Christmas Visitor

by Linda Byler

  Ouch. Her shin was throbbing, painfully bruised from connecting with the edge of the porch, or…was it? Yes, it was another banana box. Well, she’d wait until the children awoke to let them experience the thrill of the box’s contents.

  When the first load of whites was being churned back and forth by the washer’s agitator, the hot water and clothing rhythmically slapping the sides of the machine and the frothy suds appearing and disappearing, Ruth went to the kitchen, turned off the burner, and poured the boiling water over the coffee grounds. She set the top part of the coffeemaker over the emptied lower section and put it back on the stove to drip. The rich, flavorful aroma from the dripping coffee gave her a boost of energy and well being.

  They’d likely have snow today. Wouldn’t it be wonderful? Maybe they’d even have a white Christmas! The children could go sledding at Doddy Lapp’s.

  She went to the boys’ room and whispered loudly, “Elmer! Roy! Kommet (Come).”

  “Esther!”

  Sleepy little sounds of denial met her voice, and she smiled, anticipating telling the children of her clumsy tumble into the bushes. Lifting her foot to a chair, she pushed down the black knee sock and examined the dark, angry bruise that had appeared there, surrounded by a faint bluish ring. She certainly had slammed that leg. Well, nothing to do about it now. Gingerly, she pulled the sock back up and went to feed the first load of clothes through the wringer.

  After the water had been squeezed from the clothes, Ruth took up her hanging ring, a clever handmade item that was exactly that—a ring made of white PVC piping with wooden clothespins dangling from it, a few inches apart and attached by a sturdy nylon cord. All the socks, underwear, handkerchiefs, bibs, baby onesies, and numerous other small items were attached to the clothespins and, in the winter, carried to the basement to be hung above the coal stove, where they’d be dry in a jiffy. Those rings were a housewife’s dream, and every wash day Ruth appreciated hers with her six children and all the piles of small, wet items to be hung up.

  Back and forth she hurried with the Rubbermaid clothesbasket, up and down the basement stairs, making sure the boys and Esther were up and starting to pack their lunches.

  It was an unspoken rule. If they heard the air motor and knew their mother was washing, they’d have to finish packing lunches for school. She set the brightly colored plastic lunchboxes side by side on the countertop each evening, put their pretzels in sandwich bags, and chocolate chip cookies, too. All they needed to do was make their own sandwiches and add an apple or canned peaches or pears.

  Sometimes the children spoke wistfully about their classmates’ food—the Gogurts with cartoon characters on the tubes or the Fruit Roll-Ups they wanted so badly that their mouths watered as they watched the other children eat. Their schoolmates sometimes had chicken nuggets or frozen pizza slices wrapped in tinfoil to put on top of the gas heater, and they smelled so good.

  In response, Ruth had devised her own recipe for the children’s lunches. She bought outdated packages of English muffins and spooned generous amounts of spaghetti sauce on top, using a jar of sauce she had canned herself. Then she laid a slice of white American cheese on top of each muffin. One day, Esther proudly told Ruth that Rosanna had wanted a taste of her pizza muffin, and now Rosanna’s mother made them for her and her brother, Calvin.

  Ruth poked her head through the kitchen door. “There’s ham salad, if you’re tired of the pizza muffins.”

  “Nope!”

  “Pizza!”

  Smiling, Ruth carried the last load of laundry to the basement. When the clothes were hung, she placed the clothespin apron on its hook and rinsed the washer, hosing it down well with hot water. Then she got down on her hands and knees and wiped up any spilled water with a good, thick rag. There. Now let it snow. The laundry was all hung snugly in the basement, drying in the good heat radiating from the coal stove.

  “Guess what?”

  Roy was spooning spaghetti sauce onto three muffins, biting his tongue in concentration. Esther peered past his shoulder, disapproval written all over her face.

  “Not so much!”

  “Guess what?” Ruth said again.

  “What?” Elmer asked, intently prying apart the slices of American cheese.

  “Another box!”

  “Nah-uh!”

  “Serious?”

  “Where?”

  “Follow me!”

  There in the cold, snow-laden air, they crouched, bending over the box with disbelieving eyes. There was another banana box, the same kind with Chiquita written in blue and yellow lettering and a picture of bananas. This one contained every item they had ever dreamed of putting in their lunchboxes. And some they hadn’t even thought of—not knowing they existed.

  “Jello already made!” Esther gloated, holding the small plastic containers high.

  “Gogurt! Oh, I love these things!”

  “Real candy bars!”

  “Fruit snacks!”

  “Crackers and popcorn and cheese curls.”

  “What’s this?”

  “String cheese.”

  “What’s string cheese?”

  There was ham from a real deli at a real grocery store and sweet bologna and a thick round of German ring bologna. The box was so heavy that Ruth took one side and Elmer the other so they could carry the box between them.

  Quickly, she scrambled eggs for the children, hurriedly combed Esther’s hair, and pinned her black apron around her tiny waist as she also goaded the boys along. “Brush your teeth!” she called over her shoulder as she hurried to her bedroom, responding to the morning sounds from Lillian and Benjamin.

  Instead of opening the door the whole way, Ruth peeped through the small crack and said, “Peep!”

  Mesmerized, Lillian sat straight up, watching the narrow opening. Up came Benjamin’s head, his eyes wide with surprise.

  “Peep!” Ruth said again.

  Lillian bounced happily and then pitched herself onto her stomach, knowing Ruth would fling open the door and pounce on her, which was exactly what happened. Shrieking, she scrunched her little form into the farthest corner, and Ruth grabbed her warm, cuddly body and kissed her cheeks soundly.

  “Morning, Lillian.”

  “Look, Benjy’s awake!”

  When Benjamin saw his mother approaching, he laid his head back on the crib sheet and kicked his little legs in anticipation. Lifting him, she inhaled his sweet baby smells and then carried them both out to the rocking chair for some cuddling, glad they had both slept through the washing.

  As the school children went out the door, Ruth told them to be good and listen to the teacher. Their lunch boxes each held one of the containers of Jello. Ruth had told them they could only have one special treat each day. That way the food would last for a month, perhaps longer. They solemnly agreed, and Ruth was so proud of them.

  Pride was something that wasn’t named, since they were Amish. It was wrong to be proud of anything—one’s home, husband, children, quilt-making abilities, baking skills, whatever.

  So if Ruth was pleased, she didn’t name it as pride. Compliments were often met with a shamefaced dip of the head or a word of denial. Even if true humility was actually in short supply, there was still an outward show of it.

  Yes, this small ray of pride she would allow herself. She often felt inadequate and overwhelmed, raising these six children, so when the school aged ones readily agreed to make the treats for their lunchboxes last longer, she felt rewarded by their grave acceptance of her wishes. And she was proud of them.

  Today, she would quilt. She would pin the new quilt top into the frame, the one her mother had given her when Ben died. It was a sturdy, wooden one with two rails resting on a stand at each end, allowing the quilt to be rolled as one side was completed.

  She loved to quilt. It would be nice to have Mamie pop in to he
lp her pin the back of the quilt to the fabric on the rails, but Ruth supposed she was still resting up from that hymn singing.

  Ruth smiled. She loved Mamie. She was the epitome of every verse or poem ever written about friendship. Those words all held much more meaning since Ben had left her alone, to carry on raising the dear little ones on her own.

  Not so little now, though. Elmer was turning into a miniature Ben with his shoulders held so high, his stance one of premature obligation as the man of the house.

  And then, because the thought of Elmer’s shoulders made her cry, her whole living room blurred and swam, and she couldn’t see Mamie’s form very clearly when her friend knocked on the storm door. Ruth thought it must be the UPS man and couldn’t think what she had ordered that she’d be receiving a delivery.

  When Barbara emerged from the girls’ bedroom, rubbing the sleep from her eyes, she looked at the door and asked why no one let Mamie in.

  “Hey!” Mamie decided enough was enough. That air was cold, and she let herself in through the back door into the kitchen.

  “I’m here,” Ruth called. “Just come in, you don’t have to knock.”

  Mamie walked over, looked closely at Ruth, and said gruffly, “You were crying.”

  “Now, I wasn’t.”

  “Yes, you were. I can tell.”

  And Ruth was wrapped in a compassionate embrace—never mind the odor of Mamie’s sweater or the fact that her headscarf had once been white but now appeared gray and its fringes were hanging in Ruth’s face. The love from her friend was the purest kind, bathed in glory.

  “Ach, siss net chide (Oh, it isn’t right), Ruth. Komm, Lillian. Come to Mamie. Hiya! Vee bisht doo? (How are you?)”

  Sitting down, Mamie’s motherly hands explored Lillian’s head as she peppered her with caring questions, Lillian nodding or shaking her head no in response.

  “Hiya, Benjy. You little corker! You’re growing! Ach, Ruth, such beautiful children. Hiya, Barbara. Did you just get out of bed? Hey, I smell laundry soap. Don’t tell me you washed already? If you did, I’m going straight home. Did you?”

  When Ruth nodded, Mamie grinned shamefacedly.

  “You know what? I’m fat and lazy. I have to go home and wash and go on a diet. But, oh my, it felt so good to roll over and sleep till seven. Eph has a dinner down at Stoltzfus Structures, so he said he’d eat Corn Flakes this morning. He’s a wonder, that man.”

  She realized her mistake too late and clapped a hand across her mouth, her eyes widening in dismay.

  “Ruth, I’m sorry. Here I go rambling on about my husband, and you having zeit-lang (loneliness and longing) for Ben. Don’t listen to me.”

  “No, Mamie. It’s okay. Don’t worry about it. I’m happy that you love your husband. It’s as it should be.”

  “Oh, Ruth. I wish I could….Ach, I don’t know what I wish.”

  “How’s Waynie?”

  “Beside himself with his teething. I put that teething stuff on, but it hardly makes a difference.”

  Ruth nodded. There was a space of comfortable silence as they sat, Ruth pondering the significance of Mamie’s earlier comment, and Mamie’s eyes drifting to the coffeepot, nodding her head toward it.

  Ruth put Benjamin in his high chair, made toast and scrambled eggs, and filled a plate for Mamie. Mamie said she wasn’t one bit hungry, but she managed to finish the last of the eggs as well as three slices of toast and two cups of coffee laden with sugar and milk.

  She stayed, of course, to help pin the quilt to the frame, saying she simply had to go home as Fannie had a sore throat and Waynie might need her.

  “Here, pull this over this way,” Mamie said around the pins in her mouth.

  “Is it crooked?” Ruth asked, realizing they’d have to unroll the whole backing of the quilt if it was.

  “Stop pulling!”

  “Which way?”

  “My way!”

  “I’m not pulling!”

  “Yes, you are, too. Here, you go give Benjy some cereal or yogurt or something. Let me do this alone.”

  Ruth laughed out loud and said over her shoulder, “Do it your way.”

  “You know what? You may be a much better everything than I am, but you aren’t as good with quilts as I am. You can’t pull on the backing. You have to roll it in naturally.”

  “Really?”

  “Now you’re schputting me!”

  “No, I would never do that.”

  They both grinned, and Mamie took the pins out of her mouth and told Ruth she was closer to her than her own sister, that she was the best friend she ever had.

  Ruth told her about the boxes that had been appearing on her porch, and Mamie’s mouth started to wobble. Her blue eyes filled with tears, and she ran her hands across her large forearms and said it gave her chills.

  “Who could it be? I’m afraid whoever it is doesn’t realize how they’re spoiling us,” Ruth said, sitting down to spoon yogurt into Benjamin’s mouth, which he opened eagerly, like a ravenous little bird.

  “Who? Who would do something like that? Maybe a group of people. Maybe English people. Like a Sunday school class or something.”

  “Don’t they go to Haiti or Africa or places like that? They have mission fields. You know—serious, big projects. Why would they bother with us? They don’t know I’m a widow.”

  “Maybe they do.”

  “I don’t like the word ‘widow.’ It sounds so lonesome, or sad…or something.”

  “I agree, Ruth, but that is what you are now. And before we know it, it will be a year. That’s the proper time for remarriage, you know. I think you need to be reminded of that. Or do you?”

  Never in her most intimate thoughts had it occurred to Ruth that Mamie would ever suggest the unspeakable. Her face flaming, completely at loss, she knocked over the container of yogurt, and it plunked solidly to the floor, splashing the thick, creamy mess all over the linoleum.

  Leaving Benjamin in his high chair, she went to the pantry, grabbed the Cheerios box, and shook a few onto his tray. She kept her face hidden from Mamie as she got a clean rag from the drawer and proceeded to wipe up the yogurt without saying a word.

  Wisely, Mamie busied herself with the quilt until Ruth had composed herself. Then she looked up.

  “Well?”

  “Well, what?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “I don’t.”

  “You do.”

  “Alright, if I do, then who? Mamie, now come on. In all of Lancaster County there is not one man who would be….Well, think, Mamie, think about it—six. I have six children. A five-month-old baby. It’s just too soon to speak of these things. And who would want all seven of us.”

  “Well, it’s not too early.”

  Ruth looked up quickly.

  “You are one determined lady.”

  “I sure am.”

  Then Mamie added, “You need a dog. If Trixie were here, you wouldn’t have had to clean up that yogurt. She would have lapped it right up.”

  “All I need is a dog in this house, Mamie.”

  “If you had one, you’d know who is setting those boxes on your porch.”

  Ruth laughed.

  “There. Now help me with this batting.”

  The soft, white middle part of the quilt was spread evenly across the rolled up backing. Then the actual quilt was tugged neatly across the top and pinned securely.

  An appliquéd Rose of Sharon pattern in deep purple and shades of green was a sight to behold, they both agreed. The intricacy of the needlework was mind boggling, and the person who appliquéd was far more talented than the quilter, they confirmed.

  “Oh, I just have to quilt a few stitches before I go,” Mamie said longingly.

  “You can stay.”

  “I have to wash.”

&n
bsp; Ruth knew, inevitably, that Fannie would do the washing, but that was none of her concern.

  “I have a bit of a secret.”

  Mamie spoke as she was threading her needle, so she wouldn’t have to look directly at Ruth. When Ruth was afraid to answer, Mamie went right on talking.

  “Do you know who John Beiler is?”

  “John Beiler?”

  Ruth’s voice was calm and quiet and so poorly disguised that she may has well have turned eagerly and pelted her friend with a thousand questions about him.

  “You know who I mean.”

  Mamie drove her needle rapidly up and down through the quilt. She suddenly sat back and held up her thimble.

  “This thing is too small. It pinches my finger.”

  “Here.”

  Ruth went to the sewing machine, located a larger thimble, and handed it to her friend.

  “Yes, I know who he is,” she admitted.

  Seriously now, her face shining with concern and care, Mamie laid down the needle she was using and said, “Ruth, I saw at the singing, okay? I saw how he kept noticing you. And you were looking at him. Now, you need to know that he broke up with Paul King’s Anna. They say it was him.”

  Ruth nodded weakly, the color leaving her face.

  “Yes. They say it’s awful hard on her. You know she’s been a schoolteacher all these years. She’s an attractive girl, gets along so well with the pupils, even the parents. I pity her. My heart just goes out to her.”

  “Yes,” Ruth whispered, which was about the only sound she could manage.

  “You know he’s a brother to Huvvel Dave’s Elam?”

  Ruth nodded.

  “Can’t you talk?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then act chide (right).”

  They both burst out laughing, and Ruth cried a little. Mamie pushed back her chair and hugged her hard. She smelled of bread and butter pickles and Waynie’s diaper, and when Mamie went home to do the washing, Ruth sat staring numbly out the window, her hands hanging limply at her sides. Barbara had to tell her two times that Lillian was in the candy drawer.

  How can one lonely widow ever sort out her feelings? It was wrong to forget the memory of Ben, wrong to let another man into her life. Besides, what did Mamie know? No man—in his right mind—would consider her.