Beacon of Light, page 4
“No, he was not. He was the color of caramel. Of dark honey. He was the most handsome man I have ever met. The sweetest and kindest. I don’t care if he was purple or green. I will never be ashamed of our love. Betty, he loved me. He loved me so much. He would have died for me. He did die for me, going out to look for work to support us out in that cruel town who hated the black people for hatred’s sake.”
Here she suddenly turned calm, almost serene.
“You can make me go, Betty. But I will always be proud of my child and love him as much as I loved his father.”
Betty sighed, looked off into the distance. Did she recognize a love such as this? She thought of her own dear, steady Abe, like a gentle, dying fire on a hearth, always there, always the same. Did some loves create a rushing firestorm, a height of great love that was extinguished too soon, leaving the recipient with only the remembering of it?
Or had it been love at all amid such sin?
Long into the night, she sat with Abe, elaborated on May’s story as only Betty could, with Abe as steady as a good ship with a dependable rudder.
“It is strange,” he said finally. Then he looked at his flustered wife with a level, wise gaze and spoke the one sentence that helped her make sense of all of it.
“How bad must her situation have been there at Melvin’s for her to do something that drastic?”
“But she never said anything.”
“They never do.”
Betty missed his insinuation completely, and he didn’t stir up the trouble of his forefathers, the young maiden’s suicide, the burial outside the graveyard fence, the deathbed confession of his Uncle Enoch. They said a white creature was still seen from time to time, swaying over her grave, and Enoch’s family was known to be cast from one trouble to the next. But here was where Abe knew to let sleeping dogs lie, water under the bridge, never look back and uproot the sins of the fathers, of which there must have been plenty.
They came to a decision, to let her stay until someone began to ask questions. She would not attend church services until after the birth, at which it must be discussed with the ministry. They would stand by the bishop’s decision, either way.
IN THE MORNING, Betty’s lips were pursed, her eyes hooded. She served breakfast without May’s help, watched as she toted the overflowing basket of clothes to the kettlehouse. Her irritation was taken out on the little ones, slapping their hands when they got on her nerves. She told May to hang the towels on the south side of the clothesline, not the north, the way she had been doing.
May was up to her elbows in sudsy steaming water, a song on her lips. Even the nausea could not take away her deep sense of contentment. She didn’t care whether she stayed or was sent away. God had given her this gift in His everlasting love, and she would suffer anything He asked of her if she would be allowed to hold Clinton’s child.
No matter that the people would snort and turn their heads to keep from looking in her direction. No matter if the bishop sent her away.
If God had gotten her this far, His grace would be sufficient.
And so she sang on.
She settled into a routine at Abe Weaver’s, took Betty’s suspicion in stride. The nausea dissipated, her strength returned as the lovely fall days settled into the short, harsh days of an Ohio winter. When the sun shone, Abe hauled manure from the barn, cleaned the pigsty, and swept the henhouse. The cows grew fat from the daily ration of sweet alfalfa hay piled in the haymow like a great slippery mountain. May rose early, did her share of the milking, skimmed cream and made butter, drank cold buttermilk and mounds of oatmeal and potatoes. Her waistline increased, her cheeks filled out and took on the color of a ripe peach, her smile was quick and deeply sincere. The private blessing, the one between her and her Lord, surrounded her like the soft glow of a lamp. Over and over, she told herself, nothing was of any value, save this beloved child within.
She felt like Mary, wondered if they shared the same fate.
She knew she was nothing, knew she would never be able to hold her head high among her people, but so be it. She had a roof over her head, a warm bed to spend the night, food every morning, lunchtime, and evening, plenty of work to keep her occupied, so her heart was always grateful.
Eventually, Betty decided her chastening of May’s behavior was sufficient and became her usual jovial self. She bought remnants of flannel and cotton to make sheets for the smallest crib, nightgowns for the baby, and a stack of prefolded diapers to protect the little bottom.
An old doctor came for a few checkups, was sworn to secrecy, and paid with a fine butchered hen before he took his leave. He muttered his way to his car about the sins kept buried from curious eyes, although he enjoyed his roast chicken immensely and didn’t breathe a word to anyone.
May never left the farm that winter. When company came, she was kept in her room. She often read her Bible or knitted the tiny caps and sweaters taking on a delightful shape beneath her clicking needles. Gertie was the one who had taught her this skill. She often felt sad, thinking about the large, very overweight person she had become, embroiled in her own sense of misery and longing. Perhaps she had done the best she could. Didn’t everyone?
She had not been like that when they arrived. In her own coarse way, she had shown an odd bit of kindness here or there. A new dress in town, a peppermint candy, an appreciation of a freshly baked cake. Poor Gertie, laid to rest in the loamy soil in Arkansas, the place she so despised.
May’s hands plied the needles efficiently, the yarn draped expertly across her pinkie finger. Two pillows at her back, she rested against the iron headboard of her bed, her legs resting on another pillow, a quilt drawn over her rounded stomach to keep warm. At her bedside table, a kerosene lamp flickered, the wick turned high.
Downstairs there was talking and laughing, the oven door opening and closing, children shrieking with glee, babies crying amid the hullabaloo. It was Sunday afternoon company, a frequent occurrence at this house, and May never minded. She enjoyed the rare peace and quiet in her room, squirreled away like a forbidden fruit.
She had never found out if Betty and Abe had gone to see the bishop, and if they did, what answer had been given. She stayed, so she felt that was enough. Sometimes talks with the bishop were kept tightly guarded, and this was no different, she felt sure. Perhaps she would be violating the rules to bring up the subject, so she didn’t. Sometimes she caught Betty staring at her with the most quizzical expression, but before she could meet May’s returned curiosity, her eyes slid away like liquid.
She still went to the barn on frigid mornings, when the icicles hanging from the eaves were as thick as a man’s forearm and the snow lay in great white heaps up to the windowsills. The quarter moon smiled at her, the stars twinkled and winked their friendly little verses to her, and the snow crunched underfoot as if it, alone, could tell her how many degrees below zero it really was.
Abe was opening water pipes that had frozen during the night, carrying buckets of boiling water from the house, grinning and humming under his breath, an affable soul in the middle of a freezing morning. Henry and Davey romped through the cold, crashed through the cow stable door to stand beside a fat, steaming cow, their teeth chattering as they pulled off their mittens to finish tying their black, leather shoes.
And May was reasonably happy.
THE QUESTIONS BEGAN at Ida’s quilting, an event Betty had looked forward to for weeks, dressed in her green Sunday dress with the cape pinned neatly around her neck, her hair combed up over her head with care. She baked sour cherry pies with a delicate crumb topping, packed them in a roaster with clean rags to keep them in place, and left all the children at home in May’s care. She took the reins from Abe who stood smiling beside the buggy, chirped to the steady brown horse with the long winter coat, and drove out the lane.
Oh, she was glad to have a day to herself, to be with women friends who would chatter about everyday life in the rural Ohio community, learn new recipes, the best way to render lard at butchering time, how best to bring a fever down, and who was dating whom. At church, there had been talk of a few cousins from Geauga County attending this event, and Betty looked forward to hearing news from the area.
She leaned forward, slapped the reins on the oversized rump, thought Abe should stop feeding quite so many oats in winter. This horse was lazy and much too fat. When she finally arrived she handed the reins to Davey, climbed down amid pleasant talk from the small man wearing manure-encrusted boots and a hat with a torn brim, and grabbed the roaster containing the sour cherry pies before hurrying into the warmth of Ida’s steaming kettlehouse, eager to greet her friends.
“Why hello, Betty!” Ida called from her place at the stove.
“Hello, Ida!”
“Just take your wraps into the bedroom. There’s plenty of room on the bed.”
Betty heard the lively talk as she left the pies on the table, turned to divest herself of her shawl and bonnet, and stuffed the heavy gloves into her large coat pocket on the inside of the garment. No pockets were seen on the outside of the homemade outerwear, as that would not be gehorsam (obedient) to church ordnung (rules). And Betty was conscientious, obeyed all dress rules with diligence, her heart and mind sincere in being a true upstanding member of the church.
When she made her appearance, bright faces were lifted from the stitching, words of welcome as warm as the blazing fire.
She dug her favorite thimble from her dress pocket, found an empty chair, and exclaimed about the beauty of the quilt. Navy blue, gray, a deep red and green, a kaleidoscope of brilliant hues done in an intricate “Sunshine and Shadow” design.
“Yes, Ida pieced it herself. You know she does three or four every winter,” Betty trilled, as proud as if she’d done it herself.
“Where are the little ones, Betty?”
Only a moment’s hesitation, before saying she left them at home with Abe.
An awkward silence.
Finally, someone asked where the girl was. What was her name? May?
“Uh . . . oh, well yes, she’s there too.”
“Tell us about her. Is she okay? I mean, she was in church once or so, and now we don’t see her anymore.”
Rapid questions came like an assault, then, with Betty floundering to answer them in truth. Yes, she had been English, dressed in a skirt and blouse. No, she didn’t know what happened at Melvin’s. “Gertie passed away of a heart condition, you know.”
“Well, they say Oba isn’t with Melvin anymore, either. He’s out in the world. I heard he’s wild. Melvin couldn’t handle him.”
“It’s just so shaut (it’s a shame),” old Annie Mast said, shaking her head. “It seems when children are left after the death of both parents, they often lose their way.”
“Ach, yes. And I always thought so much of Melvin and Gertie. So sincere with gmayna ordnung (church rules). I think this is why they moved to Arkansas,” Edna Miller spoke up.
A loud “Pffft” from the corner.
“He moved to Arkansas for money. They say he’s wealthy on that cotton with all the cheap labor from those black people. I never liked him. Gertie suffered plenty down there.”
This piece of unadorned information was thrust above the quilt like an uncomfortable odor. No one but Clara would have the nerve to tell it how it was. Single, in her mid-thirties, tall, thin and outspoken. She had fiery red hair, a spattering of freckles, a nose with a champion hook in it, capable of holding up her round frameless spectacles. She was independent, spoke whenever and whatever she wanted. If folks didn’t like what she had to say, well then, that was just tough. It needed to be said. She had a grudge against most of the human race, with men in particular, had never been asked for her freckled hand in matrimony and never missed it to be sure. As prickly as a horse chestnut, and as hard to control, she was Clara Yoder, take her or leave her.
But no one was more behilflich (helpful) than Clara. In times of sickness or a community disaster or tragedy, she was the first one to arrive, the first responder to a family in need. Bearing gifts of food, her wonderful casseroles or homemade wheat bread, freshly churned butter and jars of rhubarb jam, applesauce, or peaches, she was there, directing, organizing, in charge. She had a duty to carry out, and she did it.
The inheritance her father left her put her in the position of financial independence, and she kept a steady income by breeding and selling good solid driving horses, which she trained to be some of the most reliable horses around. She also owned a flock of extraordinary sheep, which produced beautiful wool that she sold for a good price. She placed no trust in a bank, but hoarded her money in shoeboxes stashed in a metal container and buried well in a secret cache. Only she knew where that money was hidden.
After Clara voiced her opinion on Melvin and Gertie, an awkward silence settled over the room. Betty’s face had taken on some color, and a bead of perspiration appeared above her upper lip. She swallowed nervously, and was greatly relieved when Ida called them all to the kitchen where an array of cookies, cinnamon rolls, and doughnuts with fresh coffee awaited them.
Children ran underfoot, babies cried and were hushed, the conversation changed direction, and Betty breathed easier. She helped herself to a mug of coffee, laced it heavily with cream and sugar, put two doughnuts and an oatmeal raisin cookie on a plate, and sat down on a kitchen chair.
The first bite into a glazed doughnut was heavenly. That was one of the reasons she so enjoyed these gatherings. Such a variety of goodies to choose from.
“Ida, these doughnuts are delicious,” she said, between mouthfuls.
“Well, I hope so. I got up at two o’clock to mix the dough, get my lard going. The cinnamon buns are the same dough.”
“Really? Mashed potatoes in both? I know cinnamon rolls take them, but I never heard of doughnuts,” Annie Mast was smiling, halfway through a cinnamon bun.
Betty eyed the elderly lady, thought she likely knew everything there was to know about yeast doughs and batters, and surely had said that to make Ida feel good. Bless her dear old heart. Certainly love grew in the elderly as Christ became more to them and their own desires and will became less. There was something to say about the accumulation of years. For a moment, she wondered if she should talk to Annie about May’s predicament. But just as quickly, she realized it would never do. The old way was set in stone. No matter how much wisdom and compassion Annie had, she would still see May’s situation for what it was: sin, and a disgrace to the community. And at this point, Betty would be guilty by association.
Once back to the quilt, Betty felt Clara’s eyes boring into the top of her bent head like an auger, making it hard for her to concentrate. How much did she know? How much did she perceive?
Betty felt afraid. Afraid and condemned. They were going against gmayna ordnung, against her own conscience. There were sure to be consequences for keeping May hidden away like this. People would talk, tongues would wag, and their reputation would wind up in the dirt. They had always been God-fearing upright members of the Old Order who adhered conscientiously to the rules the bishop held forth twice a year at council meeting. How had she gotten so deep in this predicament? What had she done to their family?
A bolt of fear found its way into Betty’s heart. Yes, there was something to say about upholding one’s reputation, of keeping your good name intact. Some people might call it pride, but it really was only common sense.
CHAPTER 4
OBA SLOUCHED IN HIS SEAT, HIS HANDS DEEP IN HIS POCKETS, slanting a look at Jonas as the burly man dug into his hip pocket for his wallet. He was sick and tired of sitting on this wide seat, sick of watching the same scenery, sick of trees and snow and the open road. He wished they’d drive into a snowstorm, be put out of commission for a couple days.
Jonas rolled down his window, cranking away at the lever, muttering some sort of gibberish, the way he did most times. It was probably from living by himself too long, his mind half gone with the loneliness.
“Yessir.”
The gas station attendant had bent to peer through the window, a heavy leather cap with sheepskin flaps down over his ears, a ring of chocolate around his mouth. H didn’t look old enough to be working.
“Fill ’er up.”
“Yessir.”
The cold crept in through the opened window. Oba watched expectantly for Jonas to crank the window back up, but he merely put both hands on the steering wheel and drummed the vinyl top with both thumbs, looking straight ahead, his lips compressed, while the gas nozzle spewed the fuel into the tank. Oba hunched his shoulders, glared out at the endless level scenery, the dank gas station with the filthy window, a yellow sign with SUNOCO in fat, blue letters. There were no other cars or trucks parked in the gravel—only a green picnic table, a trailer, and a stack of used tires.
The youth came around to the front and sprayed a solution on the windshield before drawing his squeegee across it, his mouth pursed in concentration. He did a fairly good job, for a kid. Oba thought he should use it on his face, with that chocolate like a mustache.
“Arright. That’s five dollars and twenty-seven cents.” He held out his hand as Jonas deposited the money, said his thanks, and they were back on the road, Jonas humming low under his breath, his eyes keen, alert.
Snow was piled up on either side of the road, stretched for one blinding mile after another. An occasional red barn and white house rose up like a growth, a small group of pines weighted down by clumps of snow. Always north, always cold and wintry, Oba knew, with their destination filled with even more of the same.
Why, oh why had he agreed to this? He stuck his chin deeper into his coat collar, pulled his cap low enough to cover most of his eyesight, and drifted into a troubled sleep.
He was jerked awake by the sound of the old man’s voice.
“You ready for a break?”
“What? Huh?”
“You wanna stop for the night?”
Oba looked around, the sun sliding below the horizon, laying a path of orange and gold across the glistening snow. The sky was a deep hue of lavender and purple, with navy-blue streaks mixed with orange and gold, the same color as the path. For one moment, the sight infiltrated Oba’s senses, made him wipe his eyes to see if it was real.
