All in good time, p.17
All in Good Time, page 17
The more liberal, disobedient ones often suffered more of the setbacks, the way self-willed people will do. Eventually, they settled into the roles required of them, but would always dress their children in slightly fancier clothes, their consciences having been lulled into complacency at a young age. They all lived together with various levels of conservative views, the most important thing being learning to live in peace and harmony. It wasn’t easy for any of them to pull out the beams in their own eyes, as the scripture says, before trying to help others pull out the splinters in theirs.
Then there was the matter of forgiveness, of dealing with ordinary troubles that crop up out of nowhere, sometimes needing wise intervention from the ministers or the bishop. But the driving force that kept them together was the love for God and fellow pilgrims, a contentment to adhere to rules and live in peace.
“So, where do you live?” John asked.
“Over closer to Oakley.”
“Okay, yeah. We probably don’t live too far apart, then.”
Eli cleared his throat, unsure what he should say to that.
“I mean, you’ll be looking for someone to accompany you to the singing on Sunday evening after you turn sixteen, won’t you? I mean, two is always better than one, right?”
Eli nodded, met John’s eyes, saw the friendliness and compassion before he allowed a slow grin to spread across his face, his white teeth and delighted eyes the start of a friendship.
Eli walked into the house behind John, sat beside him on the hard bench, and kept his gaze lowered to avoid the stares of the congregation. Many of them kept their eyes averted, out of duty, respectfully pretending there was nothing out of the ordinary. On some faces there were compressed lips, hidden disapproval; on others, the bright, open looks of love and acceptance.
He couldn’t remember when exactly he spied her, or even if it was that day in church. He just knew he had to continue to catch a glimpse of her occasionally, like a necessary drink of water to keep him alive. At fifteen, he knew next to nothing about girls or dating or marriage; he just knew she looked like an angel, or at least the prettiest girl he had ever seen.
She sat quietly, her head lowered, her eyes to the hymnbook. She was as dark-haired as he was, with startling green eyes and skin tanned to a golden color, dressed in a quiet shade of gray. When she looked up, his eyes met hers unexpectedly. Both looked away quickly, but desperately wanted another glance, another stab at reality.
After the hymns were sung, the short sermon that followed seemed to float in and out of Eli’s hearing and understanding. He struggled to comprehend what the minister was saying, felt a sense of shame. By the time the lengthy second sermon was over, he felt a deep misery, a catapult into an outer galaxy where he had no control over his destination.
He remembered to pray, a fervent request that God would direct his footsteps. He had no idea what had occurred, if anything, and so went about his days as usual. But he knew she had entered his life, and nothing would be the same.
Eli talked to May about this, in a joking kind of way, Andy joining into the teasing conversation with his good humor. But it was later that evening when May cried on Andy’s shoulder, and he held her close to comfort her.
A union of two people of different races was simply not done. The United States government deemed it illegal, a blatant disrespect to the order of God, and therefore prohibited. So May knew the chances of Eli staying within the fold of the Amish was hardly possible, and this she would have to face bravely.
“But Andy,” she sighed.
“What, my dear heart?”
“How can he enter the main society after having been raised in this . . . this plain community? He’ll always be caught between the two.”
Long into the night, they spoke of Eli’s future, but neither one came to a peaceful conclusion. They decided to cast all their cares on God alone, pray for strength to face whatever He chose to put them through.
HE REACHED HIS sixteenth birthday. May baked his favorite chocolate cake, spread the vanilla icing all around it, swirled expertly until it resembled a cake in the Betty Crocker cookbook. She made his favorite supper of chicken and mashed potatoes with filling and gravy, served a huge slice of the cake on his plate while they all sang “Happy Birthday.” The three children clapped their hands and sang boisterously, without reserve. Eli joined in the festive mood, thanking his parents for the open courting buggy and the horse that would now belong to him.
John Troyer remained his true friend, the way he had promised. There was never any mention of his race, his past, nothing, but a simple acceptance of Eli himself. So on the first Sunday evening Eli attended the singing, he watched in fascination as John drove in with a girl beside him on the roofless courting buggy.
He blinked, drew the back of his hand across his eyes to clear his vision, but he knew it was her. The girl in church at the neighboring community. Eli was dressed in his Sunday best, a pale blue shirt with black trousers and vest, his hat pulled low to an attractive angle. When he climbed up onto the single seat, she met his gaze, smiled a genuine smile of welcome, before saying in a low voice, “Hello, Eli.”
“Hello.”
“This is Mattie, my sister.”
“Your sister? I had no idea. I remember seeing you in church a while ago.”
“I remember you too.”
“I’m not easy to miss,” he said with a small laugh.
She smiled but said nothing.
The seating arrangement on a courting buggy was a bit primitive at best, with only enough space for two seated side by side. When a third person was present, there were two options. One was for the two who were seated to slide their knees to one side, allowing the third passenger, usually the driver, to perch on the small space allotted him, or simply to sit on one knee of each one, which seemed to work best. Eli sat beside Mattie, and John perched on top of both, looked back, and grinned mischievously.
“I’m not quite two hundred pounds,” he said.
The horse trotted willingly, the hooves pounding the macadam, the sweet breath of summer air creating a longing in Eli, a feeling of sadness he could not name. With this girl beside him, why would he feel that now? And yet, he knew.
He had John as his helper, his armor against the open taunts from a few of the less polite, the ones who viewed him with contempt.
Harry Mast was older, well past his twenty-first year, a bit of a bully, a heavy smoker and liberal troublemaker. He had never joined the church, dated only the most liberal girls, and was the only one who never hid his bottle of beer from the girls. Of course, he was a leader to those who were like-minded, but to the ones with better morals, he was someone to avoid.
Before the singing began, the group of boys waited to go inside. Eli felt nervous, shy, unwilling to admit even to himself that he felt out of place, a tremendous thistle in a field of verdant wildflowers. He heard a loud snort, smelled the spray of cigarette smoke blown in his face.
“Aren’t you a bit out of your territory, there, huh?”
Before Eli could answer, John spoke loud and clear. “Leave him alone, Harry.”
“What are you, his personal bodyguard?”
“That’s what I am, yes.”
Harry came even closer to Eli, shoved his white pimply face closer. “Mammy’s boy. Why don’t you go to Loos-i-anna where you belong?”
“I’m from Arkansas. Or my mother is. I was born here.”
“You may as well go back and join the rest of the darkies. Pick that cotton, why don’t you?”
“Maybe I will. I haven’t decided what I want to do yet. My father is a farmer.”
“Your real father ain’t nothin’. Black, that’s all he is.”
“My father is dead.”
“Good.”
“Cut it out, Harry. Give him a break now.” This from John, who was getting jumpier by the minute.
Eli lifted a hand, said it was okay, he was used to being heckled.
“I’m not serious, you know,” Harry said, trying to make a joke out of his botched attempt at angering Eli.
“You likely are, but there’s nothing I can do about it,” Eli said.
This remark brought Harry up short. His eyes opened wide in surprise. “You used to it or what?”
“Yeah.”
“Huh. So how do you swallow that?”
“I don’t always.”
It seemed as if the first evening at the hymn singing was the mark of Eli’s character, the way many of the young men spoke to him afterward. Some of them were a bit ill at ease, others were filled with admiration, and the start of real acceptance followed. He was known as Andy’s Eli, friendly, full of good humor and a sense of fun, the beginning of his years with the rumschpringa off to a good start.
He cherished every word with Mattie, every ride home with the large John perched on one knee. When the autumn rains brought a chill to the air, the canvas tarp was brought up over the three of them, a woolen blanket underneath. And Eli felt he could have spent the rest of his life happily huddled there together.
ONE SUNDAY EVENING when the rain was scissoring in from the east, driven by the first cold blast of early winter, they raised the outsized black buggy umbrella, the only protection against winter’s harsh conditions. Eli was in charge of the unwieldy thing, hanging on to the carved wooden handle to tilt it in the right direction. With the trotting horse, the wind’s power was tripled, so Eli needed to be alert to the slightest tugging of the umbrella, knowing how easily it could turn inside out, leaving the huddled occupants of the buggy exposed to the elements.
Mattie’s face was lowered, her black bonnet hiding much of it. In horror, Eli noticed the water dripping steadily off the umbrella and onto her shoulder, surely soaking through to her clothing. His first concern was keeping her dry, so he forgot the tilt of the umbrella for only an instant, resulting in a phwoop of sound, a snap of metal parts, and the umbrella blew inside out, leaving them exposed to the hard, cold, slanting rain hitting their faces like small knives.
John yelled, Mattie shrieked, and Eli was mortified. How could he have allowed this to happen? He berated himself repeatedly, apologizing above the sound of driving, splashing rain, the clopping of hooves, and the grinding of steel-clad wheels on macadam.
“Nothing to do about it now, Eli. We’ll get to your place soon.”
Eli nodded and hung onto the ruined umbrella, then cast a sideways glance at Mattie, who had her head almost to her lap to ward off the worst of the deluge.
“Are you alright?” he shouted.
She responded with a quick nod, a bright smile with her face streaming water.
“Wet!” she shouted back and laughed out loud, the sound of tinkling bells and cymbals.
Eli could have fainted with relief and gratitude.
He insisted they come in and warm themselves, saying he’d get them some dry outerwear and another umbrella. He made cocoa with his mother’s chocolate mixture, served it in thick mugs, and watched Mattie’s expression as the warmth returned to her cheeks. John teased Eli about his umbrella skills. But it was in a good way.
May heard them in the kitchen, wrapped her warm housecoat around herself, and went to see if she could be of assistance.
“Sorry to wake you, Mam,” Eli said.
Mattie’s mouth literally hung open in surprise. This small blondehaired woman was his mother? How could it be? How was anything like this possible? He towered over her, tall and dark, well, yes, almost black, with features very unlike his mother.
The kitchen was warm, the teakettle hummed quietly on the back of the stove, the hot cocoa warmed her soul. She spied the beauty of the red geraniums in coffee cans on the windowsill, caught the scent of flowery talcum powder, felt a sense of belonging as Eli exchanged a look with his mother.
The only thing that didn’t seem to fit with the whole scene of warmth and love was the dark color of Eli’s skin.
CHAPTER 14
ELI’S DAYS WERE FULL. EACH DAY WAS ANOTHER LESSON IN the way of the farm and he acquired skills quickly, steadily growing in the ways that counted as a good farm hand. Andy was always appreciative, swift to praise, slow to correct, which was a great boon to Eli’s confidence. His days were filled with hard physical labor, and there was never a duty he didn’t tackle willingly. He loved the heat of the sun, the odor of new-mown hay, the sound of clanking chains on harnesses, the great round hooves kicking up dust as they drew the farm equipment through the fields. He knew where the dangerous groundhog holes could present a threat if a horse’s hooves went through, knew where the poisonous plants needed to be hoed away from fencerows. He had a quick mind, willing to see and absorb the necessary wisdom a good farmer would need to become successful.
In his sixteenth year, he appeared much older both in physical attributes and quiet knowledge. He was never tempted to run with the wild youth, thinking of the hurt and disbelief on his quiet mother’s face, the disappointment on his kind father’s. He endured unkind remarks with stoic courage, only occasionally getting rankled by Harry’s persistent obnoxious comments.
He milked five cows every morning and evening, to Andy and May’s four. He knew when every cow was due to freshen, watched at any time of day or night to confirm a successful birthing of a newborn calf. He cleaned the gutters in the cow stable, alongside Andy, and never tried to dodge the unsavory job. But his heart was not with the cows. He found the twice daily milking too repetitious, the exact demand on his time a duty he did not want to have his whole life. He had an avid interest in the massive-shouldered, loudmouthed farrier who came to the farm every few months, his great, rough voice bouncing off the rafters. He watched him set up his tools, build a hot, hot fire, shaping the horseshoes to precision. Here was a worthy talent. If he could be an apprentice . . .
As he performed his duties around the farm, he dreamed of becoming a mighty farrier, shoeing horses with ease, talking around the nails in his mouth, his shirt stained with dirt and the sweat of horses and his own body. But he never told Andy.
On a sizzling hot day, when the humidity made the nights long and uncomfortable, the farrier’s green Dodge pickup rattled up to the barn. He unfolded his considerable length and width from behind the steering wheel and shouted for Andy without bothering to approach the house or place a knock on the door.
Eli rounded a corner of the barn, grinned, and said, “Hi.”
“Hey there. Where’s the boss?
“There’s a frolic at Yoni Weaver’s.”
“Barn raising?”
“No, they’re actually taking the whole roof off, rafters and all, replacing the rotted timbers. Dat said it might be a dangerous job, and he needed me to stay here with you.”
“Okay, okay.” The farrier paused, looked straight into Eli’s dark eyes, and asked how it came to be that he was an Amish negro.
“My mother . . . uh . . . my father was black.”
“Was?”
“That’s right . . . He died before I was born. Then my mother married Dat . . . Andy.”
“Hm. Surprises me the Amish took you on.”
There was no answer to that statement, so Eli remained silent.
Then, “So how’s this going to go? You’re gonna have to leave at some point. These plain folks won’t allow you to marry a white girl.”
Eli shook his head. “I don’t know.”
“ ’Course you know. It ain’t gonna happen.”
Eli turned away, called over his shoulder, “You want Duke or Fred?”
“Gimme Fred. He’s easier on the back this early in the morning.”
Fred followed Eli easily, keeping his head lowered as he was tied to the ring at the watering trough. He had been shod so many times, he knew there was nothing to fear, so he allowed his foot to be lifted as the farrier removed the cast iron shoes and sliced away at his hooves. The farrier built the fire to red hot coals in a bowl-like device, then proceeded to heat the new shoes, pounding them to the exact dimension on his anvil. Sweat ran off his face, his shirt already wringing wet, but he sang a bawdy song and grinned at Eli, who hovered over him, alert to every move he made.
“You’ll get your nose pounded on this anvil,” he shouted.
“Sorry.” Eli backed away, embarrassed.
“You’re curious? You wanna learn?”
His eyes shining, Eli nodded, smiling eagerly.
“It’s a good profession, boy. Hardest work, but you can make a buck. You’re built for it.” He eyed Eli before bringing the hammer down with a thunderous blow. “You’re gonna need a truck to get around.”
“Couldn’t I open a shop, people bring the horses?”
“Dunno how that would go down. Maybe the Amish. They could drive.”
“You think it could work?”
“All you can do is try. I got more than enough work. Be glad to teach you.”
A thrill ran though his veins. Here was a chance to prove himself as one capable of learning on his own, apart from the farm. It could perhaps be a glimpse into the world outside the farm. He longed to hear views and opinions, understand what went on in the world.
But when he told Andy about his dream, he was shocked to see the shadow of disapproval, the hurt and ensuing irritation. Except for that one time at the feed store, Eli had never seen or heard Andy raise his voice, and he had never experienced a moment’s anger directed at him. So when he saw the expression in his eyes, he stepped away, leaned against the watering trough in the forebay of the barn and crossed his arms.
Andy set the pitchfork against the wall, his eyes searching Eli’s face for a sign, anything to prove he was joking. “Come on, Eli,” he said, serious.
“What?” A tinge of rebellion.
“Why would you want to leave the farm? You know I can’t do without you.”
“But why can’t I have a chance to do something on my own?” He caught himself before he told Andy he could do whatever he chose, that he was not his son.
