I sent a letter to Sarah, put it out in the morning mail. It’s been weeks since I’ve had a letter from her. Still, I won’t give up sharing the things we’re learning here. The People have taught Gil and me not to dwell on the visible things so much, but on the coming world—God’s blessed kingdom. Oh, if only my sister could see the change in me!
Lydia watched in amazement as Aunt Sarah trudged through the snow a few strides behind little Hannah, sporting the fanciest brass-colored boots she’d ever seen. The worldly getup didn’t mix well with the farmland on either side of the road; not the Plain attire the children wore, either. Marching single file, they were stairsteps—Caleb in the lead, Aunt Sarah bringing up the tail end, the fancy caboose.
A chuckle escaped her lips, and she wondered what had prompted their English relative to follow the children to school, for goodness’ sake!
Lydia stood in the window, observing the peculiar sight till she could see them no longer. ’Bout that time, she wondered how it would be goin’ off to school herself next week. A teacher at last.
Tomorrow, for sure and for certain, she must talk to Miriam Esh. Honestly, she wondered if maybe by now Preacher Esh had already put a bug in the woman’s ear. She could only hope and pray he might be able to soften Miriam up a bit. ’Cause without Preacher’s cousin, all was lost. Not only would Lydia miss her chance to teach school, she might also lose out on bein’ Levi’s wife!
If asked, Sarah could not have logically pinpointed the reason, but she found herself hiking through ankle-deep snow with four of her nieces and nephews on their way to school. Perhaps the perplexed expression on Anna Mae’s freckled face at breakfast had prompted her somewhat impulsive decision. Part of her wanted to extend something of herself to the girl, yet she knew not how or what to say. Another side of her wanted to book a flight out of here tomorrow!
Yesterday she had tried to soothe Anna Mae, clearly wounded and unsteady of mind, but the girl had become terribly frightened. Sarah had seen the terror on the girl’s face.
So it was that she walked in the midst of a bitter cold day, single file, along a snow-covered roadside that Caleb said led to the Amish schoolhouse. ‘‘Someone might come along and give us a sleigh ride,’’ he said, a glint of hope in his eyes.
‘‘Noah Lapp might,’’ Josiah piped up. ‘‘He’s the nicest man alive.’’
Sarah’s ears perked up at that, and she wished Josiah might turn around and offer her his perpetual grin. Asked her opinion, she would have said it was the younger of the two Cottrell boys—Josiah—who most favored his deceased father. But this many years removed, she found it difficult to evaluate. The reality was that she had not seen either Gilbert or Ivy since their move from Bridgeport, Connecticut, to Lancaster County nearly twelve years ago.
Little Hannah seemed to purposely slow her pace, waiting for Sarah to match her stride. Together, they made their way through the snow, side by side, for quite a long way before Hannah said, ‘‘Mamma sometimes walked to school with us, too.’’
Anna Mae was quick to correct her little sister. ‘‘Mamma only walked with us on the warmest days.’’
‘‘Always in the springtime,’’ Caleb added. ‘‘Early May was Mamma’s favorite time of the year.’’
Sarah’s thoughts flew to the passage in Ivy’s journal. If only my sister could see the change in me . So Ivy’s life had changed radically. She must have delighted in her and Gilbert’s existence here with the Plain people of the Lancaster area, loved it enough to give birth to five discerning children; children with whom Ivy enjoyed walking to school and soaking up warm breezes along the way.
‘‘Mamma loved the locust trees,’’ Josiah said.
Caleb nodded. ‘‘Remember, she used to say that Susie Lapp was never allowed to go barefoot back then—when she was little— not till the white flowers started a-danglin’ from the locust trees. By then, everyone knew summer was here to stay.’’
‘‘There aren’t so many of them trees ’round here anymore,’’ Anna Mae said.
‘‘Those trees,’’ Caleb said. ‘‘You best mind your grammar if Lyddie’s goin’ to be our teacher, come next week. You know what a stickler she is for correct speakin’.’’
‘‘That’s just ’cause she was raised English for five years, don’tcha think so?’’ Josiah asked.
‘‘Could be,’’ replied the older brother.
‘‘Lyddie won’t get to teach at our school if we have to move away,’’ Anna Mae said, a resonant sting in her voice.
‘‘And that’s not all she won’t get to do,’’ Hannah piped up.
Absolutely curious, Sarah asked, ‘‘What do you mean by that, Hannah?’’
‘‘Himmel! ’’ Hannah clapped her mittened hand over her mouth. ‘‘I daresn’t be sayin’.’’
Josiah blurted, ‘‘Lydia’ll hafta marry some English man, that’s what. Ain’t nobody Plain out in Oregon.’’
Grateful that the children were facing forward, away from her, she took in the nuance of meaning. From what she had just gathered, she understood that Lydia must have been asked to teach at the Amish school, possibly fill in as a substitute. And the children also seemed concerned about being removed from the area—their home—by Sarah’s own hand. Worst of all, Lydia might have to forego marriage to the boy she loved.
The almost singsong rhythm of conversation among the children reminded her of playground duty. But she wouldn’t allow lurking memories to mar her day.
There was little warmth in the sun, even though its intermittent beams cast extended shadows away from the snow fences on the right side of the road. Ahead, on the left, a steady stream of smoke rose like a pillar from a white clapboard farmhouse. Into the pale sky it billowed, then dissipated.
In a few seconds, Noah Lapp did show up with his horse and sleigh, and before she could say proper good-byes, the children had leaped aboard, calling their greetings to friends and classmates in Pennsylvania Dutch.
‘‘Hullo there—Sarah Cain, is it?’’ the Amish driver called cheerfully from the front of the enormous sled filled with laughing, merry children.
Wondering how the man knew her name—her full name, at that—she decided that her first inclination was correct, the man was Susie Lapp’s husband. Contemplating yesterday’s visit with his outspoken wife, she wondered what else Mrs. Lapp had told her jovial husband.
She waved to the entire group and was pleased when tiny Hannah waved back, most energetically. The gay twitter of the children mingled with the bitter cold, the hoarfrost, and the blustering smell of winter around them. Unknowingly, the Amishman with horse and sleigh had brought Sarah’s trek to school to an abrupt end. Mr. Lapp’s arrival had also dispelled the tension the children’s revealing chatter had brought her way.
Before she turned to head back to the farmhouse, she noticed Anna Mae sitting in a heap all by herself, her lips moving silently as she kept her bonneted head bowed. How was she to coax Anna Mae out of her shell? What old methods should she reconstitute, if any?
This child, her sister’s child, lacked encouragement, comfort from life’s worst bum rap of all. Anna Mae—so lost and alone in her own little world. What could she do for the youngster without revisiting painful memories, without associating Anna Mae with her own personal misery, the tragedy of Meggie Holmes?
Pushing her hands down into her coat pockets, Sarah strode with perseverance back up the road toward the farmhouse, Gilbert and Ivy Cottrell’s haven set apart from the world and its countless tentacles of sin and woe.
Literally, she would have scoffed last week if anyone had told her that at this moment she would be wearing her dead sister’s mittens, even if they were quite holey, too worn to do much good.
Chapter Twenty-One
Lydia was tempted to cut corners and not sweep out the utility room completely. Forgetting the clutter of work boots and other items over in the corner wouldn’t hurt nothin’, would it?
Things done by halves are never done right . Mamm
a’s oft-repeated saying flew ’round in Lydia’s head, urging her on. Oh, how she missed Mamma, her friend and confidante. How long would it take for the pain in her heart to subside? How long before she could get through the day without thinking of her mother, gone to heaven?
She thought back to three years earlier, when they’d lost Dat to the farming accident. For months and months they’d mourned him, each in his own way. It was Mamma who missed him most. Still, the rest of the children felt the loss, the heaviness in their spirits.
They had even talked of selling the farmhouse, giving up on the idea of tryin’ to keep things running without Dat ’round to help keep the cows fed and milked, the fields planted. All the things that a hardworkin’ man could do. Jah, it had been mighty hard, till several of the men from their church started pitchin’ in and working, without pay, on a regular basis. Lydia knew now, more than ever, if it wasn’t for that kind of help durin’ the growing season, come next summer, they’d be at a loss to know how to manage, ’specially now with Mamma gone, too.
Twice tempted to drop the broom and go finish her mending or cut more quilt squares for the frolic tomorrow, she instead went ahead and swept the floor as Mamma had taught her, followin’ through with what she’d started. She made sure she did not miss a single corner of the long room backed up to the screened-in porch.
Lydia wondered what had prompted Aunt Sarah to walk the younger children to school, or at least part of the way, ’specially on such a frosty day. She was dumbfounded by Mamma’s peculiar sister. No getting ’round it, Sarah Cain was as unpredictable as anyone she’d ever known.
It wondered her—when should she take courage and ask Aunt Sarah about Mamma’s journal entry, the one about the ‘‘accident that claimed her spirit’’?
The solo walk back to the house was far less than gratifying. With cruelty, the wind had regathered its strength, sending stinging snow crystals against her face as she leaned into the gale. She shielded her eyes as best she could, trying not to breathe through her mouth in spite of the exertion she was putting forth to walk against the wind, hoping to keep the icy air out of her sensitive lungs. Her throat and upper respiratory system had been the weakest part of her since childhood, so she held the scarf in place around her nose and mouth, hoping she could avoid contracting bronchitis this winter.
Above all, she dreaded having to inform Lydia of the punishment she had discreetly chosen. She did not relish imposing her judgment, exerting her will against her sister’s eldest daughter.
The propagation and management of children was one of the main reasons she and Bryan had argued so bitterly in college, the cause of their final breakup. . . .
Sarah had known for quite some time that Bryan was in love with her. They had even gone so far as to discuss whether or not to exchange wedding bands, Bryan having a yen for the ‘‘more simple side of things.’’ As for large houses and expensive cars, he had often said, ‘‘Who needs rooms when all you really need is a roof over your head?’’
Dutifully, she would laugh at his remarks, but deep down Bryan’s philosophy irritated her beyond her ability to espouse it. Despite their incongruity, she found him nearly irresistible. In his arms, the earth ceased its orbiting, the resident birds trilled grand arias, and the twilight rose up around them, turning the ocean a resplendent fine pewter.
The night they parted ways, he had taken her to a lively delicatessen, complete with Tiffany lamps, full bar, and soft classical music—piped-in Chopin waltzes, as she recalled. Poor Richard’s Bistro was off campus by only two blocks, one of the few upscale haunts they’d enjoyed as a couple.
For all her growing-up years, prior to meeting Bryan, she had supposed herself to be the result of some rueful miscalculation. She had convinced herself she was a byproduct borne of contention— both her mother’s and sister’s unified dissension invariably directed toward her. Even her overly religious father had offered her nothing of real substance, only nebulous discourses on the shores of Watch Hill while gathering his beloved shells—and there was his constant chatter regarding God and the universe, ‘‘the Creator’s playground,’’ as he put it. All that sort of nonsense. Sarah had come to her relationship with Bryan a mere silhouette of a woman, hungry for acceptance, but too apprehensive to embrace it wholeheartedly.
As the evening drew to a close, Bryan brought up the topic of children. ‘‘I hope you want at least a half dozen.’’
Sarah, under the influence of fine wine, thought he was joking. ‘‘And I hope you’re kidding,’’ she replied, letting him caress her hand across the table.
‘‘Actually, I’m nuts about kids, Sarah. Always have been.’’
‘‘Well, I’m not breaking my back getting my teaching certificate for nothing,’’ she taunted, hoping to bypass the topic. At this juncture in their association, she was not ready to offer her treatise on family, namely children. Why couldn’t Bryan be satisfied with her, enjoy what they had together, without planning the future . . . marriage and offspring?
‘‘Can we talk about it?’’ he asked gently, eyes bright with devotion.
‘‘About what?’’ Sarah asked, tensing up.
‘‘Your sudden resistance, for one.’’
‘‘To what?’’
‘‘To me . . . I can feel it all the way over here.’’
She slipped her hand out of his. ‘‘Having children is the last thing on my mind.’’
‘‘You mean you haven’t ever thought about it?’’
She wouldn’t tell him she’d thought about nothing else, especially while growing up under the iron hand of her older sister and her unsympathetic mother. Sincerely, the best thing she could do for herself was to dodge the motherhood bullet, forget about having children. Bottom line: She couldn’t bear the thought of precious babies growing up to suffer as she had—chafing under the alienation she had always felt.
So the great debate ensued.
‘‘Are you telling me you don’t want any kids?’’ he persisted, leaning forward now, his handsome face serious to the point of near trepidation.
‘‘Not today.’’ She didn’t say not ever , but she firmly believed, by the unwavering response she was getting from Bryan, that it was best if they steered clear of the parental issue.
‘‘Anyone can see you’ll never be the mother hen type.’’ Ivy’s flippant teenage remark came back to plague her.
‘‘We can work things out,’’ Bryan said, coming around the table and sliding into the booth beside her.
‘‘I don’t think so.’’
‘‘Shouldn’t we at least try? This is important stuff.’’
She shook her head, because she had already said no in so many words. But her opinion had made no impression on him. Neither had it altered the course of their controversy.
He wrapped his arm around her shoulder. ‘‘You’re everything to me, you know.’’
She could not cry nor think. Could scarcely speak, but she knew in her soul this was the end for them. He would never understand where she was coming from, the pain of her past intertwined with an unhealthy relationship with a domineering sister. And there was Bryan’s nearly irrational insistence.
Even now, she recalled how they had walked together under a dark sky, their unresolved tension so thick she could still feel the blackness that had penetrated their love. By the time she arrived back at her dorm, the moon had risen, a hazy hoop of a thing, fading fast in a bank of clouds to the east.
Now, struggling against the cold, Sarah turned into the lane leading to the Cottrell farmhouse. Life is so ironic , she thought. Here she was, attempting to place her own flesh and blood— well, her sister’s—into the hands of any Amish family who might agree to take them, exhibiting some of the seemingly nonmaternal attributes that had grieved Bryan Ford long ago. Yet last night she had contacted him, requesting his company in the midst of this mess.
What was she thinking?
Mulling over the children’s morning chatter, she recalled her ini
tial plan for Lydia’s discipline: to keep her home from the Lapp quilting. Having heard what Lydia’s sisters and brothers let slip—their worries and fears for their existence, as well as Lydia’s marital future—she wondered if she shouldn’t reconsider and make every effort to meet Miriam Esh at the quilting, after all. She resolved to go halfway with the Esh woman, do what she must to make the arrangement suitable for Ivy’s children. Her career and modern life-style had been put on hold. She must get on with her own life, lest Ivy’s world lay claim to her against her will.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Preacher Esh asked me to teach at the Amish school where my sisters and brothers attend,’’ Lydia said as she sat in the front seat of Aunt Sarah’s rental car on the way to Susie Lapp’s quilting frolic.
‘‘Is that why he came to visit?’’
She felt a bit sheepish to answer. ‘‘Jah, ’tis.’’
‘‘How is it that someone your age is qualified to teach?’’
Lydia understood a little of her aunt’s wariness. English schools were run by highly educated folk. Amish schools, on the other hand, were operated by the community. The bishops and the People themselves had the final say. ‘‘Any girl who goes through all eight grades in an Amish school—usually the ones who had the best grades—can teach in our schools. We’re allowed to teach till we marry.’’
‘‘Oh? And when would that be?’’
Lydia thought she knew why her aunt was so interested. ‘‘Anywhere from age fifteen or sixteen, up to nineteen. Most girls are married by age twenty ’round here.’’
‘‘Well, in my opinion, that’s entirely too young to settle down and marry.’’
‘‘Did you ever think of . . . marryin’?’’ Lydia ventured, eager to know.
Aunt Sarah responded more quickly than Lydia had intended. ‘‘I dated a couple of young men in college.’’
The Redemption of Sarah Cain Page 16
