Hope Deferred, page 27
“Cool,” he called back, and let himself out the door. Now what kind of girl would be reading up on World War II and antiques? She certainly was not like any other girl he knew, worried about shoes and dress fabric and the color of their rooms. You even had to drive a certain horse these days, either a Friesian or a Dutch Harness or a combination of both.
A high-stepping Friesian being the equivalent of a Ferrari. Huh, he thought. I’ll never be Amish, for real. It’s so dumb.
A few weeks later he hadn’t returned to the library and had no desire to finish reading the series. If he could only find a job he cared about, he’d be much happier.
Christmas had come and gone, the spirit of joy and giving passing him by completely. He had never felt more alone than he did surrounded by throngs of siblings and their offspring. They brought only a vague pressure of guilt, not having bought a gift for anyone, not even his mother. His sister’s endless chatter was an annoyance beyond anything he’d ever encountered, which left them to tell him he must have come home from Australia with Australian burrs stuck in his gears, then went off in a huff and left him to himself.
He decided to try working with his brother, hanging drywall and finishing it, but hated the job so much he quit after a few weeks. Who wanted to eat drywall dust all day? It was enough to give a person chronic lung disease.
He tinkered around in his father’s small workshop, found he had a knack with the router and shaper. He made a cabinet door, then two. After that he built a cabinet, sanded it, painted it tavern gray, and wore off the edges. He showed it to his mother, who threw up her hands and exclaimed her surprise.
“It looks as if it comes straight out of Country Living.”
He thought of the magazine draped across Rose’s lap.
His sister MaryAnn bought it on sight, gave him 100 dollars, and ordered two more.
He dived headfirst into endless books on woodworking and toured an array of serious cabinetmakers and furniture shops.
He thought of Rose’s interest in antiques and wondered about crafting some replicas of old dry sinks and pedestal tables. Would people buy them? He was surprised by how much he wondered what she’d think.
Eventually he made his way to Ephrata with his friend Wayne, who had joined the church and was dating Leah, a petite girl who would give him nothing but trouble for the rest of his life. But you didn’t go around saying things like that to your friends.
He saw Rose waiting on a table along the back, but sat in the booth opposite Wayne and drummed the tips of his fingers on the tabletop. He watched her finish the table, turn to another one.
Dressed in purple, with those dark hair and eyes, she was the color of a bruise. Very fitting.
He grinned.
“What?” Wayne asked.
“Oh. Her.”
He tilted his head in her direction.
“Oh, Rose. You know her?”
“Not really.”
“Well, do you or don’t you?”
“I told you. No, I don’t.”
“You’d like to.”
Before he could answer, Wayne called her name, waved her over.
“What?” she asked, in the low, unexpressive way.
“Do you know this guy?”
“We’ve met.”
“Is that all?”
“Look. I’m busy. Sheila will take care of you.”
He left that day without a chance to tell her about his furniture-making abilities. Without any conversation at all, really. So he went back one day in February, when the days were cold and gray, the air biting with the wet cold of coming snow, the sky lowering and pewter gray.
He seated himself strategically, at a table he knew she would be serving. She had no choice but to bring that little tablet over and stand at his table.
“Hey.”
Low and quiet.
“How are you?”
She shrugged. “Okay I guess.”
“Sit down.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“How long?”
“Closing time.”
“When’s that?”
“Half an hour.”
“Good. I’ll order. I’ll take you home. I want to show you something.”
“How? How will you take me home?”
“My Ferrari.”
She laughed. Low, soft, the way her voice sounded.
“You don’t.”
He laughed. “A Friesian. Same thing.”
“Oh.”
She looked amused, but her eyes darted nervously to the kitchen, to the front door.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee, for one thing. Uh, I don’t know. Cheeseburger? Everything on it.” She scribbled furiously, then left without speaking. He had no answer if he could take her home or not.
She brought his coffee, threw a few creamers on the table and moved off. He thought of Ammie’s absolute devotion, thought of the huge difference between this silent aloof girl and the warmth and vibrancy of his girl who was so far away now, both in body and in thought.
She surprised him when she brought the cheeseburger and slid into the booth, facing him squarely for the first time ever. He was surprised as well, to find the dark brooding intensity of her eyes framed by the heavy lashes, the olive tones in her skin, with the smattering of freckles across her left cheek.
He felt clumsy, uncovered. His cheeseburger lay untouched as he stumbled for the right words.
“I’m . . . I started making small pieces of furniture.”
He sipped his coffee.
She raised one eyebrow, her dark eyes giving nothing away. If she would have encouraged him with a “Really?” or a “That’s great!” it would have been so much easier, but with only a long, dark look and no comment, how was he supposed to continue?
“I . . . you know, wondered what you’d think of the colors I’m using.”
“You’re using color?”
She may as well have asked if he was spreading icing on his furniture.
“You know, old colors. Antique ones.”
“Oh. Why do you think I care?”
Ouch. No wonder this girl was still single.
“The magazine on your lap at the library.”
“Hmm.”
He started on his cheeseburger. He had not the faintest hope of coming close to being impressive at this point, so if he got mayonnaise all over his mouth and lettuce between his teeth, it didn’t matter.
“Do you have pictures?”
“I do.”
He slid over, made room for her as he brought out his phone. She leaned in and he struggled to breathe. She smelled like food and some kind of soap, like shampoo in a fancy bottle.
“This is the first piece.”
No comment. What did he expect?
“It’s pretty primitive,” he mumbled.
“Go on. What else did you make?”
“These.”
“Hmm. They’re not bad. What is the color?”
“You can’t tell on my phone. You’ll have to come see my shop.”
“What is the color?” she repeated.
“Tavern gray.”
“Cool.”
He finished his burger, pushed the plate away, raised his cup and his eyebrows. She slid away and filled his cup, giving him a wide smile that was so genuine he scalded his tongue with the hot coffee.
Her coworkers peered from the opening to the kitchen and raised their own eyebrows, shook their heads in disbelief before high-fiving and placing bets on the chances of Miss Doom and Gloom procuring a boyfriend.
“She smiled,” Sheila whispered to the cook.
“She also raised that eyebrow, which does not bode well.”
“The poor guy. She has about as much warmth as a Sub-Zero refrigerator in excellent working condition.”
CHAPTER 24
DAVE EXPERIENCED DAYS OF STRUGGLE, HOWEVER. WOULDN’T ANY FRIENDship with an Amish girl turn out the same as things had with Anna? The unexpected loomed before him like a dire prediction. That, and the guilt about Ammie.
To be bound to someone as closely as he had been, then travel thousands of miles away leaving her to sort out her feelings without as much as a phone call, was cruel, and he knew it. But he could not bring himself to make that call.
Australia had made a man of him, challenged him to every extreme of his physical and mental strength, so why was his cowardice all that remained?
Too chicken to call her. He despised himself for his weakness. So what had he gained, really?
The most monumental struggle was the looming decision he would have to face. To ask the aloof Rose to be his girlfriend would eventually bring the inevitable. The joining of the church. The giving up of all worldly pleasure. To cut his hair in the ordnung and basically live a mundane life bereft of thrills or excitement.
Did he have to drive a horse and buggy in order to get to heaven? How come billions of people the world over drove cars and got away with dressing and doing whatever they felt like? Or didn’t they?
There were hundreds of versions of Christianity. Churches dotted all across the land, their spires reaching to the heavens, and each one was just a bit different than the other, but all believed in God and His son, Jesus.
Seriously. Why did he have to be born into this seventeenth-century thing? Old-fashioned, traditional, never changing, on and on, plodding through the decades, placing one black shod foot in front of the other without ever wanting to do anything else.
And so he began attending church services all over Lancaster County. He dressed in his white shirt, homemade broadfall trousers, his matzo, and his black hat, hired a driver, and listened to an array of ministers who conducted their services in English.
He sat in Mennonite services, in Baptist and Lutheran, and the Church of God out on Route 283. He read his Bible and came to the conclusion he could justify his actions or condemn himself, it all depended on his attitude.
His mother watched her son’s turmoil with eyes still filled with the grief of her husband’s passing. She spent her nights with intermittent wakefulness, praying in broken whispers for the son who had come back to the fold and was bashing the gate with his passionate spirit, the sense of adventure that drove his restlessness. She longed for Eli, his calming presence and his easy words. She had never realized before how much she had leaned on him, even if his easy flow of words were usually ruffled by her cares and anxieties.
Dave had already lost interest in the furniture making. She badgered him about getting a job. He needed to give himself up to something, construction, welding, shop work.
The morning was brisk and cold, the shop fire out, the furniture making come to a halt. Mother and son sat at the breakfast table with coffee cups half empty, the small kitchen rife with the smell of frying bacon. The winter sun was weak, tepid, as if the gathering clouds were draining it of its power.
He set his coffee cup in the sink, turned to go.
“So where were you last evening?”
His mother, large and florid of face, her dress the usual navy blue, her hands clasped across her stomach.
“Oh, I went to some church thing they had in the basement.”
“What church?”
“I’m not even sure. That big stone church in Lancaster.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you keep putting yourself through this, Dave? You do not belong in that church basement listening to a speaker who doesn’t hold our views or values. You were born Amish; it’s where you belong. You’ll break my heart, and it’s already broken by your father’s sudden death.”
Tears welled, spilled over. She reached into her pocket for the ever-present wrinkled voddags schnuppy and dabbed at the corners of her eyes before honking into it.
Dave sighed and let himself out the door, the cold like a slap in the face. He hated thinking of starting a fire in the stone-cold stove in the dusty little shop, working on yet another stupid little table that no one really wanted but fussed over just to make himself feel good.
Whatever.
He crumpled newspaper, threw in a few sticks of kindling and held a lighter to it, watched the small flame lick greedily at the paper. He slammed the door, shivered, gazed across the landscape at the brown fields, and thought how the seasons came and went and nothing ever changed in Lancaster County.
That meeting last night had been interesting, for sure, until the subject of pursuing a career came up. How did one pursue a career if one only went to eighth grade? Get your GED online and go from there.
To what? Schoolwork was tedious, so he imagined high school and college would be no different. The only bright spot had been the glowing, laughing Anna, seated at her desk with her bright blonde head bent over her schoolwork, handing out her sweet innocent smiles to his starving soul.
If he could only see her, just once. If he could see she was truly happy with that husband of hers, and had a good life, well, then, perhaps he could move on. More and more, the thin realization of his miserable existence centered on thoughts of Anna.
Anna in school, on her scooter, driving her pony. Anna mowing grass and waving at him, sitting on the creek bank waiting for the red and white bobber at the end of her line to disappear below the surface. Anna in ninth grade, shy and a bit intimidated meeting the other ninth graders from other church districts.
She lived in his subconscious, and there was no way around it. He was doomed to live with this malady of the heart for the rest of his days, to wander the earth with the weight of this great love and the accompanying terrible remorse.
He went to Ephrata to the Town Diner, simply on account of being starved, he told himself. He’d been on the road all morning, looking for work, trying to show his mother that he was listening to her words. It was true, what she said. He needed to give himself up.
Die oof-gevva-heit. A daily dose of Amish life. Giving yourself up.
But every office held the same lack of charm, adventure, and purpose. Every shop contained a dull future made up of repetition.
If he could only get past his mother’s tears, he’d hop on the next flight to Australia, take up where he left off with the sunny Ammie Kel and her loving family, but he could not do it to her. She was his mother.
He saw Rose across the room, but she was fully occupied, so he sat at the counter, cleared his throat, leaned in and drummed the top with his fingers. All the waitresses were busy.
What was this? They needed more help.
Here she came, her dark eyes on his face, her mouth compressed into angry impatience.
“What?”
“You need more help. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes.”
“It wasn’t even close to that.”
“I’m hungry.”
She pointed to the blackboard with the daily specials and left with the coffeepot. He watched her go. She walked as if she carried a chip on her shoulder. Two or three, really.
Before he could order, the space beside him was filled with an enormous presence dressed in a plaid shirt. The odor of diesel fuel was so strong he could almost visualize it floating on his coffee. He’d not order any, that was sure.
The large head swiveled in his direction, then back again.
Rose returned, raised one eyebrow, her tablet poised.
“Are you serving breakfast?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Eleven.” She turned toward the clock. Eleven oh five.
“It’s not much past. I want pancakes.”
“You can’t have them.”
His eyes met hers, exchanging hostilities. He saw the challenge, she saw the need to get him out of her head. Disappearing for weeks on end, showing up just when she’d seen the futility. Nobody messed with her heart. Nobody.
“What else is good?”
She shrugged.
“Look, I’m busy. Order.”
A loud guffaw from the massive plaid shirt, the shaking of the gray hair.
“You two know each other by any chance?”
That was how Dave met Gary Lawson, who owned a logging company, worked locally, but mostly in Maryland and Virginia. Dave didn’t remember what he ate, didn’t remember ordering. He ate the food as if it was sawdust, and listened with rapt attention to the man beside him, who painted a colorful portrait of danger and adventure far beyond anything Dave could have imagined in homely Lancaster.
“So what do you think? David? Is it Dave?” the man asked, wiping his wide face that had a surface like fallen bread dough, with wrinkles and fissures and discolored blotches of leftover summer sun.
“It’s Dave.”
“You ever run a chainsaw?”
Dave shook his head, wished he had run one sometime in his life so he could qualify.
“Never?”
“Nope. I can’t recall.”
“Are you strong?”
“I like to think I am.”
They parted on the parking lot with a handshake, Dave with the promise of a new job, one that just might be everything he had always been looking for.
He needed a cutter, but also someone who could drive a skidder and a loader. The thought of cutting trees in an untamed wilderness, driving huge equipment down steep slopes, the roar of eighteen-wheelers with diesel smoke spouting into the sky, shot adrenaline through his veins.
Here was a brand-new undertaking, a thing unforeseen, unexpected. To learn how to fell those trees using an enormous chainsaw, to stomp through the woods parting underbrush like some Paul Bunyan of old, was exactly the challenge he needed.
His mother shook her head, predicted dire things.
Did he know how many accidents occurred in the woods? Her Uncle Levi iss um-komma—died—in a logging accident. It was dangerous work that took all the strength from a man.
He barely heard her words.
Someone picked him up at four o’clock in the morning, the wide dual-wheeled pickup truck with a fuel tank and logging equipment thrown in the back, mud and dirt and streaks of salt and calcium from the roads making it impossible to find color. The interior was covered in dirt and gravel, a plethora of coffee cups, fast-food wrappers, discarded napkins, soda cans, wrenches, nuts and bolts, old wrinkled T-shirts that had been white at one time, smashed candy bars, and things Dave couldn’t explain.
A high-stepping Friesian being the equivalent of a Ferrari. Huh, he thought. I’ll never be Amish, for real. It’s so dumb.
A few weeks later he hadn’t returned to the library and had no desire to finish reading the series. If he could only find a job he cared about, he’d be much happier.
Christmas had come and gone, the spirit of joy and giving passing him by completely. He had never felt more alone than he did surrounded by throngs of siblings and their offspring. They brought only a vague pressure of guilt, not having bought a gift for anyone, not even his mother. His sister’s endless chatter was an annoyance beyond anything he’d ever encountered, which left them to tell him he must have come home from Australia with Australian burrs stuck in his gears, then went off in a huff and left him to himself.
He decided to try working with his brother, hanging drywall and finishing it, but hated the job so much he quit after a few weeks. Who wanted to eat drywall dust all day? It was enough to give a person chronic lung disease.
He tinkered around in his father’s small workshop, found he had a knack with the router and shaper. He made a cabinet door, then two. After that he built a cabinet, sanded it, painted it tavern gray, and wore off the edges. He showed it to his mother, who threw up her hands and exclaimed her surprise.
“It looks as if it comes straight out of Country Living.”
He thought of the magazine draped across Rose’s lap.
His sister MaryAnn bought it on sight, gave him 100 dollars, and ordered two more.
He dived headfirst into endless books on woodworking and toured an array of serious cabinetmakers and furniture shops.
He thought of Rose’s interest in antiques and wondered about crafting some replicas of old dry sinks and pedestal tables. Would people buy them? He was surprised by how much he wondered what she’d think.
Eventually he made his way to Ephrata with his friend Wayne, who had joined the church and was dating Leah, a petite girl who would give him nothing but trouble for the rest of his life. But you didn’t go around saying things like that to your friends.
He saw Rose waiting on a table along the back, but sat in the booth opposite Wayne and drummed the tips of his fingers on the tabletop. He watched her finish the table, turn to another one.
Dressed in purple, with those dark hair and eyes, she was the color of a bruise. Very fitting.
He grinned.
“What?” Wayne asked.
“Oh. Her.”
He tilted his head in her direction.
“Oh, Rose. You know her?”
“Not really.”
“Well, do you or don’t you?”
“I told you. No, I don’t.”
“You’d like to.”
Before he could answer, Wayne called her name, waved her over.
“What?” she asked, in the low, unexpressive way.
“Do you know this guy?”
“We’ve met.”
“Is that all?”
“Look. I’m busy. Sheila will take care of you.”
He left that day without a chance to tell her about his furniture-making abilities. Without any conversation at all, really. So he went back one day in February, when the days were cold and gray, the air biting with the wet cold of coming snow, the sky lowering and pewter gray.
He seated himself strategically, at a table he knew she would be serving. She had no choice but to bring that little tablet over and stand at his table.
“Hey.”
Low and quiet.
“How are you?”
She shrugged. “Okay I guess.”
“Sit down.”
“I can’t. I’m working.”
“How long?”
“Closing time.”
“When’s that?”
“Half an hour.”
“Good. I’ll order. I’ll take you home. I want to show you something.”
“How? How will you take me home?”
“My Ferrari.”
She laughed. Low, soft, the way her voice sounded.
“You don’t.”
He laughed. “A Friesian. Same thing.”
“Oh.”
She looked amused, but her eyes darted nervously to the kitchen, to the front door.
“What can I get you?”
“Coffee, for one thing. Uh, I don’t know. Cheeseburger? Everything on it.” She scribbled furiously, then left without speaking. He had no answer if he could take her home or not.
She brought his coffee, threw a few creamers on the table and moved off. He thought of Ammie’s absolute devotion, thought of the huge difference between this silent aloof girl and the warmth and vibrancy of his girl who was so far away now, both in body and in thought.
She surprised him when she brought the cheeseburger and slid into the booth, facing him squarely for the first time ever. He was surprised as well, to find the dark brooding intensity of her eyes framed by the heavy lashes, the olive tones in her skin, with the smattering of freckles across her left cheek.
He felt clumsy, uncovered. His cheeseburger lay untouched as he stumbled for the right words.
“I’m . . . I started making small pieces of furniture.”
He sipped his coffee.
She raised one eyebrow, her dark eyes giving nothing away. If she would have encouraged him with a “Really?” or a “That’s great!” it would have been so much easier, but with only a long, dark look and no comment, how was he supposed to continue?
“I . . . you know, wondered what you’d think of the colors I’m using.”
“You’re using color?”
She may as well have asked if he was spreading icing on his furniture.
“You know, old colors. Antique ones.”
“Oh. Why do you think I care?”
Ouch. No wonder this girl was still single.
“The magazine on your lap at the library.”
“Hmm.”
He started on his cheeseburger. He had not the faintest hope of coming close to being impressive at this point, so if he got mayonnaise all over his mouth and lettuce between his teeth, it didn’t matter.
“Do you have pictures?”
“I do.”
He slid over, made room for her as he brought out his phone. She leaned in and he struggled to breathe. She smelled like food and some kind of soap, like shampoo in a fancy bottle.
“This is the first piece.”
No comment. What did he expect?
“It’s pretty primitive,” he mumbled.
“Go on. What else did you make?”
“These.”
“Hmm. They’re not bad. What is the color?”
“You can’t tell on my phone. You’ll have to come see my shop.”
“What is the color?” she repeated.
“Tavern gray.”
“Cool.”
He finished his burger, pushed the plate away, raised his cup and his eyebrows. She slid away and filled his cup, giving him a wide smile that was so genuine he scalded his tongue with the hot coffee.
Her coworkers peered from the opening to the kitchen and raised their own eyebrows, shook their heads in disbelief before high-fiving and placing bets on the chances of Miss Doom and Gloom procuring a boyfriend.
“She smiled,” Sheila whispered to the cook.
“She also raised that eyebrow, which does not bode well.”
“The poor guy. She has about as much warmth as a Sub-Zero refrigerator in excellent working condition.”
CHAPTER 24
DAVE EXPERIENCED DAYS OF STRUGGLE, HOWEVER. WOULDN’T ANY FRIENDship with an Amish girl turn out the same as things had with Anna? The unexpected loomed before him like a dire prediction. That, and the guilt about Ammie.
To be bound to someone as closely as he had been, then travel thousands of miles away leaving her to sort out her feelings without as much as a phone call, was cruel, and he knew it. But he could not bring himself to make that call.
Australia had made a man of him, challenged him to every extreme of his physical and mental strength, so why was his cowardice all that remained?
Too chicken to call her. He despised himself for his weakness. So what had he gained, really?
The most monumental struggle was the looming decision he would have to face. To ask the aloof Rose to be his girlfriend would eventually bring the inevitable. The joining of the church. The giving up of all worldly pleasure. To cut his hair in the ordnung and basically live a mundane life bereft of thrills or excitement.
Did he have to drive a horse and buggy in order to get to heaven? How come billions of people the world over drove cars and got away with dressing and doing whatever they felt like? Or didn’t they?
There were hundreds of versions of Christianity. Churches dotted all across the land, their spires reaching to the heavens, and each one was just a bit different than the other, but all believed in God and His son, Jesus.
Seriously. Why did he have to be born into this seventeenth-century thing? Old-fashioned, traditional, never changing, on and on, plodding through the decades, placing one black shod foot in front of the other without ever wanting to do anything else.
And so he began attending church services all over Lancaster County. He dressed in his white shirt, homemade broadfall trousers, his matzo, and his black hat, hired a driver, and listened to an array of ministers who conducted their services in English.
He sat in Mennonite services, in Baptist and Lutheran, and the Church of God out on Route 283. He read his Bible and came to the conclusion he could justify his actions or condemn himself, it all depended on his attitude.
His mother watched her son’s turmoil with eyes still filled with the grief of her husband’s passing. She spent her nights with intermittent wakefulness, praying in broken whispers for the son who had come back to the fold and was bashing the gate with his passionate spirit, the sense of adventure that drove his restlessness. She longed for Eli, his calming presence and his easy words. She had never realized before how much she had leaned on him, even if his easy flow of words were usually ruffled by her cares and anxieties.
Dave had already lost interest in the furniture making. She badgered him about getting a job. He needed to give himself up to something, construction, welding, shop work.
The morning was brisk and cold, the shop fire out, the furniture making come to a halt. Mother and son sat at the breakfast table with coffee cups half empty, the small kitchen rife with the smell of frying bacon. The winter sun was weak, tepid, as if the gathering clouds were draining it of its power.
He set his coffee cup in the sink, turned to go.
“So where were you last evening?”
His mother, large and florid of face, her dress the usual navy blue, her hands clasped across her stomach.
“Oh, I went to some church thing they had in the basement.”
“What church?”
“I’m not even sure. That big stone church in Lancaster.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah.”
“Why do you keep putting yourself through this, Dave? You do not belong in that church basement listening to a speaker who doesn’t hold our views or values. You were born Amish; it’s where you belong. You’ll break my heart, and it’s already broken by your father’s sudden death.”
Tears welled, spilled over. She reached into her pocket for the ever-present wrinkled voddags schnuppy and dabbed at the corners of her eyes before honking into it.
Dave sighed and let himself out the door, the cold like a slap in the face. He hated thinking of starting a fire in the stone-cold stove in the dusty little shop, working on yet another stupid little table that no one really wanted but fussed over just to make himself feel good.
Whatever.
He crumpled newspaper, threw in a few sticks of kindling and held a lighter to it, watched the small flame lick greedily at the paper. He slammed the door, shivered, gazed across the landscape at the brown fields, and thought how the seasons came and went and nothing ever changed in Lancaster County.
That meeting last night had been interesting, for sure, until the subject of pursuing a career came up. How did one pursue a career if one only went to eighth grade? Get your GED online and go from there.
To what? Schoolwork was tedious, so he imagined high school and college would be no different. The only bright spot had been the glowing, laughing Anna, seated at her desk with her bright blonde head bent over her schoolwork, handing out her sweet innocent smiles to his starving soul.
If he could only see her, just once. If he could see she was truly happy with that husband of hers, and had a good life, well, then, perhaps he could move on. More and more, the thin realization of his miserable existence centered on thoughts of Anna.
Anna in school, on her scooter, driving her pony. Anna mowing grass and waving at him, sitting on the creek bank waiting for the red and white bobber at the end of her line to disappear below the surface. Anna in ninth grade, shy and a bit intimidated meeting the other ninth graders from other church districts.
She lived in his subconscious, and there was no way around it. He was doomed to live with this malady of the heart for the rest of his days, to wander the earth with the weight of this great love and the accompanying terrible remorse.
He went to Ephrata to the Town Diner, simply on account of being starved, he told himself. He’d been on the road all morning, looking for work, trying to show his mother that he was listening to her words. It was true, what she said. He needed to give himself up.
Die oof-gevva-heit. A daily dose of Amish life. Giving yourself up.
But every office held the same lack of charm, adventure, and purpose. Every shop contained a dull future made up of repetition.
If he could only get past his mother’s tears, he’d hop on the next flight to Australia, take up where he left off with the sunny Ammie Kel and her loving family, but he could not do it to her. She was his mother.
He saw Rose across the room, but she was fully occupied, so he sat at the counter, cleared his throat, leaned in and drummed the top with his fingers. All the waitresses were busy.
What was this? They needed more help.
Here she came, her dark eyes on his face, her mouth compressed into angry impatience.
“What?”
“You need more help. I’ve been sitting here for five minutes.”
“It wasn’t even close to that.”
“I’m hungry.”
She pointed to the blackboard with the daily specials and left with the coffeepot. He watched her go. She walked as if she carried a chip on her shoulder. Two or three, really.
Before he could order, the space beside him was filled with an enormous presence dressed in a plaid shirt. The odor of diesel fuel was so strong he could almost visualize it floating on his coffee. He’d not order any, that was sure.
The large head swiveled in his direction, then back again.
Rose returned, raised one eyebrow, her tablet poised.
“Are you serving breakfast?”
“No.”
“Come on.”
“Eleven.” She turned toward the clock. Eleven oh five.
“It’s not much past. I want pancakes.”
“You can’t have them.”
His eyes met hers, exchanging hostilities. He saw the challenge, she saw the need to get him out of her head. Disappearing for weeks on end, showing up just when she’d seen the futility. Nobody messed with her heart. Nobody.
“What else is good?”
She shrugged.
“Look, I’m busy. Order.”
A loud guffaw from the massive plaid shirt, the shaking of the gray hair.
“You two know each other by any chance?”
That was how Dave met Gary Lawson, who owned a logging company, worked locally, but mostly in Maryland and Virginia. Dave didn’t remember what he ate, didn’t remember ordering. He ate the food as if it was sawdust, and listened with rapt attention to the man beside him, who painted a colorful portrait of danger and adventure far beyond anything Dave could have imagined in homely Lancaster.
“So what do you think? David? Is it Dave?” the man asked, wiping his wide face that had a surface like fallen bread dough, with wrinkles and fissures and discolored blotches of leftover summer sun.
“It’s Dave.”
“You ever run a chainsaw?”
Dave shook his head, wished he had run one sometime in his life so he could qualify.
“Never?”
“Nope. I can’t recall.”
“Are you strong?”
“I like to think I am.”
They parted on the parking lot with a handshake, Dave with the promise of a new job, one that just might be everything he had always been looking for.
He needed a cutter, but also someone who could drive a skidder and a loader. The thought of cutting trees in an untamed wilderness, driving huge equipment down steep slopes, the roar of eighteen-wheelers with diesel smoke spouting into the sky, shot adrenaline through his veins.
Here was a brand-new undertaking, a thing unforeseen, unexpected. To learn how to fell those trees using an enormous chainsaw, to stomp through the woods parting underbrush like some Paul Bunyan of old, was exactly the challenge he needed.
His mother shook her head, predicted dire things.
Did he know how many accidents occurred in the woods? Her Uncle Levi iss um-komma—died—in a logging accident. It was dangerous work that took all the strength from a man.
He barely heard her words.
Someone picked him up at four o’clock in the morning, the wide dual-wheeled pickup truck with a fuel tank and logging equipment thrown in the back, mud and dirt and streaks of salt and calcium from the roads making it impossible to find color. The interior was covered in dirt and gravel, a plethora of coffee cups, fast-food wrappers, discarded napkins, soda cans, wrenches, nuts and bolts, old wrinkled T-shirts that had been white at one time, smashed candy bars, and things Dave couldn’t explain.
