Hope Deferred, page 17
There.
A clacking sound. Hooves.
He turned the key in the ignition, pressed the button to put up the windows, locked the doors. He went over the list of animals in Australia. Cattle, sheep, buffalo, donkeys, nothing threatening, he didn’t think.
Quite suddenly, he had the overwhelming sensation of being observed. Turning to glance sideways he was face-to-face with a huge, glistening black nose and the protruding eyes of an enormous cow, which was immediately jostled away by another face, then another.
Hairy black sides scraped along the window, hooves clattered on the road, wet noses slimed across every window. An entire herd descended on the helpless Toyota with Dave trapped inside.
Tips of massive horns scraped across the left back window. Dave’s hand went to his mouth, his eyes wide. He watched, helpless to change anything. He was simply sitting in their path, and they had no intention of moving around him without checking everything out.
Stupid cows.
He raised his fist, banged against the windshield, yelled until he was hoarse. It made no difference to the sea of cows streaming past.
There was one consolation, the thought of a station nearby. How many miles did these cattle roam?
An ambitious bull bumped the hood, then came around to the passenger side, tilted his head, and efficiently rammed a horn the size of a baseball bat straight through the window. It shattered it in a spritz of glass that sprayed across to where he sat.
Dave yelled and yelled and thought of starting the engine. But he couldn’t move the vehicle, so what was the point?
The broken window contained shards of spiked glass scattered across the seat like pieces of ice. The cold air outside now seeped in through the broken window.
He caught the distinctive, sweetish odor of cows, a scent he would recognize anywhere. He watched in horror as a face was pushed through the jagged shards, breaking them off like icicles.
Dave yelled and punched the face, which resulted in the quick withdrawal of the animal’s head.
Something had to be done. He turned the key in the ignition and revved the motor, hoping to chase them off, or at least give them a reason to detour around him.
It worked. They were moving away.
When he was sure they were all gone, he opened the door, got out to inspect the damage, and to finish cleaning up the glass. Afterward, he spent the miserable remainder of the night trying to stay warm and decipher all the strange groaning and clucking and slithering noises that made their way through his exhausted consciousness.
The light through the windshield woke him. It threw him immediately into a frenzy, fighting off the thin blanket, sitting up, blinking, rubbing his eyes, his shoulders and neck cramped and aching. He could smell his feet through his hiking boots and wool socks. He lifted an arm, sniffed, and thought it could only get worse, with no water for miles around, likely.
He touched his jug of water for comfort and ran a finger across his teeth. He couldn’t waste water to brush them.
He ate dried fruit and a package of crackers, some Australian ones he thought must surely be made of birdseed and oatmeal, after which he could only think of pancakes with butter and syrup, two dippy eggs and a slice of scrapple fresh out of his mother’s cast-iron pan.
Well, onward ho! He thought wryly, running his tongue around his teeth to remove all the seeds, wishing for a toothpick.
Checking the map, he saw he saw a road branching off the main highway nearby and guessed the cattle had come from that way. It was a gamble, but when he got to the road, he turned onto it, his tires bumping onto the dusty dirt dotted with potholes.
The air streaming through the broken window was like a blow dryer, one of those handheld devices Wayne used to dry his hair, spewing hot, dry blasts that made it easier to use that gel stuff he bought. Wayne was meticulous about his hair and proud of his looks. What would he say if he could see Dave now?
Dave tilted his head to the rearview mirror, dug out some hard yellow clumps from the corner of his eyes, and laughed out loud.
This was the Outback, not prissy Pennsylvania.
A few hours later, he was so hot the sweat trickled down his back and ran off his face. Grime and dust caked to every moist surface, his tongue thick and dry. He reached back over the seat to find the water jug, twisted his back too far to the right, and jerked the steering wheel, sending the Toyota off to the side and into deep red dirt.
He yanked the steering wheel to the left and the Toyota fishtailed back onto the hard surface. He breathed out slowly, shaking his head. That was a close call. He’d have to be more careful.
It was midmorning, and he hadn’t seen one other vehicle, nothing.
His eyes felt as if all the dust was swimming around inside his eyelids, creating a paste. He reached for his sunglasses, set them on the bridge of his nose, relieved to find the glare diminished. He should have thought of this sooner.
On he drove, clumsy with his hands, eyelids half-closed, his breath slowing as he relaxed. The hum of the tires on the hard surface lulled him into a semi-wakeful state that seemed perfectly safe yet allowed him plenty of awareness. He lost track of time and miles, and simply sat behind the wheel and allowed the Toyota to take him forward.
To where he wasn’t sure. He was simply moving along a route that would eventually take him to water, he hoped. That, or the awaited cattle station. He was overtaken by a need to talk to someone, get his bearings, learn how long until he could reach any place inhabited by people. Anyone. Black, white, or brown. Any person who would talk to him, laugh with him, tell him where he was and what he could do to be hired on at the nearest station.
Man wasn’t meant to be alone. Everyone needed a friend or a wife or something. This was ridiculous. He tried humming, then singing, but his throat was so dry and his tongue so thick and caked with dust, his voice cracked and broke on the first line.
He turned on the radio, got nothing but a mishmash of voices that jumbled around in his head, then an even line of static.
He tried his phone and almost ran off the road again.
The sun beat down on the roof of his vehicle. The air that came through the window sizzled with heat. He had to find water to wash the grime. He could feel his feet, slick inside the wool socks, and could only imagine the gross odor.
Something had to give. He couldn’t take this heat. It was furnace-like, unnatural. He’d die, likely. He envisioned the rusted frame of the Toyota, his own bones bleaching in the sun.
Why were there no other vehicles? He wondered if this was normal, or if half of Australia had fallen off on account of some earthquake.
Half asleep, hitting deep holes in the road, his teeth clacking every time it happened, he decided to take a break, lie down in the shade of his vehicle and take a nap.
He was asleep the minute his head hit the pillow. He woke up to find the sun had edged halfway up his legs, his face soaked with sweat, his T-shirt stuck to his upper torso. He ran his tongue around the outside of his mouth, the dust turning to mud. He tasted the grime, gagged and swallowed, staggered to his feet and reached for the plastic jug of water, lifted it and drank greedily.
The water tasted like the plastic jug, as warm as soup.
He ate more of the bread, some dried fruit, looked at the unnamed piece of fruit Wendy had given him, and decided he wasn’t hungry enough to eat it. It looked exactly like a horse dropping on the road back in Lancaster.
He started off again, felt refreshed, upbeat, singing out loud some old song from school about working on a railroad.
He loved that song. He always sang it too loud and too enthused until the teacher frowned at him and the upper-grade girls glared and sniffed. Then he sang even louder to make them mad for sure. Anna smiled at him when he sang like that.
She always approved of him, no matter what he said or did.
She loved him so much. She always had. Not that it made one bit of difference to her parents. The old bitterness crept into his heart, spread through his well-being until he felt sickened, handicapped by this remorse, this longing for what might have been.
They would have been the perfect couple. She would have supported him and loved him no matter what he chose to do, just the way women were supposed to. He would have opened up her little world, broadened her horizons in so many ways.
He thought this same thing, over and over, with no other voice of reason to correct him. Not his mother, or Wayne.
He thought of the encounter with the dark-haired girl named Rose. Dark hair and eyes simply did nothing for him. There was no real beauty in that, not even close to blonde hair and blue eyes like Anna’s. That Rose had looked back, though, and answered his wave.
That was sort of romantic, like blowing a kiss.
Well, he wasn’t getting involved again, ever. Likely Rose had a set of parents with grim expressions and suspicious minds who would fall over in a faint if he as much as talked to their daughter. Or breathed the same air she did, for Pete’s sake.
And suddenly he found himself crying, sobbing hysterically, his mouth drawn back in a grimace, as the ragged sounds came from his throat. He couldn’t see to drive, helpless to stop the heaving of his chest. Since there was no one to see or hear him, he heaved and sobbed until he was emotionally spent.
Later, after he had found a miraculous clump of wallaby grass and baobab trees with a trickle of water draining into a stagnant pool called a billabong, he stopped his car and got out, stretched, reached into the back for a set of clean clothes and a towel.
When he removed his shoes, he howled in disgust, setting a flock of pigeons into flurried panic. The water felt like paradise, so he scrubbed and washed, brushed his teeth and hair, wore only a pair of sandals, stuffed his shoes in a garbage bag, and threw away the offensive socks.
CHAPTER 16
ANNA OPENED THE SPIGOT ON THE AIR LINE AND STARTED THE WRINGER washer for Monday morning’s laundry, eyeing the piles that dotted the floor of the laundry room like small mountains of soiled clothing.
Her mother was still in bed, with a new daughter nestled beside her in the king-sized bed with the quilted white headboard, her face a serene image of accomplishment.
They’d named her Esther Faith, after Queen Esther in the Bible. The fifth daughter, and all was well, so who were they to ask for more? A son would have been welcome, too, of course, but daughters were a blessing, they reasoned.
Anna quit her job, then, at her mother’s request, backed by her father, whose primary concern was his wife. She was older now and needed her rest, so Anna was needed at home. Besides, wasn’t it about time to think of putting a quilt in frame?
There might be a wedding in the future, they teased.
She would smile, wrestle with the unexplained despair that followed the thought of putting that quilt in frame.
She threw in a load of whites, sheets, pillowcases, her father’s white Sunday shirt, absentmindedly watched the swirl of Tide, fabric, and water, the forward and backward motion of the wringer, punctuated by the sound of the air motor that drove the machine. She added a capful of Downy, swished with her fingers, then dried them on her apron before turning to enter the kitchen to start on the breakfast dishes.
Leon had left at eleven last night, the driver showing up a half-hour earlier on account of the weather prediction of rain that could turn icy. She wondered now where he’d heard that, the way there was a stiff wind from the northwest with brilliant sunshine.
He had been more than attentive, asking her question after question on the future, wanting her input on what he labeled a truly intimate relationship with Christ. He spoke on topics they discussed at the meetings, seeking her opinion on different possibilities of teaching the troubled youth among the Amish.
His eyes glowed with the inner passion he reserved for this cause, his burning ambition to help anyone who veered off the path of normalcy into the maw of depravity, describing in detail the extent of the sinner and the consequences of his actions, wrecked homes that were efficiently demolished by the wrecking ball of his actions.
At first, she was enthused and gave her opinion freely, which he generously considered, always praising her insight. But halfway through the evening, she was just tired. Tired of listening to the low class of society, tired of the endless rounds of solutions, the whys and how comes and what nows. She wanted to shout and tell him to shut up. Stop, please stop.
But of course, she was far too polite and stayed attentive until he finally left, then fell into bed in a stupor of unsolved problems with Leon in the middle.
For she loved him, she told herself, over and over.
Love was kind, patient, did not need its own selfish desires, would always want what was best for him, be a competent helpmeet in his work. After they were married he would devote more of his time to her, and if there were children he would be an amazing father, the way he was to all his younger brothers and sisters.
He was the father figure in that family, the leader, the problem solver, the one his mother leaned on.
So what was wrong with her?
She had done much better in the past, had prayed and read her Bible, found clear direction, and basked in the love and approval of her parents, finding everything she needed in Leon’s adoration.
Yes, they had hit a slippery slope a while back, but their love had grown stronger from there. Dating was like marriage: you had to work on it. Love didn’t always come easily.
But it had in the past. Love was in the air around her, in every breath she took, coloring everything until it shone.
With Dave, love had been different, but then, perhaps there were different kinds of love and you only loved like that once. And if it was taken away, it would never come back in the same form.
She loved the Dave of her childhood, not the rebellious Dave of her teenage years, the one who created the abyss between her and her parents.
No, it was not Dave that kept her from loving Leon the way she should. With Leon, marriage was an awaited event, but if her parents dared mention it, she felt depressed, unhappy, which was only rebellion.
Wasn’t it?
She dried all the dishes, stacked them neatly in the cupboard, swept the kitchen, and went to sit with her mother, who was on the recliner, a clean sheet spread across it, a soft blanket across her lap.
The baby was sound asleep on her shoulder, the thatch of bland hair like peach fuzz above the pink blanket.
“Can I get you something?” Anna asked.
“My throat is scratchy, as if I’m coming down with something, so lemon and honey would be nice. As hot as possible.”
Anna hurried to bring her required drink, then asked what else she needed. Her memory foam pillow, before settling down on the glider rocker.
“You want me to take her?”
“Sure.”
Anna held her newborn sister, marveling at the perfection of her, the perfectly symmetrical eyes, the soft button nose, the peaceful puffs of breath as her little chest rose and fell.
“Soon it will be your turn, Anna,” her mother smiled.
“Not yet, Mom. I’m way too young to get married. There’s still so much time, isn’t there?”
“Not really. Leon is older. He’ll ask you for next fall.”
Anna nodded, turned her head to kiss the side of the baby’s head. She smelled like baby shampoo and lotion, the most delicious smell in all the world, surely.
“You don’t act very thrilled.”
Anna could not think of an honest answer, so she merely caught her mother’s gaze and held it. She shrugged her shoulders, let them drop, then murmured, “How am I supposed to feel?”
Her mother didn’t reply, simply waved a hand and laid her head sideways on the pillow Anna had brought.
She felt guilty for a small moment.
Why couldn’t she give her mother the answer she wanted so badly? Would she always allow her words to ignite the smoldering coals of her resentment? If this was the way she’d go through life, she’d only be making herself miserable. But somehow, she could not stop it.
She finished the laundry, pinned it to the wheel line in the blustery air, her hands reddened and chapped. She mopped the laundry room floor, set the boots and shoes in a straight line, hung up a few sweatshirts, and stood gazing across the lawn.
Everything was perfect, as always. The lawn service guy had put on the last application of fertilizer, ensuring healthy growth in spring. The chrysanthemums were cut, the hostas clipped, boxwoods trimmed to perfect cones. The holly would be bursting with red berries, the arborvitae already showing new growth from the trimming in August.
Her mother had done all of it herself, then had a near painless birth, smiling to the rest of the family as they gathered around the beautiful king-sized bed in the early morning sunshine.
Her father opened the cow stable door, and one prized cow after another made its way down the small incline to the barnyard and beyond. The Holsteins were very white and glossy black, their tails docked, their backs spread with fly killer. Anna knew the milk house was spotless, floor scrubbed, stainless steel bulk tank gleaming, windows spotless. There was plenty of money in the account at Susquehanna Bank in town, even with depressed milk prices, the acres of tomatoes and peppers making all the difference.
Elias Fisher was known for his produce, always the biggest and best, certain buyers looking for his vegetables and paying top dollar. Anna was proud of her father’s accomplishments. She loved to pick tomatoes and peppers, grade them, and pack them in cardboard boxes, working side by side.
Leon would not fit.
This thought may as well have been written in red letters on the side of the barn, for both of her parents to see. He simply was not concerned about money, or whether he worked, or what the amount showed on his paycheck. His passion was counseling troubled youth, and as far as she could tell, he was not a paid counselor yet.
His home was clean and well kept, but very humble, which did not seem to bother him in the least. In the same way her palatial home never fazed him. She wasn’t sure if he even took notice of her surroundings.
