quickly, Ruth lowered her hands from brushing Esther’s hair, telling her to wait, and hurried after Roy. She lifted off the lid of cardboard box with its blue and yellow writing.
A hand went to her throat. Roy was the first to look, turning the large John Martin’s ham on its side, touching the Butterball turkey, and poking at the large bundle wrapped in white butcher paper.
“Mam! Look! A turkey! What’s in the paper? Let’s take it to the kitchen table.”
Elmer joined them, and the boys strained to lift the box with Ruth’s help. Esther and Barbara stretched on their tiptoes, peering in to see for themselves as Ruth unwrapped the white parcel. There was a mound of fresh ground sausage, and her mouth watered thinking of the crisp fried patties she could make to eat with scrambled eggs.
The ham was enormous, and already she planned to bake it, freeze portions of it, and make soup and homemade potpie and ham salad. Oh, the wonder of it! Christmas was all taken care of now, at least the dinner here at home.
There was another package of ground beef and one of chicken breast—something she had not bought since Ben died. She would marinate it and then sauté it for only a few minutes—so good. She’d make a wonderful pot of chicken corn noodle soup with chunks of celery and slivers of carrot and parsley.
“Oh my goodness!” Barbara exclaimed.
“We’re going to eat like kings!” Esther said and went twirling around the kitchen, her skirts flying in a circle around her and her partially done hair in disarray.
Lillian gave a whoop of pure excitement and followed, copying every move of her older sister.
Elmer, however, looked very grave as he pinched his mouth into a serious line, his eyes concerned. “How do we know who left it? How do we know it’s safe?” he asked.
Ruth stopped. She noticed the way he held his shoulders, so erect, so…just so much more mature than his age with responsibility weighing on the thin boyish shoulders long before they were round enough or strong enough to support it. It broke her heart, the way he felt he needed to protect them—her oldest child and yet still so vulnerable.
“Listen, Elmer, I do understand your point. There is always that danger. But we need to have faith in our fellow humans. I think it was given to us by someone who was directed by God to do so. I think it’s good, clean, wonderful food. Can you imagine our Christmas dinner with all of this?”
She smiled widely, held up one palm, and raised her eyebrows in question. Elmer nodded, grinned, and then sidled up to give her a resounding high five, followed by a leaping Roy who slapped her palm so hard she cradled it with her other hand and faked a serious injury.
“Hooo-boy!”
Barbara and Esther giggled and laughed before they caught sight of the clock and shrieked.
“Ten to eight!”
“Oh my goodness!”
That day the children went to school after shoveling cold cereal into their mouths at the very last minute. They rushed out the door still pulling on their coats and smacking their hats onto their heads before racing down the road on their scooters. Their journey to school that day was filled with more merriment than they’d had since their father passed away.
Who had done it, though? Someone with plenty of common sense and knowledge of a poor widow’s needs, Ruth thought.
The banana box of delicious meat was soon followed by another one that was mysteriously delivered on the same night Lillian became terribly ill with a sore throat. How could a mother be rocking her child in the living room with the blinds halfway up and not see someone leave a box outside in plain view?
Lillian was so sick, her little body racked with pain and fever that no amount of Tylenol would touch. It was a long night with an abundance of fear and unanswered questions. The small kerosene lamp by the recliner provided a small, steady flame of reassurance, while the shadows along the wall brought doubt and sorrow. The flickering gloominess reflected Ruth’s constantly shifting emotions as Lillian’s little heart pounded in her thin, little chest and her breathing became shallow and ragged. The little patient repeatedly cried out in pain when she tried to swallow.
Mam arrived in the morning, an angel quickly transported by an English driver. Her blue eyes filled with tears of understanding as she carried in her Unkers salve, Infection Aid, and liquid Vitamin C along with her knowledge of onion poultices and vinegar baths.
As always, Ruth meant to stay strong, but her resolve crumbled the minute she met with the kindness in her mother’s eyes. She handed Lillian over to Mommy, soothed a crying Benjamin, and knew it was time to admit she wasn’t goot. She was completely overwhelmed and underfunded. And, yes, she had bought those two rugs at Walmart, but now her money was all gone, and she just wanted to buy Christmas gifts and be normal with a husband who provided for her.
She did not want to be the poor widow who people watched with sympathy and pity. She wanted to hold up her head and say, “Stop it. I am Ruth. I am still human, and I want to be accepted as one of you and laugh when I want to or say silly things if I feel like it. Just stop looking at me.” Oh, the thoughts that tormented her when she was exhausted!
First, Lillian was lowered into the bathtub, though the smell of apple cider vinegar was so strong that she cried and clung to her grandmother. The miracle occurred when the fever dropped after the Unkers salve was applied to Lillian’s neck and she had swallowed a dose of Infection Aid, a potent mixture of herbs.
Lillian was dressed in a clean flannel nightgown with an old cloth diaper tied around her neck, where the salve was already doing its work. They pulled warm socks onto her feet, and she rested well, sleeping soundly for most of the forenoon as Mam busied herself doing the washing and then holding Benjamin.
Ruth suddenly remembered the box and brought it in, excitement in her eyes, a wide smile on her face. Her joy brought a tender look to Mam’s own face as she remembered her daughter in easier times.
Slowly, Ruth lifted off the cardboard lid and found this box filled with groceries. Staples. Good, common sense pantry food. There was mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard—all expensive name brands.
“Oh, Mam! It’s as if someone followed me around the bent and dent store and wrote down everything I couldn’t find. Seriously. Coffee! Folgers. Just my favorite. I couldn’t find it last time. Even pancake syrup! Mrs. Butterworth. Who is doing this, Mam?”
There were cans of navy beans and kidney beans, boxes of elbow macaroni and spaghetti, cake mixes and brown sugar, rice and flour and oatmeal.
“No name?”
“No clue.”
Mam clucked her tongue and said she hoped the giver would be richly rewarded.
They used more of the ham that day, made bean soup with the broth, and ate large bowlfuls for lunch with grilled cheese sandwiches.
When Lillian woke, Mam said to try feeding her a bit of the bean soup, but she refused, turning her head from side to side, her lips squeezed tight. They opened a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup instead, and Lillian ate spoonful after spoonful. She was extremely pleased with herself and all the praise they heaped on her, but she only smiled and promptly fell asleep before she could say a word.
When Mam’s driver came late that evening, there was a mutual reaching for each other, a hug born of necessity. It expressed the great appreciation Ruth had for her mother and was absolutely essential for Mam to communicate her love and support for her daughter.
And so they stood, these two slight women, their coverings as white beacons of their subjection to God, and the
y drew strength from the warmth of human touch.
Ruth stood by the door and waved as Mam got in the car. Then she turned to go inside, knowing she would need to face the emptiness again.
Ruth’s table had a round, brown placemat in the middle with a candle on it. As she headed back to her kitchen, she noticed a scrap of paper stuck beneath the placemat and tried to brush it away. Instead, she pulled out a check written to Ruth Miller in her mother’s cursive hand, spaced perfectly as usual, and signed with her father’s scrawl.
Again, Ruth got out her box of thank you cards and wrote her parents a note of heartfelt appreciation, grateful to know this time who to thank for the blessing. Then she put a stamp on it and hurried to the mailbox without a coat, her skirts flapping as she ran.
The air was invigorating, bringing color to her cheeks as she thrust the card into the mailbox and flipped up the red flag. She shivered and turned to race back to the house before she noticed a builder’s truck bearing down, then slowing to a stop.
“Hello again.”
She looked into John Beiler’s eyes and smiled. Maybe it was the air nipping about her. Perhaps it was the fact that she was alone, the children already asleep in the house, or perhaps it was just the wonder of having to—no, wanting to—smile back at him, completely without guilt or wondering what anyone would say. No one would need to know. Not Mam or Dat or Mamie Stoltzfus.
“So you have a habit of going to the mailbox without a coat in the evening?”
“I’m afraid so.”
He laughed then, and she continued smiling until the driver waved and John Beiler said, “Take care,” as the truck moved off.
So. He was a builder. A carpenter, a contractor, or maybe a roofer or framer or mason. There were so many different occupations that all fell under the general term of builder.
He was not a farmer. More and more, the Amish were moving away from farming since they were simply unable to complete with the huge dairy operations. However, many people Ruth knew still made a good living milking cows.
