Big Decisions (21 page)

“Really? You were never in a hurry?” she asked.

“No use hurrying if the best time to seed a lawn is in September. That’s another whole month.”

“You mean you’re not going to get started on the lawn next week?” Lizzie asked, trying to keep the desperation from her voice.

“No.”

“Well … well … well … what ARE you going to do in the evening?” she asked, her heart sinking.

“I don’t know. Just relax.”

“But … why would you relax, when … ?”

“Lizzie, there’s more to life than hurrying to finish everything as fast as you can. What would you suggest that I do?”

“Well, nothing. I mean, if you don’t want to.”

“We only have enough money to have this topsoil spread by an excavating company; then our loan is completely used up. I’d love to have a new bow. A compound bow. Archery season comes in October, so I thought maybe I could do a few jobs in the evening, save the money, and buy a new bow.”

Lizzie stared off across the hills of topsoil, trying so hard to say the right thing, but she imagined Stephen working in the evening and not having her precious yard put in until spring.

“You mean …? Stephen! Surely not!” she wailed, losing all her premeditated composure.

She wanted a new lawn, shrubs, and flower beds so badly, especially now that they seemed so close, and he’d go prancing off, working for someone else to buy a bow! Just for himself!

“What?” Stephen asked, his head swirling in her direction, staring at her in disbelief.

“You wouldn’t put in the lawn?” Lizzie said quite forcefully, her eyebrows lowered as she stared back at him.

“Yes, I would. How long does it take to put in a lawn? One day? A few evenings? We have a whole month before September.”

“Oh.”

Lizzie’s relief knew no bounds and was followed by a rush of love for Stephen, and the fact that he would not go archery-hunting until the lawn was seeded. Now that was so nice of him, she thought, slipping her arm through his and laying her head on his shoulder.

Suddenly she remembered the Mennonite produce farmer, Robert Weaver, who had asked if there was anyone available to help pick tomatoes. Mam had told him her girls were no longer at home, and she wasn’t sure who would be available to help. Tomato-picking was a good thing. Lizzie and her sisters had picked tomatoes for a farmer when she was only 15 years old, and they had made a substantial amount of money for Mam. Why couldn’t they do that now? She and Stephen?

“Stephen, I know! We can pick tomatoes!” she said, beaming.

“Pick tomatoes? I guess not,” Stephen snorted.

“I’m serious, I really am. You can make 20 dollars in a hurry picking tomatoes, and it’s enjoyable work. I mean, as long as your back doesn’t begin to hurt.”

“A bow costs a lot more than 20 dollars, Lizzie.”

“How much more?”

“More like 200.”

“Really? Well, we could work about 10 evenings, and that would do it,” Lizzie chirped, undaunted.

The thing about this whole bow business was the fact that if she wasn’t nice about Stephen spending money for that bow, then perhaps he would become all strict and proper, deciding not to spend money for shrubs and mulch and other unnecessary but nice things she dreamed about.

All her life, Lizzie had admired neat lawns, closely trimmed shrubs, and meticulously cared for flower beds, always determining how she could achieve that look of perfection in her own yard. Even when she was at home on the farm, she mowed grass constantly. She cut away at the edges of the flower beds to make precisely straight borders until Mam had yelled at her from the porch, telling her to go store that hatchet before she hacked the entire yard away.

It made her nervous to think of wanting something so badly, to have it so nearly within reach, and yet to know that Stephen may not want to plant expensive shrubs. The new house was there now, and finished on the outside, anyway. All she needed to achieve her dream of a beautiful little home was a seeded lawn and shrubs.

“We could try it,” Stephen said slowly.

So the following week when Stephen got home from work, Lizzie had supper ready and waiting so they could quickly eat. Then Stephen hitched up George, the horse, while Lizzie hurriedly washed dishes, and they were off. George was feeling frisky, and the two miles passed in a blur before they pulled up to the hitching rack on the Robert Weaver farm. Stephen hopped down and went to find Robert while Lizzie waited, watching the tomato-pickers bent over as they worked in the flat field.

It was a pretty sight, the sun beginning to take on its evening glow, the colorful prints of the Mennonite girls’ brightly colored dresses brilliantly lighted against the backdrop of green tomato plants dotted with black plastic hampers filled with bright red tomatoes. She wished she could take a picture, but Amish people don’t believe in having cameras, so she knew she couldn’t and that was all right.

Stephen returned with Mr. Weaver, tied George to the hitching rack, and then they were off across the drive and down the lane leading to the tomato plants. Lizzie had to walk fast to keep up with Stephen. Robert had shown him where they could start picking, which proved to be farther away than it had appeared at first.

There was a stack of black plastic hampers turned upside down at the rows where they would begin. Eager to show Stephen what an accomplished tomato-picker she was, she stepped right up to the hampers and easily pulled several from the tall stack. She walked along, scattering a few ahead of them. She turned to find Stephen with his hat pushed back, scratching his head in bewilderment.

“Lizzie, it’s going to take all evening to fill 10 baskets, and that’s two dollars and fifty cents. This is not the smartest thing we’ve ever done.”

Bending to the task, Lizzie lifted the dying tomato vines to find an absolute trove of large ripe tomatoes all piled in one heap.

“Look, Stephen. This is no problem. Watch. How long does it take to fill a hamper when there are so many of these huge red tomatoes on top of each other?”

She began pulling at the tomatoes, remembering how easily they were removed from the stalk, and slamming them into the bin as fast as she could. She pulled tomatoes, showing off for Stephen and going much faster than what was absolutely necessary.

Stephen watched, then grabbed a hamper.

“I’d rather be building pole barns,” he grumbled, but he soon began throwing tomatoes into the hamper, keeping up with Lizzie.

She said nothing, grimly determined to pick as many tomatoes as she possibly could. The sun slid down, the air began to cool a bit, and still they kept picking tomatoes. Lizzie’s back hurt horribly, but she was determined Stephen wouldn’t know, as he showed no signs of slowing.

They were both on their tenth basket now, so Lizzie figured at 25 cents a basket, they would have five dollars for 20 baskets. That was far from 20 dollars, though, and her back could not stand one more basket before she would collapse into a heap in the tomato stalks. Straightening up, she rubbed her back with both hands, grimacing as she did so.

“Doesn’t your back hurt?” she asked, watching intently as Stephen kept on picking, whistling under his breath.

“Hmm-mm.”

“Not one bit?”

“Hmm-mm.”

No use showing her weakness now, she thought grimly. I can’t stand bending over picking things too long at a time, but he’s not going to find out. This was my idea. Groaning inwardly, she bent over and began her eleventh basket, glancing over her shoulder to see how far away the sun was from dropping behind the mountain. Pretty far.

“Stephen, what time is it?” she asked.

He straightened, pulled his watch from his pocket and said, “Six-thirty.”

“Is that all?”

“What do you mean, is that all? If we’re going to make 20 dollars, we still have a long way to go.”

Lizzie nodded, bent her back, and picked tomatoes as if a mad bull would attack her if she didn’t keep up with Stephen. Now the backs of her legs hurt miserably, a dull ache that went clear down to her ankles. But on she toiled, her only source of energy derived from her stubborn will and determination to prove to Stephen that she could pick tomatoes as fast or faster than he could.

Lizzie kept going, trying to think of any subject to take her mind off the pain in her back, but nothing worked for very long. She thought of shrubs, lawns, flowers, the porch Stephen wanted to build, but nothing made her feel better. She thought of the way they tortured prisoners during wars to get them to talk about secrets they needed to know in order to win a battle. Tomato-picking could work as torture. She wondered if anyone had ever thought of that before. It would be a very good idea. Lizzie decided she would tell anyone just about anything to get out of this torturous backache. She would even tell Stephen her back hurt, she finally admitted.

“Stephen!” she blurted out.

“What?”

“My back hurts. Let’s quit.”

Stephen straightened and looked quizzically at her face. It bore the pain of the past hour, with her eyebrows poking straight up in the middle, her eyes resembling a coon hound’s, sad and begging for pity. He tried desperately to keep a straight face, certainly not wanting to laugh at his wife if she was suffering. But the suffering was only half as bad as she portrayed it, of this he was positive.

In the short time they had been married, he had learned to know her quite well. She preyed on his pity, which really was all right, actually a bit endearing, except for now. Whose idea had this been, anyway?

“How many baskets did we pick?” he asked.

“Don’t worry about that, Stephen. Don’t you care one tiny bit about my back? I’m going to ruin it for the rest of my life, I mean it.”

“Lizzie, this was your idea.”

Suddenly her face turned beet red and she leaned forward, clenching her fists. “Stop saying that, Stephen!” she yelled. “You didn’t have to come with me. It’s your fault, too!”

He hurriedly bent his back, picking tomatoes so she couldn’t see him laughing. His shoulders shook, and he sputtered to keep from laughing out loud, knowing her anger would only increase if she saw that he thought it was funny.

“Why don’t you say something?” she asked, still angry.

“Oh, go pick tomatoes, Lizzie. You’ll be all right,” he managed, behind the huge grin on his face, which by now he had turned away.

By the time the sun actually, finally, slid behind the mountain, casting a spell of shadows across the abundant field of tomatoes, Lizzie was seriously afraid she would not be able to find enough strength to return home. She would probably need to spend the remainder of the night in the tomato patch.

Stephen rubbed his grimy hands together.

“That was fun! We made 25 dollars! A good start. If we return tomorrow evening, that will be 50. A fourth of what I’ll need. Probably not even that much.”

Lizzie hobbled between the rows, rubbing her lower back and glaring at her husband.

“I’m not coming back,” she said shortly.

“Really?”

“No.”

“Ach, come on, Lizzie. Be a sport. Till tomorrow evening you’ll be used to it.”

Lizzie was going to answer, she really was, but nothing would come out of her mouth. For one thing, she was almost crying, and for another, if she didn’t answer, then maybe he’d worry about why she didn’t and start to say things husbands should say. Things like she did so well, and he appreciated her help, and he loved her very much, and he never saw anyone pick tomatoes as fast as she did. Things that would make her want to help him save money to buy his archery supplies.

They finished up in the field. After they were paid, Stephen untied the horse and they headed home. It felt very good to sit beside him in the buggy and pity herself, but it bothered her that he was whistling low under his breath, intently looking out the side door for deer. They wound their way up the hill beside the creek and through the woods until they came to a halt on the main road. George chomped impatiently on his bit as they waited for a few cars to pass.

It was a lovely evening, the last glow of light making everything look prettier than it actually was. Farmhouses and barns that weren’t perfect because of a rusted roof, faded siding, or sagging shutters suddenly appeared almost brand new and beautiful in the fading half light of a summer evening. Cows grazing in the pasture after milking seemed much cleaner, and the pasture itself appeared even and dark green with no thistles or cow dung in it. It was amazing. Without thinking, she told Stephen this, and he turned to look at her, slid an arm around her, and held her tightly against his side. Lizzie was startled, then grinned smugly to herself.

Ah-hah! He DID appreciate her. He just wouldn’t tell her in so many words the way her family did at home. Snuggling against him, she already looked forward to another evening of picking tomatoes, backache or not.

So during the course of a few weeks, Stephen and Lizzie made 184 dollars. Lizzie’s back actually became used to the work, and she learned how happy you could become by doing something unselfish for your husband. Stephen even asked her to go along to the archery shop, but she declined, knowing he would enjoy it more without her waiting impatiently by his side.

Then, one glorious week in August, the excavator spread the topsoil. They let it settle for a few weeks, then bought grass seed and fertilizer. Stephen brought bales of straw from his father’s farm. Their friends, Dan and Leah Miller, offered to help them with their lawn since they had seeded their own yard the year before.

The evening Stephen and Lizzie decided to seed the lawn turned into a fun-filled, festive evening. First, everyone raked the soil until it was fine and smooth, removing small rocks and leveling uneven hills of dirt. Dat and Jason arrived with their own rakes, Mam brought homemade cinnamon rolls, and they all worked on the new lawn, moving along the front of the house, down the opposite side of the driveway, and all along the sides and back of the house.

Then, while everyone else rested, Dan and Stephen spread the fertilizer and seeds, raked lightly again, and spread straw to absorb the moisture and protect the tiny little seeds. Lizzie washed her hands well, made coffee, mixed iced tea, and then served a good snack. They all sat around the table, enjoying each other’s company and Mam’s delicious cinnamon rolls.