Hope Deferred, page 18
So would her parents accept a son-in-law who was not concerned about getting ahead? If she lived in a small rental property and lived frugally, which is what her life would undoubtedly turn out to be?
On the next Saturday evening, he brought up the subject of his possible plans for their future, gesturing with his hands, the way he always did when he was excited about a good idea.
“So, if and when we get married . . .”
He grinned at her.
She laughed, punched his arm. He held her fist, then slowly released it.
“We’ll move to my home area, with my counseling job and all.”
“We will?”
It was still far away in the future, way out there where she couldn’t see even the beginnings of it, so she could easily kid around.
“We will,” he laughed. He said soberly, “I don’t have any money.”
“None?”
“Hardly.”
“Oh well.”
An answer as dull and lifeless as she felt inside. He rambled on about the Hertz place a mile from his own, and she thought, Hertz. Isn’t that a rental company? Hertz Rent-a-Car or something, and giggled.
He took that as a sign of her happiness. His eyes turned liquid with love and adoration, telling her she was his whole life, all he would ever need.
Wasn’t that exactly what Dave always told her?
Yes, she loved him, and would be content with the Hertz place.
Her mother had always told her that being frugal was a virtue, a godly gift that worked well to please the husband. Not that she practiced any of it herself, with all the latest furniture and beautiful things, but then, her father had inherited the farm, and there had always been money, so Anna supposed that made a difference.
“So I’ll be living in your valley?” she asked, with a bright smile.
He seemed shy, overtaken by a sense of his own humility.
“It’s in the future.”
And the conversation came to a halt, abruptly.
At the Eli Stoltzfus home, they made plans for big changes. With Dave actually carrying out his plans of going to Australia, which may as well have been to the moon, in Rachel’s opinion, it was time to think of giving the farm over to one of the boys.
Eli had always enjoyed woodworking, so it would not be hard to find a job in one of the numerous woodworking shops that dotted Lancaster County. He looked forward to retirement. He’d always imagined his youngest ambitious son to be the one who would carry on the family tradition of tilling the soil, but the way things appeared now, that would never happen.
They’d talked it over, lingering after supper, discussing the best way to go about it, both agreeing that Abner and Naomi were the best candidates to run the farm.
And so family negotiations began. They started a Daudy house on the west side of the property, where the old oak tree spread its shade across the pasture. Rachel wanted nothing to do with being attached to the main house, saying it was much too close to her daughter-in-law’s business.
“But that’s how it’s done. It’s cheaper, and when we need help in our old age, someone will be close by,” her husband argued.
“I don’t care how it’s done. I’m not doing it that way. I’ll be a built-in babysitter, maid, yardman, gardener. You know Naomi likes nothing better than running the roads, and that’s exactly what would happen.”
She crossed her arms and pursed her lips and glared at her husband, and he thought he’d better build out on the west side of the pasture with a gate between them.
Dave had not called, never as much as left a message. Eli knew he wanted it that way, but it worked on him, this disappearance. It was a kind of death, never seeing him, knowing he was somewhere under this same sky, this same sun and moon and stars, but never being certain he was all right. If only he wasn’t so brash, so passionate and quick in all his decisions, never considering advice.
Sometimes when Rachel became moody, the house became silent as a tomb. Eli knew she suffered the same fears and lack of faith as he did. Often, he wanted to go to her, comfort her, let her know they were in this together. But he knew his wife so well; she wanted to suffer in silence, so he left her alone.
He thought if children only knew the pain, the unshed tears, the cloud of uncertainty they brought on their parents, like being hastened to an early grave, they’d straighten themselves up. Wasn’t that the term his father had always used?
Schicket euch. Behave yourselves. And when he spoke in that rumbling voice, those heavy eyebrows like a roof over the gimlet eyes, they knew to straighten up, that if they chose to disobey they could expect serious consequences to the tune of a good whipping in the woodshed.
Things had changed over the years, with this thing called child rearing. He still didn’t approve of those books. How could one person tell another how to raise children? He simply didn’t get it. Every child has a different nature and is raised in a different environment. Who do these writers think they are?
But he thought perhaps he had a bad attitude about it, with an ungehorsam son running around in Australia.
Why Australia, he asked himself for the thousandth time? Why couldn’t he have settled for Wyoming, even Alaska?
He was just so overboard, going way beyond most children’s sense of what was normal. Even as a small child, he’d never played nicely with other children. They always knew when a child came running, terrified, a face full of sand clinging to his mouth and eyes, that David was the culprit. He rammed his trike into wagons and scooters and other riding toys, upsetting a visitor’s children and laughing about it. He rode his scooter faster and farther than anyone else, drove a team of mules when he was six years old, killed garden snakes soon after that.
Eli shook his head as he sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee, imagining his outspoken son’s foray into the Outback, which, as far as he could tell, was nothing but a desert. Ah, it was a sadness, this constant worry about his well-being, about the state of his soul.
He thought of the prodigal son living among the swine before he woke up and realized how far he’d fallen. And how would Dave ever wake up and realize this was not what or where he wanted to be?
Well, for sure, he could always let go of his worrying and allow God to deal with his son, but that was challenging as well.
It was just plain hard.
For the first time in his life he was unsure of having done the right thing raising his children on such a long leash, or, if he was honest, no leash at all. It had worked all right with the older ones, but it seemed with Dave . . .
Where was he at this moment?
He had to get to work and shake off these dark thoughts that kept him awake at night.
Rachel slapped the reins down on the horse’s back as he walked uphill, his head stretched out till the neck rein was taut.
“Come on, Charlie,” she called through the raised window, then lowered it and clicked it shut.
Charlie swung into a tired lope, jerking the buggy up the small grade with every step. Rachel opened the window again, slapped the reins even harder, before clicking the window down.
She shouldn’t be driving Charlie anymore, the way he was half dead by now. Old as a horse can get. What was he, twenty-six? Some cows ran better than Charlie. But if she drove Rex, that spirited black monster, she’d end up in the ditch or side swiping a car out on Route 340, or worse. Her arms weren’t strong enough to hold him once he decided he wanted to go home.
She pulled on the right rein, to keep Charlie off the road, allowing a stream of cars to pass on the left. Most people were nice about horses and buggies on the road, but occasionally, some impatient teenagers would pass with a roaring engine emitting black smoke from the exhaust.
Ach, she was glad Dave didn’t drive that Jeep around anymore.
So ungehorsam. She was always afraid he’d have a wreck, the way he had no fear. He was aggressive now, the way he’d been as a child. Him and Anna. How cute was that? Ach my. And now everything had gone so horribly wrong.
She felt the sting in her nostrils, the prick of tears in the corner of her eyes, the regret for what could have been always schpeiting her.
They had been so perfect together. In fact, they were the most handsome couple she’d ever seen, and now she firmly believed she’d had hochmut in her heart. That’s why it had all gone wrong. She’d told the Lord over and over she was sorry, and she felt forgiven.
But still.
It wasn’t funny, dealing with this heartache. And now, on the way to her sister-in-law’s quilting, she dreaded the pitying glances, the questions that shone from inquisitive eyes, but never asked.
Ma dut net so.
Simply good manners, this refraining of asking questions. It was kind and merciful and allowed her to be an ordinary mother who took part in the conversation, laughing and joking as if nothing was amiss.
When she turned off the narrow country road and pulled up to the small barn on her brother’s property near Intercourse, she was glad to see him step out of the house and make his way down the steps to help her unhitch.
“Vell, Rachel!” he greeted her.
“Elam! Vee bisht?” she asked.
“Can’t complain. Can’t complain. If I did, would it help?”
Rachel laughed. “No, it wouldn’t.”
“You still driving Charlie?”
“Of course. Our other horse isn’t fit.”
They unhitched, one on each side of the shafts, loosening the snap that held the britchment, then working the traces loose from the singletree, inserting them into the britchmen, where they hung securely while the horse was stabled. Elam reached under the front seat for the halter and neck rope, then turned to slip Charlie’s bridle off his head.
“So how’s everything at your house?”
“Empty.”
“I bet. Hear anything from David?”
“No.”
“Not once?”
“No.”
“Maybe he doesn’t have service.”
“That’s what I tell myself.”
She followed her brother into the barn, watched as Charlie lowered his head to drink from the cast-iron watering trough.
“Your barn looks the same way it always has. As clean as a woman’s kitchen.”
“Oh, now, come on.”
They shared a laugh, and she turned to the buggy for the rectangular Tupperware container filled with oatmeal raisin cookies, peered through her bifocals to look for horsehair, then bent her head to blow across the yellow lid before taking the corner of her apron to wipe them off.
“Gals-houw,” she muttered.
Elam reappeared, watched Rachel snort about the horsehair on her container, and felt a pang of pity. She was so strong, so outspoken and in control, he knew this could not be easy.
“Rachel.”
She looked up, saw the sympathy, and lowered her eyes to keep the rush of emotion in check.
“Ma halta aw.”
Few words, but filled with meaning. The kind of words that coated your heart like a soothing balm, took away the loneliness and despair, allowed you to know that someone cared a lot more than you ever thought possible.
She turned and nodded, before walking away, and he watched her swim in his vision that was obscured by tears.
She was greeted warmly by the circle of women seated around the square of quilt that was stretched firmly, pinned to the fabric, and stapled to the wooden frame, a sight that always brought joy to Rachel.
She just loved to quilt. Even more, she loved to talk and quilt. She was soon seated on de vikkle side, the side where the frame could be rolled after it was quilted, so the women would be able to quilt another foot or more, before rolling again.
Rachel was a competent quilter, and was proud of her ability to stich even, fine stiches, and finish very quickly with her portion.
Talk rippled along the quilt like flowing water, fractured only occasionally by a laugh, or an exclamation, a call for thread or a needle. Someone had forgotten their small scissors, so Malinda, Elam’s wife, hurried to the sewing machine drawer to find one.
Talk mostly centered around Dan and Katie Beiler, whose twin daughters had been born at Hershey Medical Center, and were both GA positive. The genetic disorder glutaric acidurea was cropping up more and more, with both parents being carriers.
My oh, they said. My oh.
De arme dinga. The poor things. Three years on special formula created at the Clinic for Special Children, they were often hospitalized for flu symptoms and fevers.
Oh, it will be all right. At least they can outgrow GA. But think of the stress. You know a high fever can damage all their motor skills.
Not all of them.
Did you ever see a child damaged by GA?
Yes. Well?
There’s not a lot left.
Ach, we didn’t used to hear of such things. It’s the end times.
Puh, everyone thinks the end times are always close. I remember when my aunt Mary went to the first drive-through at the bank and had a fit conniption, said the end can’t be far off. That was, what? The sixties? Seventies?
Fooftzich yawa trick.
No, it’s not that long.
A loud call from the kitchen. “Kommet. Coffee break.”
Everyone bent their heads and quilted as if their lives depended on it. No one wanted to be the first to head for the kitchen table loaded with pastries, coffee, tea, hot chocolate.
“Kommet!”
Rachel pushed back her chair, said if no one else was hungry, she was, and proceeded to fill the biggest mug with coffee, carefully load a paper plate with two raisin cookies, a chocolate mint bar, salsa and sour cream with a pile of tortilla chips, and two carrots with ranch dressing.
The carrots were only to be polite. Let the others eat all that celery and cauliflower, those sour orange segments and fresh pineapple that looked green, really.
Oh, she hated fresh pineapple, the way no one really knew when that thing was ready to be cut up, and it wasn’t one bit ripe. Like eating bark off a tree. She could stick her tongue out at the thought.
Rachel enjoyed her coffee break immensely. She felt the love and companionship swell inside of her. Oh, this was so precious, being Amish, living together, understanding one another so well.
She felt the hurt for David as keenly as the cut of a knife. She had to endure the conversation about Elias Fisher’s Anna dating that Leon Beiler, from Millerstown. That was some sad family, the father so tormented by his illness. They could hardly see how this would go yet.
But we’ll see, they said. We’ll see.
CHAPTER 17
HIS PHONE WAS USELESS.
All his attempts at reviving it, climbing on the roof of the Toyota, and now he climbed even higher, scaling the slippery bark of some weird looking tree, holding his phone out and up.
Nothing.
So he had no GPS, no phone if he needed help, his water was low, and he had about five or six gallons of petrol.
He spread the map in the shade of his vehicles, and with the point of a ballpoint pen, traced his route. He’d traveled close to four hundred miles, maybe four fifty, but by all appearances, he had another five hundred till he reached cattle and sheep country.
He swallowed, felt the tips of his fingers tingle with nerves. He didn’t have enough gas. At thirty miles to the gallon, he’d be lucky if he made two hundred miles. Surely there was civilization that was not marked on the map. There had to be.
Well, he’d calm down, get his bearings. To spend the night here by the water, surrounded by trees and scrubby-looking bushes was a shelter of sorts. At least he wasn’t out on the main road being run over by the monsters called road trains, or the wandering herd of cattle that had no respect for windows in vehicles.
This was actually kind of pleasant. He should have a nice little one-man tent, build a fire, cook something.
He smiled, set about digging a hole for a campfire, set out the blanket and pillow, brought the sack of food and the plastic water jug, the stack of paper cups. As the sun slid downward, there was plenty of shade.
There was a high whining sound.
He stopped, sat back on his haunches, listened. Out of nowhere, a black cloud of insects whined and hovered over the water, then landed on his hand, arms, face. Every inch of exposed skin was a feast to these small black flies.
He slapped and danced and yelled, but wasted energy he needed to build the fire, to collect firewood and dry grass.
The flies swarmed around his head, settled around his eyes and the corners of his mouth. He spit and clawed at his face, rubbed his eyes and rubbed the flies into them, causing a burning sensation that never left.
He got out his phone, wanted to Google these flies to see what they were and what, if anything, there was to do about them. But of course, no service.
He got the fire going between spitting, wiping his face, waving at the air around him, wondering how he would ever survive the night if they were like mosquitoes and navigated the air in the dark.
He thought of the broken window, and groaned. He should have brought a roll of duct tape and some plastic.
The fire leaped and crackled, which was comforting. The rising smoke helped to keep the worst of the flies at bay, so he’d sit here and keep the fire going a while. He wondered if this water hole called a billabong would host a pile of different animals at night, the way it was in Africa when all those lions and elephants came to drink.
Here there were kangaroos, that was about it, and as far as he knew they weren’t aggressive. Yeah, he’d sleep outside, here by the fire. No reason to cram his long legs into the vehicle.
The fire threw splashes of light into the twilight, illuminating the scrub brushes, giving them the appearance of hairy monsters.
He became aware of scuttling, a rustling, rasping sound as small creatures slithered and ran. He knew there were snakes of all kinds, the desert death adder the most poisonous, but with a fire, he felt comfortable.
Lizards, the one called thorny devil, were all over the place. These strange little creatures could survive anything.
His thoughts always went to Anna as nighttime closed in.
