Beacon of Light, page 27
May was very serious, then looked a bit confused, till he laughed, and Eliezer threw back his little head and opened his mouth wide to laugh with his father. When May saw this, she drew her hand away, then reached out to punch his arm, laughing herself.
“I thought you were being serious.”
He caught her arm and drew her off her chair and onto his lap, where she snuggled against him as they shared a mug of coffee.
“I love you so much,” she sighed. “I honestly think I am living without fear for the first time in my life. Thank you, Andy, for my home, for giving Eliezer a home.”
“Eliezer is my son, May. I became his father the day I married you.”
“Sometimes I just can’t grasp that. Clinton would be proud.”
“He would?”
“Oh yes. He was a humble man.”
“You’ve said before.”
“He was.”
“So I’ll always feel like second best?”
“No. Oh, no. Those years seem like another lifetime. There was so much fear, so much guilt. It seemed when I left the farm, my only goal was survival, a form of just . . . well, making it. You have to remember we were in the South. I was white, and we were not together lawfully or morally. I was never allowed back to the Amish, and the whole English world was so new, so hostile. It was just . . . I don’t know. Not an environment to make love easy.”
“Someday, you can tell me every little detail. Right now, I’m afraid you’ll let the darkness grab you again. You know, even when you talk about making bread as a child, I can sense a change in you. I get worried.”
“There’s no need, Andy. I am all right.”
“But you might not always be all right.”
May smiled to herself, tucking away the concern in her husband’s voice, knowing how much he cared about her. She knew with a woman’s intuition there would always be the times when her past would be brought up unexpectedly, like now, and those were the times she would release another edge of the darkness. To talk about it with her husband, the one she loved above everyone else, was a form of healing. Mysterious, yes, but still. She had never thought of the fact that God had known her so intimately at ten years of age, but of course he had. Every painful, bitter step of the way. He had been there.
SHE WASHED HER dishes in the bright kitchen, washed Eliezer’s face and hands before setting him on the floor, where he lurched off toward his toys, only to stumble and fall, then raise himself back to his feet and toddle off.
After the dishes were washed, she would go outside in the brilliance of the day, take a shovel, and dig around the perimeters of the house, where the chickweed created a tangle of green mess among the spent daffodils.
Imagine, she thought. I am the mistress of my own domain. Queen of the brick ranch house. She lifted her arms and twirled across the gleaming kitchen floor, her small waist above the billowing of her pleated skirt, her blond hair and dark eyes radiating light and happiness. No one except Eliezer was there to see. No one could judge her as she allowed the cascade of joy to lead her bare feet in a dance of pure freedom. She stopped, put her hands on her hips, shrugged her shoulders, and let out an expulsion of air.
“Huh!” she said out loud, then put her hand across her mouth and giggled, a sound like a small schoolgirl.
She would experience joy in the summer months, she could tell. How was a person supposed to walk barefooted in her own yard, the soft breezes telling you your husband loved you, would care for you all the days of your life, without stopping to laugh out loud and go whirling about the kitchen?
Here, on this day, she would put the shovel deep into the rich soil and create a border for her very own flowerbed. She could plant dahlia bulbs if she wished, or marigolds, or make the bed wider for a lilac bush. Or a rose bush. Clara had roses and had shown her how to grow roots from a thorny switch.
She turned the soil, stopped to breathe deeply, lifted her face to watch a red-headed woodpecker perch on a tree trunk before tapping away at the loose bark.
“Watch out, Mr. Woodpecker. You’ll lose your footing,” she called, before he lifted his wings and flew away in short, choppy strokes.
And then, because she was so happy, she flopped on her back in the warm grass, lifted her eyes to the puffy white clouds, and began to cry. Tears ran down the sides of her face and her shoulders heaved with each deep sob as the warm breezes sifted the green poplar leaves and the small pine tree sighed as it moved back and forth.
Then she cried more, listening to the sound of the pine tree, remembering her mother’s tree by the garden, when she would gather baskets of pine cones before Christmas. She wanted to tell her mother about her own pine tree, ask her what she should plant in her flower bed. She seemed very close, then. As if she could reach out and touch her.
“Mam, look at me. Can you see me?” she whispered.
The puffy white clouds did not change their appearance and the wind kept sighing in the pine tree, but May had wept her tears of happiness, the tears of love for her mother, the tears of healing from her past.
She cooked supper that evening, her face tanned from the exposure to the sun, her cheeks blooming with color. She was ravenous, so she cooked a big pot of potatoes, mashed them with milk and butter, fried pork chops into crispy, salty slabs, and made milk gravy from the drippings. There were new green beans and applesauce, with sour cherry pie and cornstarch pudding for dessert.
She hurried from window to window, watching for the familiar form of her husband, and when she spied him, she opened the screen door and ran to greet him, flinging herself into his arms, unaware of the passing motorist who turned to watch, then smiled to himself as he drove on.
Andy looked down at his beautiful wife, taking in the perfection of her, wondered how he had ever been taken in by Doris’s flashing good looks.
“It is so good to be home,” he murmured against her sun-kissed brow. “I never realized how long a day could become, waiting to come home to you.”
Together they walked into the house, where Eliezer sat playing with his wooden building blocks. He looked up, then set himself on his feet, his little backside straight up in the air, before toddling over to Andy, who scooped him up and kissed his cheek.
“Hey, little man! How was your day?”
Eliezer merely leaned back, stared at Andy as if to say, “Why ask?”
May laughed. “He actually told you with his eyes.”
The meal was served. The most pleasurable part was watching Andy eat, bent over his mounded plate as he shoveled the food into his mouth. He buttered three slices of bread, which equaled four or five bites apiece, then leaned back to give his full attention to May, who was doing her own fair share of consuming potatoes and gravy, stopping only to feed Eliezer.
She smiled at Andy.
“Marriage must be good for our appetites,” she observed.
“We were haying today. That is hard work. I hope someday the Amish will be allowed to have a baler. I watch the neighboring field, the John Deere tractor pulling that wonder, popping out bales, and I must say, I want one so bad it hurts.”
“Thou shalt not covet,” May said quietly.
“I know. But today I did.”
“It’s okay. I remember haying as a child.”
Together, they did the dishes, then walked around the yard to see what May had done. She heard words of genuine praise like a soft, life-sustaining rain. Andy was her beacon of light. He filled up all the empty places she hadn’t known existed, so she drank in his words of love, like a person dying of thirst.
Later, they sat on the back porch, watching the swallows dip and curve through the air, calling their fledglings to roost for the night. A field of corn stretched out to the west, a verdant, rippling carpet of promise. Rains were abundant, as was the sunshine in between, the arrival of heat and humidity throughout the late summer months all the heavy green stalks would need to produce thick yellow ears of corn.
Andy’s eyes squinted even more as the sun slid behind the rows of corn. May watched his profile, loved the plane of his stubby nose, the way his chin jutted out only enough to make him appear manly with the new growth, the required beard for an Amish man.
“I love you,” she said softly, her heart overflowing with the beauty of possessing this man. Yes, that was the proper term. She had become one with him on the day the bishop pronounced them man and wife, and he was hers, as she was his.
What a blessed union, marriage.
She was in his safekeeping, in the circle of his care and concern, never again to feel like an outsider. She had been an orphan, never truly belonged to the Amstutz family, then lived with Clinton out of fear and necessity, her love unbalanced by guilt and betrayal. Then the months at the homeless shelter, where her strength of will had pulled her though, the uncertainty of her bus ride to her home state, an outsider. Shifted from one place to another, to Clara, bless her dear freckled self, and finally, she had found a home.
Andy took her hand, and she hugged Eliezer on her lap, thinking never had a woman been blessed such as this.
CHAPTER 22
CHARLIE HAMMER WAS THE ELDER OF THE TWO BROTHERS. Jerry was thicker, shorter like their father, and more powerful, he would be quick to tell anyone. Charlie, lean and lanky, slow and unconcerned, was just as quick to allow Jerry to run ahead, scouting out every situation, real or imagined, and then follow up with his own timeless common sense.
Their trap lines were scattered in a twenty-mile radius, more or less, considering the amount of zigzagging they did, traversing an unforgiving land beset with creeks, steep ridges, swamps, and mountains. They would leave their father at his taxidermist shop, pile the sled with enough food and gear for a week’s stay. Or two, whichever suited them best.
Free as the wind, they had no timeline, no responsibilities except the gathering of furs, a veritable wealth, the way prices were escalating. Their sister Sue had begged to accompany them, but they could see no sense in allowing it, the winter as savage as they’d ever seen. Never one to give up easily, she kicked the sled and yelled at them, her face red with the effort.
“I hate when you do this to me!” she shouted, delivering another solid kick to Charlie’s shin.
“Ow!” Charlie caught her arm, twisted it behind her back until she settled down. “Listen, we’d take you, okay? Except we might not have room on the sled. We’re expecting a heavy yield.”
“Puh. You talk like a farmer. A heavy yield, as if you were growing corn or wheat.” She scowled at her brothers, then marched off to assemble her arsenal of weapons, in the form of a doting mother, who appeared at the door with a few crisp questions.
“Mom, no. She can’t come today. We won’t have room.” Jerry was adamant, not missing a beat as he lashed the load to the sled.
“She can run with the best of them, you know that.” Hands on her hips, she was a figure of full-blown authority.
“It’s not that, Mom. It’s extra food, another bedroll. No.”
And now, with the storm keeping them deep in the wilderness, over half of their traps unchecked, a sizable pile of raw furs heaped on the sled already, having to ration the food they’d brought, the decision seemed smart.
It was cold. So cold, in fact, the bonfire in front of the tent did little to keep them comfortable during the night. They’d taken to getting out of bed early, dashing around in the snow, thumping their chests, stretching, anything to keep the blood flowing, to feel the tingle of warmth in their numb feet.
“Let’s turn back after this passes,” Charlie said, always the careful one, the one who thought things through.
“Naw! Come on, man. We have twice this amount out there,” Jerry protested.
“How are you going to get there? This snow is going to be piled a foot high, two feet, three.”
“The dogs love this. They’ll get us through.”
Charlie considered Jerry’s view, then shook his head. “No, it’s not sensible. We’re turning back.”
“Okay, but I’ll cut a bargain. Let’s check a few beaver traps at Hammond’s swamp. It’s only a mile or so, right?”
“I’m hungry. Our rations are low. That’s going to be an extra half day, if not more.”
“Think of the beaver pelts, though. You know the price is outrageous.”
“Now it is. Doesn’t say it will be in spring.”
But Charlie gave in, after the wind ceased its mournful howling through the pines and the sound of scouring snow fell to the soft whisper of occasional flakes. A weak winter sun provided light as they fed the dogs, harnessed them, packed the load tightly, and started the slow trek to the swamp.
It wasn’t really a swamp, just an overflow of the creek that wound along a low-lying area flooded over half the year, creating a perfect environment for the crafty beaver that gnawed on young saplings, building powerful homes that withstood the harshest climate. It was Jerry’s favorite place, a place he never grew tired of, checking out the marvel of these clever animals’ expertise in building these sturdy lodges.
It was slow going, and Charlie was losing patience as they struggled up over a rise. The sun blinded them as the dogs dropped on their stomachs, their tongues dangling as they puffed short breaths of air after pulling the sled up over the incline.
Jerry, always ahead, always the first to notice anything different, ran the back of his hand across his eyes, blinked, then gave a low whistle.
“Charlie!” he yelled, raising an arm to signal his command to hurry.
Charlie looked up, dropped the package of dried elk, and made his way to his brother, his eyes following Jerry’s pointing finger.
“What is it?” he asked.
“Look at the trees!”
“What? What . . . do you think it’s . . . Not a plane!” Charlie stuttered.
“That’s a wing. Part of one. It’s mostly covered with snow.”
Charlie swallowed. There was nothing commonplace or sensible about a wreckage out here in the middle of nowhere. He had no desire to go down there. He’d never seen a corpse. He thought planes always burned, leaving a twisted mess of charred metal.
“What should we do?” he asked, all the color leaving his face.
“I’ll go check it out. You stay with the dogs.”
“Be careful. There could be glass or sharp metal under the snow. I’ll watch.”
Jerry nodded before starting the descent, his arms lifted like wings as he floundered through the snow, which was sometimes up to his hips. The lead dog whined, his ears pricked forward.
Charlie eyed his eagerness, thought perhaps a dog might be able to sniff out any sign of existence, dead or alive, so he unhooked the traces, cupped his hands around his mouth and called, “Jerry! Ben’s coming down!”
Jerry stopped, nodded as the dog made gigantic leaps through the deep, loose snow. Charlie turned to hush the rest of the dogs when they set up a clamor, tugged at the traces, lurching the sled to a hazardous position.
“Hey, calm down. Calm down. He’ll be back.”
He watched across the blinding light of the snow, the fir trees creating a puzzle of dark and light, Jerry a squat figure standing motionless. He turned, waved an arm.
“Get down here. It gives me the creeps,” he shouted.
So Charlie spoke to the dogs before floundering down the incline. Out of breath, he drew up beside Jerry. They both stood uncertainly, fear of the unknown keeping them motionless.
“I don’t know about this,” Charlie said finally.
“Aren’t we supposed to let the police or someone else know about this?”
“I don’t know.”
“I don’t want to see a dead person.”
“Does anyone ever survive?”
“I have no idea. I can’t see how it could be possible.”
Jerry kicked at the snow, loosening a heavy layer off the bent body of the plane. They saw the plane was almost broken in two, the one wing crumpled like an accordion, the windshield smashed, the metal bent and twisted.
A pair of ravens flew overhead, then circled to perch on the highest branches of a spruce tree. Ben, the lead dog, lifted his head to watch them, then lay down in the snow, obedient, his nose active.
He whined, then got to his feet, his body turned toward the wreckage, his nose wrinkling, moving as he sniffed the frigid air.
He whined again, pawed the snow, then lay back down.
Jerry looked at Charlie. “He’s on to something.
“Let him go.”
“Ben, go. Git him.”
It was all the dog needed. He made his way through the snow, pawed and scraped on the right side of the wreckage, whining in high-pitched tones. He stood back, his ears pricked forward, before piling into the snow and digging seriously. He leaped up to the side window, yelped like an eager puppy, unlike him. Jerry was the one who went over, pulled Ben aside, and stretched to look inside the front of the plane, the crumpled remains that were a twisted pile of metal. The sight that met his eyes would stay with him for the remainder of his days.
There were two bodies, in positions hard to make out. He knew immediately there was no life in either of them, the way they seemed to be broken, like hurled rag dolls, only worse. He turned away, swallowed, afraid the nausea would overtake him.
“How bad is it?” Charlie asked, his voice quavering.
“Bad.”
He turned away, lifted his face to the sun, tried to steady his churning stomach. At first, he thought he heard the creaking of metal, as if the right door was swinging on its hinges. He held very still, every nerve alight to the supposed sound. Suddenly he knew what it was.
A voice was saying, “Here. In here.”
He froze, heard it again. He yelled for Charlie, then yanked at the upended door, pawed and kicked, and called out. “We’re here!”
From deep within the wreckage, a surprisingly calm voice repeated the fact that someone was alive. “I’m back here. I’m pinned.”
“Hang on. Just hang on. We’ll get you out.”
