Beacon of Light, page 6
The entire afternoon had been stilted, awkward, with much blinking and coughing, nervous tongues darting to wet dry lips, the tension in the room thick enough to choke both Ida and Betty. May crept upstairs softly, hoping desperately that this visitor wasn’t the sort of woman who would cause Betty and her family any trouble.
Ida told Betty in no uncertain terms this was not going to work. An unmarried maiden carrying a baby? What was Betty thinking? By hiding May away like this she was keeping her from experiencing the consequences of her sinful choices, and thereby keeping her from repentance. She was living a lie, and surely God would punish her and her family for it. A red smear of color crept up Betty’s neck, so struck by guilt and the fear of an exacting God she could barely breathe.
And so Betty told Abe that May had to go. She was not putting her good standing in the church in jeopardy, she would not go skulking around like some dog who’d stolen a bone. She hated, absolutely hated, being the object of gossip and ridicule. She’d always had a good name and planned on keeping it that way.
“But, Betty, I thought you said none of this would matter. You’d fight for her, regretted sending her out in the first place. When they were children.”
“See, Abe. You’re half in love with her yourself, or you wouldn’t stick up for her.”
“Whoa, here now. Don’t start accusing me of anything like that.”
“Well, she’s as pretty as a picture.”
“And you, my dear, are way prettier. You know I am the most faithful of husbands and will always be. But we can’t send her out in cold weather.”
“We’ll find a place for her.”
If Betty was truthful, she had nothing against May as a person. She appreciated her help, and had enjoyed her company. But it rankled too much to be ridiculed, judged, thought poorly of. She refused to be considered a liberal, someone who allowed a questionable person into their home. She enjoyed her status in the church, in the community, enjoyed being spoken highly of, a good mother, an example to the younger women, as well as the single girls.
Now that word was out, what would they think?
So she cajoled, wheedled her way into steady Abe’s thoughts until he came to see it her way and agreed it was right to send May away. Betty had a long talk with May, who caught the insinuation at the first sentence and sat, bowed and defeated, while Betty kept up her onesided ramble.
Finally, when she stopped for breath, May spoke in a voice barely above a whisper.
“So what, exactly, do you want me to do?”
“Oh, you don’t have to do anything, May. I’ll find a place for you. Abe said we can send you money every month. We’re just not willing to go against church rules. You know, we don’t want the deacon to have to come see us. This is simply too embarrassing.”
She threw up her hands in an exaggerated manner, rolled her eyes to the ceiling. When nothing was forthcoming from May, she became self-conscious and reached for Baby Emmie on the floor, busily wiping the crumbs from her bib.
May exited quietly, went to her room, and got under the covers as the cold seeped between the loose panes where the putty had fallen away. She lay on her left side, tucked her delicate hands beneath her cheeks, drew her knees up, and allowed the sadness in her heart to overflow in a small, slow trickle of tears. She had no place to go except to the One in who she never failed to trust.
Oh Heavenly Father, Lord of all Lords, she began, her cheeks glistening with the steady rain of her sorrow. You have given me this blessing that only You and I will ever understand, so help me now. Look down on Thy handmaiden and find me a place where I can be welcome. Guide me, show me the way, even if I can’t understand. Give me courage, give me strength. Help me to understand Abe and Betty’s viewpoints, help me to be tolerant and forgiving. They, too, are doing what they feel is right.
She took a deep cleansing breath and felt the tension leave her body as she handed the one side of the yoke to Jesus, her Savior.
She drifted into a soft slumber as the cold crept in through the window. The baby cried downstairs as Betty rattled the stove lid.
SHE WORE THE shawl and bonnet Betty had given her, the heavy black coat with the sheepskin lining underneath, and a navy-blue dress. The brown satchel filled with the few belongings she owned was grasped firmly in her right hand.
“May!”
Astounded, Betty’s eyes opened wide. “You can’t just . . .”
“I can. I’m leaving, Betty. I don’t want to bring disgrace to your household.”
“But . . . where will you go?”
“I have a place I know will take me.”
“Who? I mean, where? How did you learn to know anyone? You haven’t been anywhere. It’s cold. You can’t walk. May, I wish you’d change your mind. It doesn’t seem right. Why don’t you just take off that shawl and bonnet and sit at the table. We can surely talk this out.”
Betty was babbling now, nervously attempting to right some wrong she had not been aware of, till now. This couldn’t be what she had meant when she had the conversation with Abe.
“Thank you for everything you have done. I’ll always be grateful. Tell the children I said goodbye.”
Her hand on the doorknob, she let herself out into the frosty morning with the sun creating sparkles like diamonds on the brown grasses by the roadside.
“May! May!”
The calls became weaker as she distanced herself from the Abe and Betty Weaver farm, the brilliant sunshine in her face and tears like diamonds dropping from her beautiful dark brown eyes. She turned left, toward the direction her senses took her, and walked sedately and with purpose. She knew there was a small town named Oakley and trusted someone, somehow would come to her assistance.
Her feet felt the sting of the cold first, then the tips of her fingers. She picked up her pace, hoping to generate more heat. She switched the satchel from right to left, and back again. An automobile cruised past, the occupants obviously curious. They slowed, backed up, and asked if she needed a ride. May did not want to trust a stranger, so she smiled, said no, she hadn’t far to go. She breathed a sigh of relief when they moved off, then swung her arms as she walked rapidly.
She passed farms, a few houses, a row of corn stocks covered in snow, the tops filled with greedy blackbirds helping themselves to the corn. Melvin would have a fit, some lazy farmer not having his corn husked. Crows winged overhead, cawing loudly, and were quickly erased by a skittering of juncos flying close to the ground, pecking at leftover millet seeds before taking flight.
She was glad for the sheepskin lining of her coat, glad for the woolen shawl and her warm stockings. Betty had done so much for her, giving her dresses she had outgrown after the birth of seven children.
She would miss them all, especially Emmie, the baby, who was often handed from one child to another, everyone taking their turn, whether they wanted to or not. A large household for one so young, although Betty took it all in stride, loved her children, and did the best she could.
Her evenings with Norrie were precious now, the child accepting May in her bed as if she had always been there. May thought now of the verse in the Bible that said, “Lest ye become as little children, ye can no wise enter into the Kingdom of Heaven.” The words of Jesus.
Children were completely without guile. There was no cunning, no hatred, no jealousy. Norrie merely stated her childish thoughts, her braided hair wound along the back of her head, her chin deep into the covers as she related the incidents of her day.
There would be much to miss now, much to ponder and remember. She had never been unhappy there, never wished to be elsewhere. Her life had been filled to the brim with kind, normal people whom she appreciated every day, always remembering to thank God for the kindness of this loving family.
As she walked, her legs began to ache, and her back felt as if the muscles were all drawing into a tight band. The back of her heel was being rubbed raw by the ill-fitting leather shoes, also handed down from Betty. She stopped to lift the heel from the shoe for a moment’s respite, then continued on her way before realizing a painful blister had developed. Nothing to do but open her satchel and find a bit of cloth, a handkerchief to stuff into the back of the shoe.
She was bent over to open the satchel when she heard the familiar ring of running hooves and steel rimmed buggy wheels. She straightened, ashamed to be seen bent over, rummaging in a satchel like a common tramp.
Quickly, she picked it up, resumed walking in spite of the fiery pain.
The horse was small, a two-year-old, if that. His ear pricked forward and his head was lifted unnaturally high as he caught sight of her dark figure.
At first, she thought there was no surrey behind the horse, till she realized the young horse was pulling a light one-seated sulky, the driver’s feet propped on the narrow dashboard, her headscarf a flaming red, her face very close to the same color.
The horse stopped, bouncing around as if on coiled springs. May stopped, made her way into the narrow incline beside the road, afraid she would spook the young horse who was obviously green broke.
“Come on. Get up there.”
A chirping from pursed lips, a fleeting “Hello!” as the horse took off running, making a wide arc around her. May lifted a hand and stood to watch the young horse and driver keep the fast pace till they were out of sight behind a grove of trees.
She reopened the satchel, found a clean, flowered handkerchief, applied it carefully into the bend of her shoe, and was on her way.
Much better, she thought, grateful for the gift of a flowered hanky, another kindness from Betty.
As she walked, she began to wonder what would be expected of her after arriving in Oakley. Dressed in the conservative Amish shawl and bonnet might make it hard for anyone to take pity on her, wondering why the Amish did not take care of their own. She had no alternative at this point, the way Betty had mysteriously “gotten rid of” her blue coat and plaid skirt. Well, nowhere else to go but forward, trusting God to see her through. All she needed was one kind soul who would give her a place of employment, a bed to sleep in.
She stopped when she heard the ring of hooves on the hard macadam and turned to find the same horse and sulky returning.
“Whoa. Whoa now. Stop. You stopped before, and you can again. Whoa. Easy there.”
Inquisitive eyes from the red face, but no smile of welcome, merely a nod in her direction.
“Who are you and why are you walking?”
For a moment, May was undecided if she should be frightened or just take the blunt question with good humor.
“My name is May.”
The horse snorted, pawed at the macadam, pulled at the reins, the whites of his eyes showing as he tossed his head.
“Are you that May that lives with Abe Weaver?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You used to live here, right?”
“I did.”
“Your parents died and you lived in Arkansas.”
“Yes.”
“Why are you walking?”
“I’m . . . I’m on my way to Oakley.”
“Why?”
May bit her lower lip, her heavy lids swept downward to eliminate the river’s piercing, accusatory gaze. She shifted the satchel from one hand to the other, then swiped a piece of lint from her shawl. Somewhere, a dog began a low-throated bark. Another one answered.
“Uh . . . well, I need to um . . . look for a job. Perhaps a place to stay.”
“What for?”
“I chose to leave Abe and Betty.”
“You chose, or they put you out?”
“Oh, they didn’t ask me to leave.”
“You’re lying.”
“No. No. Well, not really. It was my decision.”
The large chin protruding from the red scarf was pointed in the direction of a long, low building on a small grade uphill.
“See that?”
“Yes.”
“That’s my place. Meet me there? I’d pick you up, but this sulky only holds one. Come on up to my place, and I’ll give you a rest, okay? See ya.”
With that, she was off the minute she loosened the reins. May stood watching the flap of the brilliant red scarf.
What had she just said? Goose bumps covered her arms, chills raced up her spine. Come unto Me, and I will give you rest.
Is that what she’d said? No, not really. But, dear Lord, is she You in a bright red scarf? No Amish woman wore a red scarf.
Come to my place, and I’ll give you a rest.
I feel Your Presence, sweet Jesus, May murmured as tears slid unchecked down her cold cheeks. Surely God would not answer before she even set foot in the small town of Oakley. She was not worthy of a love so great, so unconditional, when she stood here, on the soil of her gehorsam ancestors, tainted with sin and sorrow. She was soiled with every vile sin, thrust upon her or having chosen it herself.
Well, thy servant heareth. If this is the kindness I need, then I’ll move toward it. One step, one hour at a time.
THE HOUSE WAS not an ordinary Amish farmhouse, and the barn was completely unlike anything she’d seen before. The porch was deep, with heavy pillars supporting the gable end, a small square dormer built into the steep roof.
Almost like a gingerbread house, May thought. Short and square, with long, low windows, the white curtains parted and tied at the sides. Wide plank porch steps, painted gray, with a gray milk box with red letters that said MILTON’S DAIRY. A fat yellow cat lay sprawled in the sun, as if he owned the milk box, the porch, everything.
May hesitated at the steps. The cat gave her a steady yellow gaze, then got to his feet to arch his back against the heavy post.
Still undecided, May looked toward the barn, wondering if the woman in the red scarf was still seeing to her horse.
The door was flung open.
“Come on in. My goodness, you have to be half frozen.”
Gratefully, May stepped forward.
“Don’t mind Ollie. He thinks this is his porch.”
There was a whistling teakettle on the smallest kitchen range May had ever seen, and two mugs ready for the boiling water. The house smelled of soap, peppermint, and freshly baked bread. Everything was tidy, the wooden floors gleamed, and there were brightly colored rag rugs under every rocking chair along the front of the navy-blue sofa. Kerosene lamps sat on crocheted doilies. The chairs were metal, with iron crafted into a heart on the backs of them. A checked tablecloth covered the table, with a vase of greenery sitting on top. She noticed the wide porcelain sink with a tiny four-paned window adorned with a white ruffled curtain.
May could only rest her eyes on one adorable object after another, taking in the visual delights along with the cleanliness, the darling charm of this small home. It seemed as if it was only a dream.
“Here, give me your wraps.”
Terrified, May’s face drained of color. This would be the ultimate test, and she had to face it with courage. Slowly she undid the bonnet strings, her fingers beginning to tremble, then the shawl. With a deep breath, she unbuttoned the coat and handed it to the woman, who waited quietly without speaking.
“Just sit down. Make yourself comfortable. If you’re still freezing, you can stand by the stove.”
But May had seen the flicker of her eyes, the downward glance at her rounded waist, though nothing was said.
May sat down quickly, her knees no longer supporting her. The woman busied herself at the small counter by the sink. May heard a distinct gurgle of water, but the spigot in the sink was closed, which puzzled her, but she said nothing.
“Tell me what brought you back from Arkansas,” the woman said, without turning her back. She was slicing something onto a white plate.
“It’s a long, complicated story.”
The woman didn’t push her. “Oh, I’m Clara. Clara Yoder. I remember you as a child. You and your brother. Who could forget that sad accident, right?”
May nodded, her throat tightening.
“Well, no use starting out getting to know each other so bluesy, gel (right)?”
May could not speak.
“Look, I don’t have to know why you came back, but I do have to know why you left Abe’s.”
May’s startled eyes flew to her face.
“Why?”
“Well, I can see how it is with you.”
May flushed scarlet, feeling alone, condemned, worthy of death.
“So if I’m not wrong, you’re causing problems, right? Church problems. Your being here is not an everyday occurrence. I heard a lot more than you know. I’ve picked my battles, thought ahead, figured you’d be sent packing. Betty isn’t gonna have her good name smeared by someone like you. I’m just surprised it happened quite this fast.”
May was breathless.
“So how did all this come about?
May lifted miserable, condemned eyes.
“If I tell you, you’ll send me away.”
“If you don’t tell me the truth, I will. If you dare tell me one lie about anything, I can’t promise a thing. All I want is the real truth.”
May’s head sank lower. She felt weak with hunger and shock, felt her own cowardice like a hot iron. Slowly, she shook her head.
“I can’t.”
“Look, we’ll get some hot tea into you. Some trail bologna and Swiss cheese. I made bread this morning and there’s honey in the comb. You’ll feel strengthened by a bite to eat.”
“Thank you so much.”
AND SLOWLY MAY found there was no condemnation with Clara Yoder.
When she began to talk, she flinched every time Clara opened her mouth to speak, waited for the tirade, the scolding she fully deserved. She would welcome it—it was right to be punished for all her transgressions. But the punishment didn’t come.
How to describe the flow of healing? How could one woman in a red scarf, a nose like a hawk, and a spate of unbecoming freckles possess eyes of the deepest hue of compassion? She found an empathy she had not known existed in any human being’s face. Words began as a hesitant drip, a hand to her mouth, wide eyes filled with fright and self-hatred. The drop turned into a trickle, and still there were many leaves unturned.
