Yes, she would speak to Luke as soon as the opportunity presented itself. Together, tragedy might well be turned around, lest her father’s error keep on bearing its bitter fruit. After the night spent thinking of what needed to be done, she was certain now.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rebecca needed no alarm clock to awaken by—the soft creak of the floorboards in the kitchen directly under her room was usually sufficient. Her mother would be up, stirring batter for biscuits and laying the bacon pan out on the stove. The sound of wood clunking against the sides of the cooking stove’s metal box added to the morning’s sounds. The final sound to pull her from bed would be her mother softly calling her name up the stairs lest the younger children be awakened.
It was Rebecca’s responsibility to help milk in the morning. Matthew was almost old enough to help, but his trial attempts had consisted of evening chores so far. Slowly she slid out from under the covers, conscious of the rush of cold in her room.
The temperature had surely dropped overnight. Her feet touched the floor and quickly found her slippers. Reaching one foot out, she found the damper to the register directly above the kitchen stove and slid it open. Warm air rose around her, its comfort welcome now that she was awake. Sleeping was meant to be done in the cold, but getting up was another matter.
She stepped to the window, her attention drawn to the snowflakes drifting by. The English had been right—it was snowing. Great flakes drifted by, swirling when the wind moved them sideways by the pane. Conscious that she needed to be downstairs soon, she moved over to the register to dress.
The morning chill caused a shiver even when she was fully dressed. A heavy homemade coat hanging in the downstairs closet and boots from Wal-Mart would complete the attire and hopefully supply the needed warmth. This morning’s chill seemed more than just due to the weather. Memories of last night and the ring came back with a rush.
Why have I kept the thing? She asked herself, dimly thinking she knew the answer but still unsure. A promise is a promise, a voice sounded in her head, its voice as solemn and fatal as Bishop Martin when he pronounced prayers over the communion bread and wine cup.
You promised Atlee.
She shivered again.
Why didn’t I just throw it away when we moved here?
To that question, she didn’t have an answer.
We were young, she told herself again. We have moved away now, and that was a long time ago. Why is this bothering me?
Rebecca pulled her dress around her tightly, longing for the heavy coat downstairs. Opening the door to her bedroom, she stepped out into the hall and found the steps in the dark. By memory, she went down without stumbling.
Knowing her mother would be busy in the kitchen, Rebecca simply walked past her, heading for the utility closet by the front door. Mother, of course, would hear her footsteps and realize that she was up and on her way to the barn.
The living room had no light in it, but the kerosene lamps from the kitchen cast a faint glow halfway to the closet. It was sufficient for Rebecca’s purposes, guided by habit and memory.
Expecting a blast of cold when she opened the front door to step out, she was surprised instead by the softness of the snow. A nip was in the air, but blunted by the glory all around her. Each flake that she could see lit by that hushed light from the gas lantern in the kitchen, swirled past her.
She paused for a moment, her own troubles with the ring forgotten in the effect of the moment. Snow instantly began to gather on her scarf and coat sleeves. Standing without moving, she watched with wonder as the snowflakes balanced one on top of the other.
Then she thought of the ring again…and the fear, the uncertainty. Yes, something wonderful had happened yesterday in John’s proposal, but with his promise of love, the memories of an earlier promise to Atlee came to her mind…and the ring…and her approaching birthday.
Surely I wouldn’t want to go back? What reason would I have? I love John. Why am I afraid? I should have left the ring in Milroy, she told herself. Maybe then I would have forgotten all about Atlee.
No, that wouldn’t have solved the problem, the voice in her head told her. You still promised him. You loved Atlee. You promised him you would meet him at the bridge in Milroy. A chill spread deep throughout her body. Startled, she came out of her thoughts so quickly that every snowflake slid off of her sleeves as she started abruptly toward the barn.
Dad will be wondering where I am, she told herself. Her heart leaped in her chest as the knowledge of last night came back with force. John had walked this very ground with his eyes on her. She had walked in front of him, enjoying every sensation. What happened with Atlee in Milroy is nothing, she told herself.
Then horror filled her. Do I have to tell John? Surely not, I haven’t done anything wrong. But if I tell him, surely he’ll understand. That thought brought a little comfort until the voice inside her head reminded her, John’s a man of strict moral values. You know what kind of wife he wants. Are you sure he’ll understand?
The obvious answer chilled her. She pulled the coat around her to ward it off but without success. Atlee told you to keep it, the voice inside said, and you said you would. You promised.
Her thoughts became a snowstorm of their own, falling too quickly to keep track of. Instead of cold snow, they fell like white fire, piercing her heart. Tears formed and fell, getting themselves lost in the ground around her. The rosy day of yesterday had descended into depths she would never have thought possible. The innocence of yesterday had returned not as sweetness and light but as a memory that threatened.
It’s not really serious, she told herself firmly. I can tell John about the ring and Atlee, and he will understand.
Reaching out through the snowflakes, she found the doorknob to the milking parlor. Around her, the morning’s dull glow had increased slightly, but she hardly noticed, shutting the door firmly behind her.
The heat of the milking parlor hit her—its warmth coming from the cows as much as the heater burning in the corner. Two gas lanterns hung from the ceiling, one on each end. The cows closest to the door, their necks in the stanchions, turned in her direction with only mild interest. The rest ignored her, their minds and mouths on the feed in front of their noses.
Her father already had a milker going and was ready to step away from the cow. Rebecca reached for the other milker that was hanging by its straps from the ceiling. She shook the snow off her coat before bringing the milker down.
“Good morning,” her father said, keeping his eyes on the milker he had just attached, which was making strange noises under the cow’s udder.
“Good morning,” she replied, without much enthusiasm.
“There’s something wrong with this milker,” he commented. “You notice anything last night?”
“No,” she said, “it was working fine then.”
“That’s how things go,” he muttered. “A snowy morning. Just the time for equipment to act up. Harder to get into town. Harder for everything.”
Rebecca made no reply, the comment making perfect sense to her. It did seem like that was the way things went. Like me and John, she thought.
She suddenly became conscious of her father’s eyes upon her. He was standing beside the cow, the milker now ceasing from its strange noises.
“How are you and John getting along?” he asked. “Takes an interested young man to help a girl with choring.”
“Okay,” Rebecca told him, not looking up.
“Sure?” he asked her. “You seem troubled this morning. Last night too.”
“I’m okay,” Rebecca insisted, still not raising her eyes from the floor as she headed toward a cow with the milker in both hands.
“You’re not misbehaving?” Lester asked, with concern in his voice. “You know the church rules.”
“Of course we do.” Rebecca smiled at the thought, raising her eyes to meet his, a picture of proper John flashing in her mind. “He’s a stickler for the rules.”
; “That’s good,” her father allowed, “but sometimes that’s not enough. We need convictions of our own.”
“John’s got convictions. Don’t worry. We’re not doing anything wrong.”
“Have you?” he asked, his voice serious. “Convictions, I mean.”
“I try to,” she said, raising her eyes to look at him. “I really do.”
“Yes, I imagine you do,” he replied, sounding satisfied. “I’m glad to hear you’re doing well. John’s a nice boy.”
Rebecca nodded her head in thanks. “I like him too.”
“All right then,” her father said, moving along to the next cow.
The snowfall had increased as Rebecca headed in from the barn. The dawn was now an early morning glow, making each flake visible right up to the front door. Stopping on the porch, she shook her coat backward from her shoulders to throw off some of the snow.
After stepping inside, she kept the front door open long enough to remove her coat and give it one last shake outside. She hung it in the utility closet, away from the other coats to give it time to dry.
“It’s really coming down,” her mother called from the kitchen.
“Yes,” Rebecca said, “the English sure were right this time.”
“They usually are in those matters.”
Rebecca poked her head into the kitchen. “Pancakes?” she asked, seeing her mother mixing batter.
“Yes.” Mattie smiled. “When I saw it was snowing, I decided this was the morning for pancakes. Lester will take the time to eat properly because he can’t get outside work done.”
“You want me to get the children up?” Rebecca asked.
“Sure,” her mother replied, as she piled golden pancakes on a plate. “Matthew should have been up already. School and all.”
“Who’s teaching this year? I can’t seem to remember,” Rebecca asked.
“Yost Byler’s Margaret, with her cousin Naomi,” her mother said dryly. “A little young, both of them, if you ask me. Inexperienced too. I guess we have to take what they give us.”
Rebecca nodded. She supposed by the time she had her own children, it would all have changed. For now she largely ignored the yearly search for parochial schoolteachers to staff the little schoolhouse in the valley just north of the town of Unity.
“We always had Emma,” she commented, nostalgia in her voice.
“Of that you can be thankful,” her mother replied. “A solid person Emma was. It did you school children good. Smart too. A little strange in some ways. Never being married like she was. Still good. Year after year, the same teacher. That’s the way it should be.”
“We all liked her,” Rebecca said, the inflection still in her voice.
“With good reason,” her mother agreed. “Not that everyone liked her, but most did. She really knew how to run a schoolhouse. Did twice the work as these youngsters do nowadays. She never asked for or needed another teacher—ran the whole twenty of you by herself.”
“Eight grades,” Rebecca added, vague numbers running through her head. “Now there are close to forty students here, aren’t there?”
“Something like that,” her mother said. “I suppose even Emma couldn’t have taken care of that many. She was good, though.”
“She always liked me,” Rebecca said quietly.
Mattie huffed. “A little bit of a teacher’s pet you were. I never saw that it did you harm.”
“Of course not,” Rebecca assured her. “Emma never showed favorites. I just knew.”
“Well, that was then. No sense going on about it now. Set the table and stop thinking about your school days,” her mother told her. “Being special can give you the grohs kobb. The past is the past.”
“Now, Mom. You’re making a big deal out of this.” Rebecca placed the first plate on the table.
Her mother sighed. “I just never wanted my children to be teacher’s pets. We are called to be ordinary people. That’s our faith. Secure in God’s love for all of us. Then in our love for each other. Being special makes for trouble I say.”
“She didn’t like everyone in school,” Rebecca said, thinking that was a good defense for Emma.
“That’s what I mean,” her mother said. “See where this leads?”
“She had a good reason,” Rebecca insisted, coming to the end of the table and the last place setting.
“That’s what they all think,” Mattie said. “Now start the eggs. Dad will be in any minute.”
Setting the heat on low, Mattie opened the oven door and carefully placed the platter of round golden pancakes inside to keep warm.
Rebecca wanted to continue the conversation and tell her mother that Emma did have reasons. Good reasons they were, she was certain, but that would require saying his name. Atlee. Then, with the name and her mother’s eyes upon her, might come questions.
Even if she tried to answer with her best explanations, there might come more questions after that, each more difficult to answer. So she simply set the egg pan on the stove and turned the gas burner to a medium flame lest the eggs burn when she dropped them in the pan. Reaching for the butter, she dabbed a large slab into the just warming pan. It slowly melted, sliding across the surface toward the lower left-hand corner, in the direction the kitchen floor slanted in this area.
Splitting the eggs expertly, she dropped them in, just in time to have them sizzle as they hit, their outer edges turning white in seconds.
“So, who were the children Emma didn’t like?” her mother asked from across the kitchen.
Rebecca’s face, flushed with the heat from the pan, kept its color, although she felt her strength draining away. I can’t lie, flew like a dagger through her mind. I’ll just have to confess it later if I do, so I can’t. Better to stick with the truth. “One of the boys,” she muttered, without turning around. She stabbed her spatula at one of the eggs, nearly splitting the yolk.
Her mother laughed. “That makes sense. Old Emma probably had it in for the male species. Never being married. Want and desire. It works that way sometimes.”
Rebecca would have spoken up in Emma’s defense even risking her own hurt, but she couldn’t.
Her mother laughed again. “Nobody could ever explain why Emma never married. She was good looking enough. Came from a good family. There really was no reason anyone could see. I suppose she had offers. At least you would think so.”
Rebecca paid total attention to the eggs in the pan, flipping the first one out and onto the waiting plate. It made a soft slapping sound on landing, its yolk gently vibrating as a properly done Amish fried egg should.
“There were rumors once,” her mother continued, “that she might have been seeing a Mennonite boy. Must have been when she was around eighteen. My! It’s been so long ago, I can’t remember exactly. No one could ever prove it. She was already a church member. Her dating a Mennonite would have caused terrible problems, which of course it should have. Maybe her heart was broken,” Mattie mused.
Rebecca found her voice. “You’re just imagining things, Mother. That’s just gossip.”
“Probably,” her mother allowed. “A person just thinks about it at times.”
“Emma was a good person,” Rebecca replied, bringing the last egg out of the pan.
The front door swung open, the noise and blast of cold air startling her. Her hand jerked and made the egg slip off the spatula and slide across the floor.
“Now you’ve made dog food out of a good egg,” her mother lamented. “We’re not like the English. They feed their pets out of cans.”
Rebecca drew in her breath sharply and knelt down on the floor to gather up the ruined egg. Getting to her feet again, she dumped it into the slop bucket. “I’m sorry,” she said.
“Well, if you ever have a mind to marry that John, be more careful,” her mother said. “Young couples have a hard enough time. Starting up and all. Wasting even an egg can be hard.”
“I know,” Rebecca muttered, not because it was true, but because she wis
hed she could tell her mother that a greater danger than broken eggs lay between her and a marriage to John.
She suddenly wanted to reach out, as if for air, to tell her mother real good and loud that she was engaged since yesterday to John, that the wedding was planned for next spring. To tell her about the wonderful time at the bridge yesterday. To tell her how John looked at her, how he had held her hand…but she could not.
Rebecca came out of her thoughts to find her mother staring at her. “Now, now, it wasn’t that bad. It’s an egg. I didn’t mean to be that hard on you,” her mother said. “I’m sure John will understand a broken egg now and then. He probably has enough money to cover that, but you certainly shouldn’t be thinking about that as a reason to be marrying him.”
“I wasn’t,” Rebecca said, returning to her troubled thoughts.
“Pancakes!” Lester’s voice boomed with good cheer at the kitchen door. Having put his chore coat and boots away in the basement, he had come up silently on them. “What a treat. Now if we just had maple syrup, things would be perfect.”
“We have maple syrup,” Mattie said, making a face at him. “You don’t think I would forget. I always keep some around for you.”
“Well, times are hard,” he grinned. “You never know.” Catching sight of Rebecca’s face, he paused. “What’s wrong with her?”
“You startled her when you came in. She just lost an egg to the dogs. I made things worse. Told her that John couldn’t afford a wife who lost too many eggs. What an awful thing to say to a young girl in love. I should have my mouth taped shut at times. Now come, Rebecca. It’s really nothing at all. It’s just an egg.”
Rebecca nodded numbly, as if it was the egg that troubled her.
“Ya,” Lester allowed, “one egg more or less. It won’t matter.”
“Why aren’t the children here?” Mattie asked. “Breakfast is ready.”
“I forgot to call them,” Rebecca said, sorry to have made yet another mistake.
“Well, that’s easy enough,” Lester said, moving toward the stair door quickly. He hollered up the stairs, a full bellow, full of hunger for pancakes, “Breakfast, children. Now!”
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