Garment of praise, p.3
Garment of Praise, page 3
All of this Susan knew. Isaac shared every moment of his past with her and Susan was insightful enough to understand Titus’s feelings. Eventually, though, she came to the conclusion she had to be herself and let Titus sort out his own feelings. But it was extremely disheartening and the constant weight of it had aged her, really.
She came to realize there was no quick fix, no easy way of being a stepmother, so you lived your life and let the chips fall where they may.
She was certainly grateful for Titus’s apparent change of heart, but if everything went south, she would be prepared. Titus was complex, hard to understand, so she wouldn’t be surprised if this was temporary.
THEY ALL DRESSED in their Sunday best, Susan fussing with Sharon’s cape, red-faced and much too warm as usual. She braided Kayla’s hair while Thayer got into the snack drawer, upending a bag of stick pretzels all over the kitchen door.
Titus took his own horse and buggy, a high-stepping Friesian-Standardbred mix named Champion, while Isaac hitched shaggy old Clopper to the family surrey, and they were off. The wheels screeched on frozen snow, but the roads were plowed, white banks of the fluffy stuff stretching away on each side. The wind had blown the snow off the fir trees, so a line of dark green stood out in stark relief, the jagged tips creating an interesting effect.
The moon was full, astonishing in its beauty, especially when they came to the high plateau, the prairie stretching for miles in front of them, the untouched countryside like a new earth.
The children chattered, wedged in the back seat wrapped in heavy coats and bonnets, a woolen blanket tucked around them. Sharon was excited to go to a hymn singing, old enough to realize this was the ultimate social setting for the “rumschpringa,” a term no longer used much in the small Wyoming settlement. It implied the loosely controlled sowing of wild oats in times past, an area in the life of the Amish church many parents wanted to improve on.
So they were called “die youngie,” or “the youth,” which seemed to imply a different level of respect.
Susan greeted all her church friends with eager handshakes, handing Thayer to the oldest member, Abe Sullivan’s Anna. She was round and jiggly with eyeglasses held together with strips of duct tape. She had apple cheeks and a shock of unruly snow-white hair.
She began her usual tirade immediately after taking off the child’s outerwear, saying old people like herself had no business being out late in the evening like this. But after a week at home in the snow, Abe got on her nerves so badly she had to get out of the house and a singing was the best place for her to be, remembering why she’d married him in the first place.
Everyone had a good laugh, cups of coffee were supplied, and Susan settled in, already experiencing the lightheartedness that came from being with other women.
Suvilla was a stand-in for her own mother, someone she could always turn to for help, and Susan watched as Thayer was passed to her welcoming arms. She thought how blessed she was to be a part of this group of loving women.
“Winters get so long,” Roy Edna sighed, always negative.
“Oh, put a quilt in frame. Buy a couple puzzles. Bake something,” Suvilla chirped.
“That all gets old.”
“We should get together more often,” Susan said. “Have a hen party once every two, three weeks. Once a month?”
“What would we do?”
“Talk. Eat. Do stuff. Switch recipes. Patterns.”
“Go to Florida,” Edna said, sour as a lemon.
“What for? So many Amish down there it simply drives me bananas.”
“Have you ever been there?”
And so they conversed, everyone enjoying the easy camaraderie between women of the church. They all filed into the living room and sat quietly as the youth were seated around a long table with German songbooks scattered along the length of it. The young men were seated on one side, the girls on the other, shyly keeping their eyes on the words of the hymns as the singing began.
Susan felt an elbow poke her side.
“Titus is here?” one of the ladies whispered.
Susan nodded, smiling proudly. It all seemed so good and proper, Titus being a part of the youth group, even if he still didn’t attend regularly. There was hope he would turn out to be a normal youth, interested in normal activities his culture chose for him. Susan had pondered this after Titus had asked to go to the Sunday evening hymn singing. A young person had his path before him, cut out quite clearly and without confusion. You reached the age of sixteen, attended youth activities, sought a member of the opposite sex, married, raised a brood of children, made a living, grew old, and died, having never questioned the possibility of significant change. It was a simple and well-ordered life, free of disturbing questions that so often led to dissatisfaction.
Yes, yes, this she could see. Titus was finally showing the fruits of an obedient spirit, acknowledging a willingness to learn the logging trade. They would be patient with him when he had days of disliking the work, or Isaac, or anyone who came into proximity.
She opened her hymnbook and sang from the bottom of her heart, feeling richly blessed, delivered from fear of Titus’s rebellion by the power of a prayer united with her husband.
When Titus looked up, he could see Susan watching him, so he quickly averted his eyes, vowing not to look at Trisha or Millie one more time. The last thing he wanted was Susan meddling into his affairs where girls were concerned.
These two were far different from any other girls he’d ever met—not that he’d met very many in his life. He was aware of them at church, tall, curly-haired, tanned and freckled, with lively blue eyes missing out on nothing, interested mainly in the horses and the great outdoors, he knew.
They hunted, trapped, fished, rode horses, and now were the talk of the community, learning to ski. His father had heard Roy Yoder talk of this, both girls learning the technique from an English friend, and no good could come of it. As talented as they were in riding, they could be competitive barrel racers and even more, but with skirts and head coverings, both knew their limits. Ski suits, paying to get on lifts, all of it strongly verboten (forbidden).
Sitting at the singing table, boredom came off of the two girls like steam. Yawning, fidgeting, looking out the window, watching the clock, they were clearly putting in their time being obedient, just waiting till it was over and they could both go home to bed. Titus was fascinated, noticing how completely uninterested they seemed in boys.
He’d gone to school with them, the best ball players ever. He cringed, remembering the rodeo Darlene had attempted, his refusal to take part in it, Millie and Trisha begging him to stay.
What childishness.
They both probably remembered him as the chief troublemaker in school, if they gave him a thought at all. Well, they certainly didn’t care about anyone else either.
But he did.
A new restlessness had taken hold of him, a wondering about life.
For a month or more, he’d come to see logging in a different light, and with the praise coming from the grizzled old truck driver, Pete, he felt as if he might not always be a small, weak shadow of his loud, confident father. He’d become good with the loader, his fingers moving with an accustomed rhythm across the levers, expertly picking up logs and placing them on waiting trucks.
He started to feel a certain peace in the idea of following in his father’s footsteps. Maybe he could even do things better than his father if he kept studying the magazines and books. He had read some articles about sustainable forest management that intrigued him.
When the cookies, cheese, and bologna platters were served and cups of coffee poured, he sat back against the wall and crossed his arms, watching the silly antics of a group of young men vying for Trisha’s attention. She was clearly not interested, ignoring them in a polite manner, her eyes averted.
Finally, Millie got up and left the table, with Trisha quickly following.
Titus watched them. They were quick, graceful, reminding him of movie stars or dancers. He wondered if his thoughts were improper, but my, they were both simply the most attractive girls he’d ever seen. He had a sincere wish to talk to them but had no idea how to go about it.
How did a young man let a girl know he found her attractive?
He wished he had directions, a book to read on these matters. Not that he hadn’t read enough silly, stupid romance books. Susan devoured them like candy, but they weren’t real life. It was always an extremely attractive guy meeting a beautiful girl, marrying, and living happily ever after in a pink bubble of unreality.
Lester Yoder stuck an elbow in his ribs.
“Go with me to church in the next district over on Sunday.”
“Why would I do that?”
“Oh, because. They have a bunch of pretty girls over there.”
He laughed, his face reddening.
Titus couldn’t imagine any of them coming close to Trisha or Millie. Not even close.
Suddenly he realized that the restlessness in his spirit would no longer have a question mark attached to it. He knew for whom he was longing. And the most surprising part was the misery accompanying the rock solid conviction that Trisha was the one. Millie was her copy, but there was something about Trisha that spoke to him—the way she was quiet inside of herself, quiet and relaxed and kind.
That was it, she was kind.
He sat back, listened to Lester and Duane, and watched the doorway for Trisha’s return. He knew he was a perfectly incapable young man, without confidence, without good looks, and completely devoid of charm. With that kind of self-awareness, he gave up hope, relaxed, and decided the whole thing wouldn’t be worth it. She’d turn him down anyway.
TRISHA WENT TO the bathroom with her sister, looked in the mirror, and tried smoothing her hair, but it sprang up into the same curly mess it always was.
“Titus is here,” she said calmly.
“Yeah.”
“He’s, like, grown up or something.”
“I think his blond hair is so cool, even though it’s not really my thing. I like the tall, dark guys.”
“I know you do, Millie. But we’re too young. We both have way too much to do, and you know it.”
“It’s okay to look.”
“Sure, but everyone is so childish. Why do boys act so stupid at the singing table? We’re not school kids anymore.”
Millie was waiting at the door, getting impatient. “Come on. You know you can’t do anything about that hair, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Didn’t you just say we’re too young to worry about boys?”
TITUS WAS WATCHING the doorway when they reappeared, a lightning bolt stabbing through him when she looked directly into his eyes for a moment, a moment of incredible wonder.
Just as quickly, the connection was broken, but he felt as if his heart might never slow down again, slowly draining his vitality. He put a hand on his knee, to see if the joint was still normal, the way both of them turned into a substance like jelly.
He felt sick to his stomach.
Outside, the cold bit through his woolen coat and frosted his nose and mouth. His horse would not stand still or lower his head to slide the bit easily into his mouth. Duane came over to see if he had a problem, which he clearly did.
“Don’t drive him enough,” he remarked.
“I know.”
“You need to come to the singing more often. Your horse needs the miles on him.”
He was only listening with half an ear and his eyes kept searching the kaleidoscope of LED buggy lights through the dark of night. He scanned the snow-covered landscape and darkly clad figures hurrying through the cold. Did Trisha drive her own team? She had no brothers to take her to the singing. Or did she go with a young man who was a regular? Maybe she was already dating someone.
His mood lifted when he saw both girls lead a small, compact horse from the barn, lift the shafts of a buggy, easily hitch up in a matter of seconds, and move off seamlessly. He stood in the glare of his own headlights and watched them go, an unexplained gladness warming him, knowing they did have their own team.
He added bravery to her list of positive assets.
Wild animals, questionable characters riding around lonely roads, the horse slipping and falling … who knew what might happen? And then it occurred to him that if they took their own team, it was clear they didn’t want to be asked by any young man to be taken home, meaning they were independent and not interested in guys at all.
He hardly remembered getting into his buggy, but somehow he was going down the road, following them a short distance before they put on their turn signals and made a right turn on Brush Road.
CHAPTER 3
WHEN WINTER’S GRIP TIGHTENED, THE TEMPERATURE FALLING well below zero, Isaac told Titus it was time for the midwinter break. Chainsaws froze up, equipment slid, engines stalled. Frostbite was never far away.
Titus had already discovered the frozen bodies of rabbits and martens, the beautiful creatures whose homes had been wrecked by skidders and the whining teeth of the chainsaws. He struggled all over again with the sense of being the most destructive person in the state of Wyoming, the bitterness of upending the lives of innocent creatures, of slicing off the balanced growth of mature trees.
So when his father suggested a week off, he didn’t object. He slept in a few mornings, made his own breakfast when Susan had already left for some event or other. He cleaned and oiled his rifles, sharpened his hunting knife, thought of Darlene. He shook his head, chuckled to himself, thinking of her scrambling up steep inclines. She had the best eyesight in the world. A crack shot.
She’d taught him all there was to learn about hunting, or most of it. She’d tried to instill basic knowledge of living a clean life, of trying to like his stepmother at a time when he was struggling. He should be more appreciative of her, pay her a visit. But it would be awkward, not having hunted with her in such a long time. What did a youth have to share with a middle-aged teacher?
Sharon said Darlene seemed quite unhappy this winter, acting as if the kids all got on her nerves.
He should go for a sled ride, hitch the Haflinger to the small cutter.
He put away his rifle, stored the cleaning supplies, went to the kitchen and poured a glass of milk, found a handful of monster cookies and ate them standing at the sink. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he let himself out, coughing as the frigid air hit the back of his throat.
He found his father in the barn, in his shirtsleeves, mucking stalls, going at a frenetic pace, sweat beaded on his upper lip. He barely glanced at Titus, just went on shoveling furiously.
“Need help?”
Isaac straightened, drew a hand across his forehead.
“Do you have other plans?”
“I was going to hitch Harry to the cutter. Maybe go see Darlene after supper.”
“No lights on the sleigh.”
“I can rig something up.”
“I could use another pitchfork, yeah,” Isaac said, pushing his beanie up.
Titus turned, brought him another one. “Here you go.”
Not used to Titus joking about anything, he took it seriously until Titus grinned, “Here. Here’s your pitchfork.”
They both laughed. Titus shucked his coat, grabbed the pitchfork, and began forking manure in the next box stall over, determined to show his father he could keep up. Which he couldn’t do, of course, his father finishing every stall long before he did.
Titus stopped to catch his breath, caught his father’s eye. He grinned.
“You’re crazy,” he said dryly.
“Just showing off. I can’t keep that pace up all afternoon. I’ll fizzle out here after a bit.”
Isaac watched Titus walk back to his work, aware of the gradual change happening in him. There had been plenty of times when he would have stalked off, angry about one thing or another, times when he could do nothing right, so this easy joking around was refreshing. Could it be he was actually beginning to peel away the first layer of bitterness?
They spread clean shavings, brought the horses in from the cold, fed them grain and hay, then stood in the middle of the clean barn to bask in a job well done.
“Harry shod?” Titus asked.
“I think he’s good. Raymond was here a few weeks ago.”
“I don’t want him to slip and fall.”
“I wouldn’t take him out after dark. Anything could happen on these roads. The low places are a sheet of ice.”
“We’ll be okay.”
Isaac shrugged. “Whatever. But don’t go running races.”
Supper consisted of a questionable ham stew, the carrots undercooked and the ham scarce. That was the way of things when Susan spent a day with her friends. She came home late and slapped some last-minute dish on the table. But her face was flushed and she was smiling and laughing about the news that circulated among the women, relating small anecdotes, clearly entertained by Roy Edna’s antics.
Titus listened with half an ear, until he heard Louise Mast’s name being mentioned. Trisha’s family. He stopped chewing when he heard Susan say how Louise worried about those girls driving home from the singing on Sunday night. It wasn’t the wild animals as much as the local hooligans, the young ranch hands who were bored on a Sunday evening, out riding around looking for trouble.
Isaac was buttering a roll and reached for the apple butter before showing he’d heard.
“I don’t know why those two girls are allowed to do that. Don’t they have brothers? Well, I guess not. Abes’ just have those two.”
“She had all kinds of complications, I think. Likely lucky to have two. But no, she said last Sunday night there was a pickup following them almost the entire length of Brush Road, and you know how isolated that road is.”
