Beacon of Light, page 2
May’s heart swelled with a deep sense of homecoming. Surely here among her sainted relatives who worked the land, who were good and honest and upright, she could grasp the beginning of her healing. Let it be, oh please, let it be.
Again, there was no sign of life, but the dreaded barking of an untrustworthy dog was not there, either. Relieved, she wasted no time going up on the front porch, only to hesitate at the door. She felt the pain of refusal, imagining the act of being turned away, her head lowered, her mind racing to secure a clue about her next step.
So many trials, so many sorrows and setbacks in her young life, wouldn’t it be fitting to be disappointed another time? She felt no courage or hope, only a tired acceptance of whatever it would be these S’alsa Abes would inflict on her. She almost smiled at the implication of a nickname. “S’alsa Abe” meant Salt Abe. As if he’d been salted.
A sense of humor, perhaps. Some former joke about salt.
She lifted her hand and knocked lightly.
When there was no answer, she waited, taking in her surroundings.
The porch floor was in need of paint, and there were mud-splat-tered rubber boots lying haphazardly along the wall. An old corn broom was propped in the corner, and the windows were covered in spider webs, the sills littered with dead flies, their bodies being slowly cremated by exposure to the southern slant of the sun. When there was no answer to her second tapping, she walked to the side of the house to find a very plump red-faced woman bent over a wringer she was cranking with studied concentration.
“Hello,” May offered quietly.
The woman straightened, turned, and lifted bewildered eyes. May met her gaze. Chills raced across her shoulders and down her spine. She felt an inward quaking she could not control any more than she could control her breathing.
It was her! Betty. The only one of the relatives who had expressed regret. The one who had wrapped her in a warm embrace and told her she was terribly sorry, it wasn’t right, but if this was what the family decided she couldn’t go against it. She remembered a thinner, younger version of Betty, but oh, God be praised, it was truly her.
“Why, hello. Should I know who you are?”
May could not speak, could only allow her eyes to stay on this remembered face, remember the swell of her rounded bosom, the way her warm arms had flattened her own thin child’s body. Those arms had crushed her to the scent of warm fabric and instilled a desperation to somehow creep inside of the woman’s heart, to become smaller and smaller till she was no more.
She tried again to say her name, but was horrified to hear a rending sob emerge from her throat, horrified to feel the strength in her legs give way as she sank to the ground, huddled there with the black shawl spread around her like a blanket of sorrow.
“My goodness. Do, komm komm (Here, come, come).”
And still May found it impossible to rise to her feet.
She would later remember the smell of lye soap and the vinegar in her rinse water, the warm steam that rose from the water in the washtubs. She would remember the piles of soiled clothing, the fire crackling under the copper kettle hung from a tripod in the yard, the steam from the boiling water like a wet cloud.
In the house, children looked up like inquisitive rabbits, brown eyed and dark haired, then went back to their play. Every Amish home was filled with children, every house rang with the sound of them. Women bore them, fathers helped with raising them, reveled in their blessings, their quivers full of arrows from God, the way the Bible instructed them.
And Betty recognized May.
They talked and drank cups of sweet peppermint tea and cookies. The wash water turned cold, the fire fizzled into a pile of gray ashes with a few red embers like malevolent eyes, and still Betty plied her with questions, which May answered with evasiveness and near truths.
Yes, she was welcome. Why, of course she was. If Abe didn’t agree, well, that was too bad. May had nowhere else to go, and Lord knew Betty had spent hours of guilt and regret, having sent those two off to Arkansas to Melvin and Gertie. She never could stand the man and she didn’t care what May said, she guaranteed it hadn’t been all roses, not with that cranky man and his lazy wife.
May told her, though, about the borrowed clothing, about Nettie helping her to become one of them with her clothes. Betty narrowed her eyes and armed her gaze like arrows.
“Now you can’t tell me there wasn’t something wrong, or you would not have left Melvin’s house to live with worldly people.”
How May hated that expression!
Who was “worldly”? Certainly Melvin had been in that category, with his hidden longings and the audacity to carry them out. She would always rebel against the labeling of who was deemed worldly. Wasn’t there just a vast jumble of weeds and good plants that grew up together and it was God’s sole business to sort it out? Plain clothes did not separate anyone from the world, if those clothes covered a body awash in sin.
“When you left, I was still pretty much a timid new bride, but believe me, May, it wouldn’t happen again. Marriage changes a person. You have to have an opinion, have to stand up for yourself, else your husband and kids walk all over you. And that’s the truth.”
She finished with a resounding, “Yes, you are staying. You might have to sleep with Norrie, but you’ll have a small room to yourself. Come. Come with me, and I’ll show you around.”
The house was a two-story farmhouse with four square bedrooms upstairs, a narrow hallway, chamber pots in need of emptying, dust everywhere, unmade beds and torn curtains. Betty sniffed, spread an open palmed hand across a bed and said resignedly, “Ach, that Isaac. Wet the bed again.” With that, she heaved the flannel sheet and torn blanket out the window, flapped it a few times, then closed the window on top to let the urine-soaked bedding dry on the side of the house.
Seven children in ten years.
Betty laughed, propped her plump fists on her hips and said that was what happened when you got married. Kids all over the place. Abe was a good husband, but always busy on the farm. Always. She could sure use an extra pair of hands.
And that was how May found herself crying into her flannel pillow, tears of relief awelling up as if an artesian well had opened in her heart, the years of pain and betrayal leaking on the stained pillowcase, with quiet little Norrie sleeping a child’s dreamless sleep beside her.
She had been accepted, had a home, food to eat, a family to call her own. She would work her fingers to the bone, would never complain, but show Betty what a dependable worker she was. Love for the assertive woman welled up, followed by a mushrooming appreciation of a structured Amish home. She would wash and scrub and clean, she would sing His praises forever.
And Abe seemed calm and docile, his weathered face wreathed in good natured grins of humor at his children’s antic and his wife’s endless tales.
Now if she could only find Oba and share all of this with him.
CHAPTER 2
OBADIAH MILLER RESTED ON THE HARD BENCH, HIS LEGS thrust forward, his hands deep in his pockets, and glared at the dull unpainted walls of the Greyhound bus station, somewhere in New York state. His shoulders slumped with the defeat that rode his body like a chafing, bitter thing. He had no destination in particular, although he wondered vaguely how many small towns he had combed with no real lead.
Clinton Brown might have been his sister’s source of escape, but who could tell what had occurred from that getaway? The idea of May being with a colored man was hardly bearable, the childlike way she had about her, the trusting innocence, the sense of duty. He could feel her desperation, however, the need to remove herself from the Melvin Amstutz farm, and hopefully, the need to locate him, her brother.
His funds were running low, so he knew he would need a source of employment, but that, too, added to his bitterness. After working in a garage in Arkansas, he hated all mechanics and their greasy hands, hated the dank, oil-filled environment and the chugging automobiles that remained a complete mystery. He cringed at the thought of his lies, his inability to become one of them, no matter how much effort he put into it.
Raised in the Mississippi Delta, on his uncle Melvin’s cotton farm, milking cows and resisting authority, his back crosshatched with the scars from whip lashes, he viewed the world through the lens of his painful past.
He was hungry, hadn’t slept, and wrestled with despair and emptiness. If he could find May, he might be able to get it together, whatever “it” was. She had always brought him back from the brink with her soft voice, begging him to obey, to forgive, to remember God’s love for him, no matter the trials they went through after the death of their parents, Eliezer and Fronie Miller.
He took out his wallet, checked the amount of cash, then turned his head to look out the door. Shifting his gaze away from any sign of friendliness, he scowled back at curious onlookers.
He got to his feet, picked up the black satchel, and walked out, pretending a destination.
The air was like a knife through his thin denim coat, and his ears tingled with the blast of wind that tunneled through the streets of the seedy little town. A neon sign from a large dust-encrusted window took his attention. Limp drapes sagged on an unwieldy rod, the words LUNCH SPECIAL scrawled across a square of cardboard taped to the window. His mouth watered, the flow of saliva increasing as he swallowed. He couldn’t be picky, not with the amount of money in his wallet, so he pushed his way through the oversized door that creaked on rusty hinges.
The interior was dim, the floor announcing his arrival with a few pops and squeaks as he made his way to the counter, straddled a brown vinyl barstool, kept his eyes on the container of sugar. He hadn’t looked around, but he felt the emptiness, the lack of activity.
“Do for you?”
He looked up to find a young woman eyeing him curiously, one hand propped on the curve of her hip, her jaws working the chewing gum in her mouth with wet, sloppy rhythm.
“A menu?”
She pointed to the white rectangular sign above him.
Oba nodded, felt the embarrassment rise in his face.
He was hungry for anything other than another roadside burger, the odd mixture of gristle and questionable cuts of meat formed into a ragged patty filled with breadcrumbs, covered in ketchup from a bottle with too many refillings and no washing. Limp lettuce and rancid onion.
Chicken noodle for a dollar. Tomato and grilled cheese for two. Mashed potatoes and meatballs for three fifty.
He swallowed and ordered the chicken noodle. When it arrived, he found a blue vein floating on the greasy surface and called the insolent waitress.
“I’m not eating this.”
He pointed to the vein, not meeting her irritated gaze.
A hand whisked the bowl away, but no other bowl appeared in its place. Oba took sips of his water, studied the menu, watched the paint-splattered and grease-speckled door to the kitchen. He found himself drumming his fingertips on the countertop, irritation rising to the point of anxiety.
Where was she?
He looked around, saw the cook lounging in a booth, a skein of yarn on the table, knitting needles flashing, her mouth pulled down in concentration. A corner booth contained an old man, gnashing away at some pile on his plate.
“Hey!” Oba called out.
There was no answer, so he turned to the cook with the knitting project.
“Could I have some service here?”
“S’ matter?”
“I sent my soup back. There’s a chicken vein floating on the top.”
“Oh, come on. What do you think this is? Hollywood?”
“I don’t like veins in my soup.”
“Jeanie!”
The raucous tone brought the waitress, after plenty of time had elapsed, still chewing. She raised her eyebrows, leaned against the counter, crossed her arms.
“Give him his soup.”
“There ain’t any. He got the last of it.”
“Give him tomato.”
Oba brought his fist down on the counter, bellowing out his hunger and frustration. The sugar shaker rocked, a salt shaker fell over, spraying salt across the table.
“I don’t want the tomato soup.”
With that, he charged through the door to the street, still hungry and completely disgusted on top of it. He walked quickly, but was stopped by a burly voice calling him back. He turned, found the old man with the gray and white whiskers beckoning.
“Hey, kid. Come here.”
Undecided, Oba stayed, kept his back turned. He heard rapid footsteps, imagined him quick on his feet for one so old.
“Hey, kid. Come on back with me. I’ll buy your dinner.”
He looked up to find the bluest eyes like polished stones from beneath brows as shaggy as a dog’s coat, wrinkled like windswept delta loam surrounded by stiff whiskers the color of salt and pepper.
Oba said nothing.
“Come on.”
He figured he had nothing to lose, and soon found himself seated at the corner table with a huge oval dinner plate piled high with mounds of potato and meatballs, a side of applesauce, the old man watching with knowing eyes as he forked the hot food into his mouth without speaking.
When he pushed back his plate and wiped his mouth, a plate of apple pie and rounded scoops of vanilla ice cream appeared at his elbow. He gave his benefactor a small grin.
“Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
The old man slurped coffee, sat back, and waited till Oba was finished, then offered his name. “Jonas Bell.”
“What?”
“I’m Jonas. Jonas Bell.”
“Oba Miller.”
“Yeah.”
Jonas set the white mug on the tabletop, wrapped his massive, gnarled hands around it, and set his blue gaze directly into Oba’s brown one.
“Couldn’t help overhearing. I like your nerve.”
Oba’s eyes gave nothing away.
“I need you.”
Oba gave a small belch and shifted uncomfortably against the booth.
“What for?”
“I’m going into the wilds.”
“So?”
“I’ve been a hunter and trapper all my life, but now, after my . . . my companion died of influenza, I’m heading north. As far north as I need to go live off the land. I have all the skills. I just need a strong set of shoulders to help build, hunt, trap, fish.”
Quickly, Oba cut him off. “I don’t know about any of that stuff.
“You can learn.”
“No, I was raised an Arkansas farm boy. Cotton. Cows. I hate the cold.”
Oba was sullen now, and stubborn.
“You want more pie?”
Oba considered, but shook his head.
“If you were raised in Arkansas, what are you doing here in New York?”
Oba hesitated, then said, “Looking for someone.”
Jonas considered this, raised his eyebrows, and said nothing. Silence grew between them as the older man gave the younger one time.
Oba sighed.
“My sister. She ran off with someone, but at this point I don’t even know where to look for her.”
“So what are your plans? Going back to Arkansas?”
“No.”
“Where you going?”
“Nosy, huh?”
“Yeah, I am. If you have no roots, no job, no nothing, why not consider my offer? What’s to keep you here?”
Oba gave him the benefit of a flat glare, the hostility that took the light out of his eyes. Jonas met the mistrust and anger head on, never flinching till Oba’s eyes slid away.
“You don’t want me.”
“Sure I do. You have the look of a lost person, a vagabond, the devil-may-care attitude. You’ve seen some stuff in your short life. This will give you perspective. Survival is an art, a skill, and it makes anything else seem insignificant in comparison.”
Oba picked at a thread on his cuff, wouldn’t raise his eyes or respond.
“I told you, I need to find my sister.”
“Does she want to be found?”
“I dunno.”
“Look, this is a chance for you to learn something, to leave everything behind and start over. I really think you should try. What have you got to lose?”
“I told you, I hate the cold. I have no experience with snow and ice and crazy weather. I don’t particularly relish the thought of being attacked by some loathsome animal, either.”
“You won’t be if you learn from me. Look, I don’t have much money to pay your wages, but I’ll keep you fed. You look like you could use some meat on those bones. And believe, once you get out in the wilderness, you’ll find something bigger than yourself.”
Oba cast a wary look somewhere in the region of Jonas’s face.
“I don’t know what you’ve been through, but it was something. If you feel better not saying, we’ll let it go. Look, trust me, it will make a difference.”
Oba could feel himself drawing away from this stranger, the resistance to advice necessary to stay in control. With freedom finally in his grasp, why would he allow someone to sabotage that?
“You don’t know anything about me. So let it go. I’ll be out of here and you can be a predator for someone else.”
He was incensed to see a wide smile separate the bristly mustache from the whiskers surrounding it, a shaking of the thick shouldered to suppress a genuine laugh.
“Go ahead and laugh. You think it’s funny. You’re not going to get anywhere by making fun of me.”
“I’m not a predator, okay? Quite the opposite. Look, I’ll let you sleep on it. I’ll meet you here in the morning around eight.”
When Oba remained seated, Jonas wasn’t surprised. He reckoned he had nowhere to go, so he waited without speaking.
The restaurant was busier now. The clatter of dishes, customers coming and going, everyday talk filled the small eatery, with everyone going about their business without giving them as much as a glance. Jonas shook his head at the waitress who returned with the coffeepot, then pushed Oba’s plate to the side of the table before wiping his whiskers with the crumpled napkin.
