Hope deferred, p.23
Hope Deferred, page 23
Mints, bowls of potato chips, with plenty of water and coffee helped to make the time as pleasurable as possible. Rachel eyed the rows of folding chairs where the family, relatives, and friends sat being served all manner of fancy dishes.
There were steaming platters of shrimp, kebabs, soft pretzels with cheese dip, small strombolis or pizza roll ups of some kind. Glasses of tea or cider or punch, she couldn’t tell.
Well, she was out of it, not being a close relative. None for her. And she was not the groom’s parents, the important mother figure, so there was no shrimp for her. A sadness enveloped her. She felt her throat tighten at the thought of being a church lady making celery on the day Anna was married.
Leah handed her a mint Life Saver wrapped in cellophane. Rachel shook her head. Let her chew her own Life Savers. She hated those things. Like chewing deodorant.
As a bride, Anna was radiant, in every sense of the word. The radiance came from true happiness, the wellspring of joy that kept cropping up repeatedly throughout the day.
There were no more days of indecision, no more nights of wondering, of hoping, of wishing things could have been different. They were bound by the law of God and the law of the state of Pennsylvania. Till death do us part. In sickness and in health.
She was bound to Leon with an ordained, invisible rope that could never be cut except by death. There was no divorce, no getting out of this contract.
And she had no reason to think she would ever want to. She loved Leon with all her heart. Her love was sufficient to see her through the good days and the bad. Well versed in the ways of marriage by the many Christian writings her parents supplied, she felt prepared as she gazed at the beloved profile, the patrician nose, and the dark hair cut a bit longer on one side than the other.
They moved to the Hertz place in Millerstown after they worked for weeks repairing, painting, and cleaning up. Anna smiled brightly when her mother asked if they’d mentioned the state of the linoleum to her landlord, or if this was the way they would live.
“Why, Mom, of course not!” Anna chortled.
“You mean, you won’t ask?”
“Why would we? This linoleum is just fine. I’ll put a rug across the torn spots. No problem.”
She took a secret delight in her mother’s spluttering, watching the battle of what she should say and what she wanted to say move across her face.
Mother, this is what you wanted for me, she thought. I chose the one you approved of, now keep approving for the remainder of my time here on earth.
Was it still, then, a form of rebellion? After all this time of submission, of Christian obedience, why now this secret gladness at her mother’s discomfiture?
Her mother took the linoleum in stride, got down on her hands and knees and scrubbed the cracks with a brush, waxed it with old fashioned Jubilee kitchen wax, laid the expensive rugs from Bon-Ton on top, stood back and surveyed the makeover and was pleased with the result. It was amazing what a bit of paint and some costly furnishings could do.
Anna had the best of everything. The best sewing machine and cabinet, the large refrigerator, the highest-quality stove, the living room suite from Good’s furniture in New Holland.
They groomed the yard, plowed a small garden, with Leon observing the work ethic of his new bride’s family, amazed at the transformation in a month’s time. By Christmastime, when the holly berries peeped out from between the spiked, waxy leaves, the Hertz place resembled a cottage that could easily have appeared in a magazine.
Snow fell in January, covering the small house with a clear layer of white flakes. The woodstove in the basement provided heat, the windows glowed with the yellow light of flickering candles, and Anna and Leon expressed their love and appreciation daily, the way the book instructed them.
His counseling took up much of his time and thoughts. He brought his black leather briefcase home, did his paperwork in the evening at the kitchen table, Anna in a chair beside him, leaning on one elbow, a foot tucked beneath her.
The problems with which he dealt every day were massive, a mountainous trail that doubled back time and again. Yet he remained dedicated, inspired by his work, taking on problems too monumental for one human mind to comprehend.
They shared their feelings, sitting side by side on matching recliners, their feet encased in warm slippers, a lap robe surrounding Anna. The house was old, the many cracks around the loose windows allowing plenty of cold air to leak through. But the cheerful woodstove lent its heat, and the days moved by in quick succession.
It was when the woodpile became low, the wood in the basement all gone, that Anna felt a slight twinge of consternation.
He had mentioned the fact that he needed to order a load of logs to be cut and split, but so far, nothing had materialized.
The propane bill had evidently not been paid, either, with the alarming amount of two hundred and seven dollars for . . .
Hmmm.
Two months. Last month’s bill had not been paid.
When she approached him in a quiet voice, he raised his eyebrows before he kissed her, lifting her off the floor in a playful hug, and asked why a month’s bill was important when they had so much love to live on. Anna responded with a bright smile of appreciation, laughed a small laugh of acceptance, and the incident was over.
A cold front moved in from Canada the last week in January with a stiff wind that moaned eerily around the house, sent snow skittering across rooftops and whirling off the tops of drifts until perfect snow dunes lined the fields and roadways. Anna went to the basement to stoke the fire and found only six pieces of wood. She piled three of the heavy chunks into the stove, made meatloaf, green beans, and a potato casserole for supper, and thought surely there was more wood somewhere—perhaps Leon had stashed some elsewhere. The thermometer hovered just above ten degrees all day, but as evening fell, it plunged to the zero point.
Leon breezed through the door, all the whirling white and cold outside, bringing his bright face and happy smile, the perfect anecdote from his day already spilling out of him.
They ate amid his accounts of the day. He did not comment on the food, seemingly unaware of what went into his mouth, so Anna wisely bided her time until she haltingly asked about the wood supply.
“Oh my goodness!”
Down came the palm of his hand on the table top, rattling the dishes.
“I clean forgot to call Bill Stoner. Shoot.”
He turned sideways in his chair to gaze out into the heavy darkness, his expression unreadable.
“How many pieces did you say?”
Anna told him.
He clucked his tongue, said that wouldn’t hold till morning, so he’d make a few phone calls. Anna shivered as she washed dishes, took a long hot shower to warm up, then cuddled in a fleece blanket with a good book, listening for the arrival of some firewood.
There was a lengthy banging and thumping in the basement, but as far as she could tell, no one drove a truck to their house. Leon emerged red cheeked and said he’d procured enough firewood for a few days, till Bill Stoner would bring a load.
In the morning, Anna awoke to a freezing cold bedroom. Leon leaped from the bed, ran down the basement steps, and back up again.
“Fire’s out,” he chortled as he dived under the covers, reaching for her as he shivered.
Aghast, Anna asked if he didn’t want to start it now, as cold as it was.
To love her husband in the knowledge of his easygoing ways was no small accomplishment, but love him she did, just as the book said. Eventually there was firewood delivered in a pile outside the basement door, which was paid eventually, but only after the irate Bill Stoner knocked on the door a number of times.
Leon was completely immersed in his work. Every evening at the supper table, it was all about his day of counseling, his approach, the end result. But seldom did he ask for her input anymore, and rarely did he ask about her day or how she was doing.
Look for his strong points. Play up his best accomplishments. Forget his faults and weaknesses. She struggled to practice everything she had read about being a good wife. So soon the relationship shifted from a normal ebb and flow to one that was pooled solely on Leon, who thrived in the light of his own halo, his world infused with his own sense of being a light to others, a benevolent care giver to those less fortunate.
Money disappeared, bills went unpaid.
By the time summer arrived, Anna was well versed in the ways of stretching a pound of ground beef, of driving to Aldi with her own horse and buggy to buy a month’s supply of groceries with an unbelievably small amount of cash.
Trips to see her family in Lancaster became fewer and fewer, so Barbie would consult Elias, asking if he thought Anna was being spoiled if she went to visit as often as she could, never mentioning the ever-deepening fear that things were not the way they seemed.
On one such trip, when her mother and sisters came to visit, Anna decided to make pizza sauce with the abundance of tomatoes from her productive garden. Anna cared for the lawn and garden the way she had been taught, so Barbie’s praise was effusive. She did notice, however, the lack of ferns on the porch and any arrangement of ceramic or clay pots filled with geraniums or other annuals. There were a few marigolds and petunias in the garden, a long row of spindly zinnias sprung from a pocket of seeds, but no flowering perennials or shrubs.
“No flowers on your porch?” her mother inquired.
“No. It . . . well . . . I just didn’t this year.”
“I could have brought you some from the greenhouse on Oak Road.”
“No, it’s all right. Maybe next year.”
They washed the tomatoes, removed the stems, quartered them, and set them to cook. It was when her mother went to the pantry for the required spices that she stood for a moment longer than was necessary.
When she turned, she could not face her daughter. Instead, she went to the stove, stirring the tomatoes with arms gone weak.
“Where are your spices?” she asked in a brisk voice.
“Above the stove to your left.”
Later, her mother inquired if there was a financial problem. Anna hesitated, then decided against whatever it was that she was about to say.
“No. Not really. Leon is very generous with the recipients of his counseling sessions. He gives to the Homestead as well. It’s all right. Mom, you know you have always taught me to be supportive of my husband’s choices, which I take very seriously. I have everything I need. We live extremely . . . well . . . there’s not much to live on. But it’s fine, really. Leon is a wonderful husband in every other way.”
“Why don’t you work? Get a job somewhere? Take in sewing?”
“Oh no. Leon is hard against women working outside of the home. He says if women lived on the amount their husbands allotted them, they’d be living biblically.”
Her mother gave her a long stare that gave away nothing.
“Well, the Bible also says a husband will praise his wife for the acre she buys and the goods she sells in the marketplace.”
A small smile, a shaking of the head.
“It’s all right, Mom. Really. I have learned to appreciate the way of his family, as well as my own.”
There was a long silence, rife with unspoken words. Words that may have been comforting, supportive, or in the case of pure unadulterated honesty, wrought with the chaos of denial in both of them.
So they left them all unsaid, canned the pizza sauce, cold packed, labeled it, and took it down to the cellar to the jar shelves. When they passed the woodstove, Anna retained the nightmarish last week in January but spoke not a word to her mother about the wood.
As time went on, they looked forward to their baby, which arrived six weeks early and was hospitalized for a defective valve in the heart.
They named him Mark Andrew.
Small and easily upset, Anna called on all her resources to get through each day and night. Leon was a loving, doting father, supporting her with his gentle advice, doing his share with the night feedings and diapering, seeing that she got her rest.
The outpouring of gifts, the donations of money, the company that flocked to the little house was astounding. Leon was a much-admired person of great skill at his calling, an outstanding member of the Amish church, with his loyal, supportive, and certainly beautiful spouse. The hospital bill was taken by the deacon, voted in church, and paid with the plentiful alms that accumulated each year.
Anna regained her strength, albeit with a pale face that resembled porcelain, a drawn, pinched look around her full, laughing mouth, a certain sadness that veiled the spontaneity of her youth.
When her mother spent a few days after Mark Andrew’s birth, there were plenty of stiff moments.
To bring disposable diapers was a well-meaning gesture, especially a box that size, and to have her generous gift frowned on was not taken lightly.
“What’s wrong with cloth diapers?” he asked, smiling into his mother-in-law’s shocked gaze.
“Oh, come on, Leon. Surely you know they’re a thing of the past?”
A question, but one that held clout.
“Not in my house. I’m not going to spend thousands of dollars polluting landfills. Do you know how long it takes a disposable diaper to break down in the soil?”
“No, I don’t.”
Spoken brightly, with bared teeth replacing the smile.
“After you’re dead and gone, part of that Pamper will still be here.”
The mother did not appreciate being compared to a Pamper, nor did she like the idea of her own decomposing bones, but she hid this all away in an extremely efficient manner without honoring him with a reply.
Turning to the baby, she began to coo, picked him up and carried him back to the living room recliner, where she settled herself and began rocking and humming as if she could remove the obstruction of cloth diapers by the force of it.
But cloth diapers it was.
Kept in a plastic five-gallon bucket of Diaper Pure water, the diapers were rinsed, twisted, placed in the churning wringer washer, and hung on the line, a row of snow-white diapers that flapped and danced in the breeze like silly maidens in long white skirts. Anna found tremendous fulfillment in washing those cloth diapers, an honor to her husband’s way, a peace that passed her understanding.
He was a good husband, she told herself repeatedly. A kind man who took good care of her and their small son. He accompanied her to all his doctor visits, and was good about paying the bill, eventually.
Anna learned to become less agitated about unpaid bills, recognizing the need at the Homestead, and moved around her house with an aura of contentment.
Her father and mother were supportive of her choices and did not interfere in their married life, aside of an occasional quick retort from her mother.
His family seldom visited, his father often away for months at a time, or unstable when he was with his family. His mother was sweet and efficient, after bringing groceries, or a loaf of homemade bread, a cherry pie, or chocolate whoopie pies.
It was on one cold, rainy October Sunday morning when Leon and Anna traveled to Lancaster County to attend services at her parents’ house that all the underlying frustrations came to a head.
Her mother had spent hours planting orange chrysanthemums, digging borders and mowing the lawn to perfection, the way she always did before the entire congregation arrived that morning. The sun had set in a blaze of glory, highlighting the orange mums, the beige color of the siding, and the faux stone on the porch. She was very pleased with all her labor and thought fondly of the appearance of her house and its surroundings.
Rain drummed on the roof, tinkled down through the spouting, washed out the fresh mulch, and soaked the newly mown carpet of grass. Things definitely were not going her way.
Leon was as unaware and as relaxed as always, lingering over his second cup of coffee, laughing and joking with his father-in-law. And then Mark Andrew had a very healthy bowel movement directly into the cloth diaper, which escalated up his spiney little back and down his legs.
“What smells?” she shrieked quietly.
“Oop. Here, Mam,” Leon laughed handing over the smelly little boy. Anna laughed, hurried off to the bathroom, wondering what she would do with the little trousers, the only ones he had to wear on Sunday.
Her mother hovered, washed everything in Tide, watched her daughter perform the humiliating chore of prewashing the diaper in the commode before whisking it off to the laundry room to soak in a tightly covered container.
Leon made the serious mistake of telling Barbie she smelled, whereupon she turned on him and yapped like a Chihuahua about using cloth diapers, which was all right for him, living in the nineteenth century, but what about his wife, washing out that mess in the commode?
Leon’s face fell. He called on all his gleaned knowledge about what it takes to love the unlovable, but things were a bit strained for the remainder of the weekend between him and his mother-in-law, who remained purse lipped for quite some time.
CHAPTER 21
HE HAD WANTED TO GO HOME. HAD MADE PLANS TO GO, TO RETURN TO the old home place and honor his parents’ wishes. But somehow Dave had never quite gotten around to it. He wasn’t sure if it was the homey atmosphere of this Australian cattle station, if it was the challenges he faced very day, or if all those brothers seemed more like blood brothers than his own back in Lancaster County. There was an easy camaraderie, an ebb and flow of joking and laughing, taking life as it came toward them, with no care in the world of what anyone thought of them, no judgment of their comings and goings, and certainly no dress code.
A pair of shorts and a thin shirt or sleeveless T-shirt. Boots or sneakers. Every snake in Australia is poisonous, or almost, so how was a person to tell the difference? Better to wear ankle high boots.
He turned lean and brown, sinewy with muscle and strength he never imagined. He learned to ride a horse with so much ease it was like being attached to it. He wrestled calves and learned how to shear sheep. He rode a four-wheeler, learned how to drive a cattle truck, ate copious amounts of beef, and acquired a taste for mutton.
