All in good time, p.6
All in Good Time, page 6
The teacher pulled him off, took him to the woodshed and administered a sound spanking, then wrote a note to Melvin and Gertie. It had been his first encounter with Melvin. Oba still being a young boy, Melvin hadn’t used the horse whip, but a thick willow switch that stung like fire. It hadn’t drawn blood or created white scars, only added insult upon insult, one beating on top of another. He never had a chance to state his case, had no one to tell why he sat on top of Lemuel Yoder and pounded him good. His hatred blossomed against authority then, and that emotion prevailed his whole life, especially after repeated whippings without justice.
His back was a mess of white welts, like puffy train tracks or the lines on a map. The scars on his back were a road map to resistance of anyone who tried to exercise their will over him, to control his behavior or make his decisions. That was the number one reason he could never be Amish.
He looked into the hurt in Eli’s eyes and saw his own boyhood. A fierce sense of protection welled up in him. He looked long and hard at Eli, and told him he’d go to school with him on Monday morning, and that he had nothing to worry about, none of that was true.
He told Andy and May.
May broke down, weeping silent, bitter tears, her delicate blonde head bent in the gaslight of evening, after the children were in bed. “I was always afraid of this. I know I will have to suffer for my past sins. The Bible plainly tells us, we reap what we sow. But must poor Eli suffer because of me?”
Andy was by her side in an instant. “May, May. Please don’t. It breaks my heart to see you cry. We’ll take care of this, together. I’ll talk to the teacher. And I think perhaps this is the time to speak to Eli about his father.”
“No, no. I can’t do that. I can’t. I can’t,” May moaned, her sodden handkerchief held to her mouth.
Andy’s face was tormented with his wife’s sorrow. He held her against his chest as he knelt beside her chair until the storm of weeping had passed. When she sighed and looked up, he gazed into her swollen eyes with so much kindness, Oba felt like an intruder to be able to witness such love.
Then Oba spoke.
He told them of his own childhood, the lack of understanding, a fair trial and punishment on his antagonizer. May was shocked. Oba nodded at her.
“You don’t want Eli to find a base for the hatred I kept in my body. If he isn’t allowed to be heard, he will not turn out well, especially if you don’t tell him the truth about why his skin is different.”
May nodded, her face a mass of anxiety. “But how will we tell him?”
“We will. He’s so smart. He’ll grasp it.”
“At seven years of age?” May wailed, unable to fathom what the news would lay on her precious, carefree son.
“Brace up, May. Be grateful for the chance to tell him. Think about it. If I wasn’t here to tell you all of this, you might never understand the importance of setting a good foundation.”
“Yes, yes, of course,” May whispered brokenly.
SO MAY BROKE the news to her small son, alone in the bright sunny kitchen on a Saturday morning when Andy took the girls to the farm.
She told him Oba had told her what someone at school had said, and the part about monkeys was untrue. She took both of his hands in hers, looked into his innocent brown eyes, and with gentle words, told him of her past, being rescued by a kind young man who was born with brown skin and beautiful black curls like his own.
“He is your father, Eli. He was. He died one dark night, when he was out looking for work, in a city that was not welcoming to us. He died before you were born, and he went to Heaven to be with Jesus. He loved me, and he loved Jesus. Now Andy is your father, and he loves you the same as the girls. Sometimes he loves you more.”
For a long time, Eli was silent as he absorbed his mother’s words. Then the questions were pelted at her, quick and fast, a small line of confusion appearing in the smooth skin between his eyes. And May answered them as gently and as honestly as possible. She held him close, murmured words of assurance, allowed him time to think of more serious questions that would eventually need to be asked.
Finally, Eli breathed a long, trembling sigh, sat up straight, and looked hard at his mother.
“I guess, then, someone will have to go to school and tell Robert Mast. He shouldn’t be allowed to say such things and make me feel bad. If I am not white like all the others, he should know that Jesus loves me as much as He loves them. Right?”
And that was carried out in a Christian manner, with Andy and May visiting the school, having a talk with the teacher, who was told about Eli’s birth, which she had heard through the active grapevine anyway.
Eli was given the chance Oba never had, a chance to be treated fairly in love, with two parents whose first interest was the well-being of their son.
CHAPTER 5
IT WOULD HAVE BEEN BETTER IF ONLY DR. ARPACHSHAD Brown had been in the room, without Clara hovering, watching every move he made. The prosthesis was a clumsy affair. He felt ashamed of it, as if it had the power to mock him. The leather straps gouged his tender flesh, the top of the artificial limb all wrong. With patience and plenty of grumbling, he managed a few painful steps, his unused hip crying out in agony.
The bill was paid. The doctor wished him well, told him to make that call if he needed assistance in any way. Oba was polite, shook hands, thanked him properly, but knew the hateful thing would be propped in a corner, or even better, stashed in his bedroom closet as far out of sight as possible.
The entirety of the trip home, he sat in the back seat and sulked. He felt defeated. What was the use of going through all that when there was no way on earth he would ever become used to maneuvering through his days dragging that cumbersome thing around?
He knew he would have to seek employment, do something with his life, but the more the thought nagged him, the darker his days became. How did one go about navigating the world of employment if you were seated in a wheelchair? Who would hire you? And if they did, it was strictly out of charity, nothing else. His future stretched before him, a long dark void, an uncontrolled free fall into nothing.
HE STAYED IN his room, appearing only when hunger or thirst propelled him. May’s face took on a pale hue, her large eyes dark with worry. She baked his favorite black walnut cake, made the ground beef noodle casserole he loved, grabbed his arm in desperation, pleaded with him to come spend time with the family or get some fresh air.
Andy knocked on his door, was told to get lost, and like May, he spoke through the door, pleading. They knew he was in a bad way.
And then Clara arrived. She blew in with the cold north wind on an overcast day, the red scarf tied securely around her face, her hands chapped with the cold. She put her horse in the barn and fed him a forkful of hay, knowing he was too skittish to stand at the hitching rack in the cold.
She spoke with May in hushed tones and pursed her lips as angry sparks ignited her yellow green eyes. She was furious, but did her best to hide her true feelings from the gentle May.
She turned without hesitation and strode purposefully down the hallway to the guest bedroom and began to pound on the door.
“Open up!” she shouted.
When there was no answer, she continued. “If you don’t open this door, I’ll get a screwdriver and remove the latch. If you don’t believe me, watch.”
No reply.
So she did. She removed the knob, inserted the screwdriver, and sprung the latch. It opened with a satisfying click.
“If you don’t have any pants on, you better get them on, because I’m coming in.”
She found him reclining on two pillows, covered with a warm quilt, fully dressed, his hair lank, unwashed, a week’s growth of blond hairs like bristles all over his face. When he refused to look at her, she sat down on the bed, put her face close to his, and asked just what he thought he was doing.
He kept his eyes averted, refused her a reply. Clara looked up to find May hovering anxiously, the two girls peeping around her skirts.
“You must really enjoy making other people suffer, Oba. You sit in here, wielding power over your loved ones, feeling powerless and weak yourself. You are a coward, Oba. No guts. You have never been told this, I’m sure, but it’s time you hear it. Stop thinking of yourself. Start caring what you’re doing to Andy and May. I don’t care about the money, and you don’t have to do it for me, but I want you to know you have a whole life ahead of you. You’re wasting everything God has ever given you.”
“I have no interest in doing anything to please anyone,” Oba growled, his voice like sandpaper grating on rough wood.
“But yourself,” Clara cut in.
“Leave me alone. I want to die.”
“No, you don’t. You are afraid to die. You’re doing this to make everyone else as miserable as you are, and the only reason you’re so miserable is because you choose to be. Where’s the leg?”
“In the closet.”
It was a start. She yanked the door open, drew out the artificial limb, straps flopping about, then set it against the bed, where it slid to the side and crashed to the floor. Oba mocked her with his eyes.
“Get out of bed and pick it up,” she ordered.
“I’d sooner pick up a rattlesnake.”
“Pooh. I’d love to see you pick up a snake. You’d be scared out of your wits, and you know it.”
He let her have the full benefit of his anger.
“Go ahead. Hate me all you want. I’m not going to let you lie in bed slowly losing your mind. Pick up the leg.”
She waited. She crossed her arms and waited. She pulled up a chair and sat in it and waited. She turned to May and said she might as well make coffee, and did she have any of those sugar cookies left?
When May left, Clara got up, went over to the bed and picked up his leg, swung it across the top, and flung the quilt away. He was so surprised he had no time to resist.
“Now bend over and pick it up.”
He didn’t. She crossed her arms again and waited.
“I’m not a coward,” he said.
“Yes, you are.”
“No, I’m not. I ran a dog sled for miles. I lived in the Northwest, in the wilderness. You don’t know me at all.”
Clara said, “I know all that. I’m not particularly impressed.”
After that statement, he had nothing more to say.
She continued, “If you had any courage, you would not be sitting in this room, on this bed, in the middle of the forenoon. Pouting.”
“My leg is cut off!” he shouted.
“So what?”
Again, he was speechless.
She came to sit on the side of the bed, pushed her face close to his.
“Your leg is gone, right. So what are you going to do about it? I was born skinny and ugly, flat chested, with flaming red hair, and crosshatched with freckles. No normal man has ever looked at me, let alone asked me to be his wife. No one has ever asked me for a date or wanted to spend time with me alone.” She snorted with derision. “Except, of course, some depraved individual who thought he could overpower me in the horse stables. So I’ve lived my life with an aversion to men, confident I can do everything they can.” She became quiet, her breath coming quick and fast. “My looks are nothing to be proud of. In a sense, I am handicapped as well. It shouldn’t be this way, I know,” she continued. “But it is.”
When he said nothing, she said, “At least you’re a handsome man, leg or no leg.”
He glanced at her, embarrassed.
“Now get out of bed, roll up that pants leg, and try this thing on.”
She lifted the leg, ran a hand across the smooth surface of spliced wood, felt the joint, flexed it, then examined the straps, while he watched.
She said, “It’s made from very light wood. Likely a wood grown in a foreign country. What did Dr. Brown say?”
“He said a lot of things,” Oba said wryly. “You were there.”
“Well, let’s get on with this,” she said briskly. “Roll the pants leg up. You know what? You should actually cut the pants leg off.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Too final, I guess.”
Clara looked at him. “You think it’ll grow back or what?”
In spite of himself, he began to chuckle, an unaccustomed rumbling in his chest he tried hard to suppress. Clara let out a startling whoop, then let the artificial limb slide to the floor as she laughed a deep sound that came from the depth of her stomach. At first, he smiled, then contorted his face muscles to keep from joining her, and finally, grinned broadly, wholeheartedly. She sniffed, slanted him a look, and smiled.
He shook his head, met her eyes, then looked away. He was terrified to feel the lump form in his throat, the burning in his nostrils. He gulped, waved her away, turned his face to the wall, but the sobs that tore from his throat were so powerful, his entire body convulsed. His shoulders heaved as the guttural sounds came from his clenched mouth.
Clara waited, then felt her own tears rise to the surface. She leaned over and put a hand on his shoulder and kept it there a moment before she began a gentle, rhythmic motion. She felt the flaccid muscle, the bone beneath, the wasting away of what had once been a powerful young man, and a great pity welled up in her.
“Oba, it’s okay. You don’t have to be ashamed for me to see you cry. That is a sign of a true man.”
She spoke in a voice quite unlike her, soft, gentle, feminine. He shook his head, lifted one hip to search for a handkerchief, a gesture Clara found vulnerable, like a small boy who had been hurt at school and needed his schnuppy. When he lifted his reddened eyes, she could barely muster the strength to hold his gaze and shrank from the dark, troubled pool of sadness and torment she saw there.
“You okay?” she whispered.
He nodded.
There was a quiet reprieve, one filled with understanding, a softening of the atmosphere surrounding them. Clara wanted to speak, wanted to know more about the cauldron of hurt and disappointment simmering below the surface, but knew she did not have the courage. She’d called him a coward and found, in a moment of compassion and intimacy, she was the worst kind. So she stood up, clapped her hands, and told him she’d get this thing on him if it took all day.
He said nothing.
It was not too difficult with May’s help. The hardest part was the sensitive stump, unused to any chafing or pressure, so they formed a layer of sheep’s wool before tightening the buckles. Oba’s mouth was twitching, a small line of perspiration forming above his upper lip, but he waited, did what they asked of him.
He wanted crutches for support, so they were brought. He put them beneath each arm and stepped out with his foot before dragging on the prosthesis. He winced, keeping his weight distributed on the crutches. May held her breath without realizing it and exchanged a look with Clara, who stayed on the opposite side. Lizzie and Fronie watched from the doorway, wide-eyed and frightened.
“Through the door? You alright with that?” Clara asked.
He nodded, and they stepped away. It was heartrending to see the effort he put into it, after his adamant refusal, and neither one wanted to see him revert back to his old exile, hiding away in his bedroom. Clara knew it would all take time and probably more patience than she was capable of, so now that she’d gotten the ball rolling again, she’d leave it up to May—and likely Eli—to help Oba stay motivated.
SHE STAYED AWAY for a week, determined to give Oba a chance to progress on his own. Clara stayed busy—she cleaned her house, did laundry, wrote lengthy letters about Oba’s progress to her relatives in Indiana, and worked with her yearlings.
But she thought of Oba, the way he had shifted from anger to bitter sobs, and wondered how many more wells of misery were capped and ready to burst open.
Why did she care? Was it the responsibility she felt to May? Was it only natural to have a spirit of nurturing, a motherly instinct to protect? Yes, she was childless, would always remain so, and perhaps this need to take care of someone was just something all women felt.
Well, she’d see. She’d try and get him walking with that leg of his, then she’d work on getting him into society, help him meet a nice girl who would love him in spite of the prosthesis. He had needs like any normal young man, although she realized it would take a special young woman to be his wife. Her thoughts traveled through the community, peered into homey kitchens and upstairs rooms, picturing the older girls who were not dating.
Rudy Troyer’s Sally.
Dan Mast’s Amanda.
Then there was Sollie Wengerd’s Lydia. Now there was a nice girl, probably over twenty-one years of age. She was attractive enough, although not as good looking as Oba. He was, like May, blessed with every good feature God had ever invented.
She found herself peering closely at her own features, evaluating, comparing, something she hadn’t done for quite some time. She came away with the same thought she always did. She was not an attractive person. Never was, never would be.
She shrugged her shoulders, put wood on the fire, got down the cast iron pan, and made herself some sausage gravy. She stirred a batch of biscuits, worked the dough on the dough board, cut perfect orbs with a biscuit cutter before lifting them with a spatula and plopping them on an aluminum cookie sheet.
Her thoughts went to Oba again. How would she feel if a man— not necessarily Oba—was seated by the table, waiting for dinner, keeping a conversation flowing? She berated herself for even having such thoughts. She had never needed a man to keep her company and she never would. But while she sat eating her favorite food, she couldn’t help but imagine the hominess of it, the cozy feeling of sharing food, discussing ordinary happenings of ordinary days.
