Big Decisions (27 page)

“I’m not ready.”

Grimly, Lizzie scooped up the dish and comb, swiped the tabletop with a wet cloth, then reached for Laura as Stephen hurried to the bedroom to finish dressing. Lizzie’s heart sank seriously when she looked at Laura’s forehead. One bobbie was up higher and closer to the middle of her face while the other one hung to the side. Oh, it was so pathetic-looking. She couldn’t take her baby to church with those bobbies.

Weighing her options, she decided that arriving at church late would create more of a stir than two bobbies that were not quite straight, so she put the bottles of formula in her
kaevly
and said nothing.

Stephen emerged from the bedroom looking as handsome as he always did in his Sunday suit, and Lizzie forgave him readily for not allowing her to fix Laura’s bobbies.

“Is it chilly this morning?” she asked, hoping he had forgiven her for acting so hysterical.

“A little.”

So Lizzie put the little black woolen shawl around Laura’s shoulders, secured it with a pink safety pin, put the blue bonnet on her head, and tied it beneath her chin. She stood back to look at her, chuckling softly.

“Oh, Laura, you look so cute and so Amish with your bobbies!” she exclaimed, then swept her up into a tight hug.

Grabbing her
kaevly
, she went outside where Stephen had gone, put her
kaevly
into the
doch-veggley
or buggy, and climbed in, holding Laura firmly. Stephen gathered the leather reins, then reached up to George’s neck and attached the neck rein, that part of the harness which held George’s head up.

Lizzie always disliked neck reins. Always. They were the cruelest invention anyone had ever thought of. How would a person like to pull a load up a hill without being allowed to hunch over to pull? She always felt a small sense of rebellion every time Dat, and now Stephen, attached that thing. It was cruel, that’s what.

As Stephen climbed quickly into the buggy beside her, George tossed his head, made a running leap, and was off down the curving driveway. Lizzie clutched Laura tightly, nervously hoping Stephen could handle George. She was not in a good mood after all the tension of the morning, and it only elevated her bad humor to start off like that.

“I guarantee one thing,” she said dryly.

“What?”

“If you wouldn’t attach that neck rein quite as tightly as you do, George would behave himself better as he starts off.”

“That rein isn’t tight. What do you mean?” Stephen asked, turning to look at her quite sharply.

Too sharply, in Lizzie’s opinion, so she didn’t answer.

Stephen tried again. “What do you mean ‘that rein is tight’? He’s running with the rein loose now.”

Lizzie still didn’t answer, only because it felt too good to see him trying to get her to talk. So he shrugged his shoulders, thinking he’d never understand women as long as he lived, at least not Lizzie, anyway. She could be a strange duck.

They drove on in silence, Laura relaxing against Lizzie after the traumatic morning she had just endured. Her eyelids fell heavily as she fought sleepiness, the way she always did when they went away in a buggy. Lizzie shifted her arm more comfortably, then sat back against the blue upholstered buggy seat, sighing as her shoulders slumped in relaxation.

What a morning it had been, she thought wryly. She sincerely hoped this was not a harbinger of things to come. It wasn’t right. Here it was Sunday, the Sabbath, the Lord’s day, and she had already panicked, lost her temper twice, and was still coddling ill feelings toward her husband. She thought the devil sure didn’t take Sundays off, the way he had made her carry on.

She glanced at Stephen, who appeared a bit worn and weary for so early in the morning. She wondered what he was thinking, but she was still a bit too miffed about that neck rein deal to ask him. That was the trouble with being married. If that harness were Lizzie’s, she would have seriously lengthened the neck rein, but since it wasn’t hers, she had no business speaking her mind. She should sit back and leave it entirely up to her husband’s judgment, with absolutely no will of her own.

It was all so weird, strange, and stupid. Whoever heard of such a thing? She thought she had this all figured out when she was dating Stephen. Yet here she was, upset about that short neck rein, while he drove along, contently secure in the fact that he could drive with that rein exactly the way he wanted. He was the husband and she was the wife, and that meant he was the boss. She would have to figure out how to live with that.

She was just angry all over again. No one ever talked about the husband giving his life for his wife, as Christ gave himself for the church. To Lizzie’s way of thinking, if Stephen loved her so that he gave himself for her, he would lengthen that rein because it bothered her. Then when he came to church and the men asked him why his horse’s neck rein was so long, he should smile nicely and say his wife liked it that way, and that since it bothered her, it bothered him as well.

Then all the men would think what a good husband Stephen was and how fortunate Lizzie was to have him. Wasn’t that the way the Bible said it should be? But no, here they went, racing down the road, Stephen secure in his kingly position and she wrestling with this huge mountain called submission.

Suddenly the whole thing was unbearable and, forgetting to pout, she said loudly, “Doesn’t it bother you that George’s head is held up so high?”

“Lizzie, would you get off it? The rein is loose. He’s comfortable. It’s the way he naturally holds his head.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t, Stephen.”

“Lizzie, now stop. You’re still upset about making those bobbies, and you can’t give up that they’re crooked, so you’re taking it out on me. Now stop it.”

That really made Lizzie see red, so much so, in fact, that she felt like crying. The nerve of him! How did he know?

“You … you …”

“You can sputter around all you want to. It’s true.”

“You’re mean.”

“I don’t try to be.”

“I’m just telling you the truth.”

So Lizzie thought about the truth for the next mile or so, finally coming to the conclusion that he was probably right. That rein bothered her a lot more than usual because of her own frustration. Well, she wasn’t going to let him know she thought he was right. That would for sure only make him feel more superior than ever.

But when the visiting minister spoke eloquently about the blessing a family receives by a quiet, well-spoken, godly mother staying in her rightful position, Lizzie bent her head and cried a few tears in her rose-colored handkerchief. It touched a part of her soul that wanted to be good, but which her own willful nature made extremely difficult.

Glancing around furtively, she looked to see if other women felt the same desire to be such a person. Rather a large amount had tears in their eyes, and a few were blowing their noses. Lizzie felt very righteous and good inside, feeling as if she actually was like that. Well, not really, but by the time they had a larger family, she would be a virtuous woman. After all, these things take time.

L
AURA WAS OUTGROWING HER
little brown porta-crib. Lizzie’s mind began churning, trying to figure out a way she could fit a big, normal-sized crib into their small bedroom. Any way she arranged the furniture in her mind, the room was still too crowded. So she decided she would approach Stephen about transforming the room where he kept his gun cabinet and desk into a really cute little nursery.

As she hung her Monday’s washing on the line, she thought about it. When she ironed coverings she thought about it, and when she cleaned the basement she thought about it. In fact, that was all she could think about most of the day, becoming more and more excited as the day went on. She would make little gingham pink and white curtains and cover the bumper pad around the crib to match. Perhaps she could make a tiny comforter with pink and white flannel, knotting it with pink yarn. Or would white be better? Maybe white.

By the time Stephen came home from work, she had thought herself into quite a stew, her cheeks flushed, her eyes bright with anticipation, eagerly waiting to see if he was in the proper mood for her to ask such a huge favor.

Her heart fell as he climbed out of his co-worker’s truck, his trousers covered with mud, his face dark and very, very tired. Even his hands and thermos were muddy. It didn’t look too promising, she decided, so maybe the best thing was not to ask him at all this evening if he was tired and grouchy.

She waited nervously as he entered the basement, took off his shoes, and washed up at the sink, puttering around down there for far too long, she thought. When he finally did come upstairs, he did not have his usual smile of welcome.

“Long day?” Lizzie asked, too quickly and much too brightly.

“Yeah,” he said brusquely.

So Lizzie kept quiet as she served the good supper she had prepared—mashed potatoes and beef gravy, peas and carrots, and macaroni and cheese, one of his favorite meals. Lizzie tried to keep the conversation light and happy until Stephen pushed back his chair and sighed, finally smiling at her. Instantly Lizzie dove straight into the subject, plying him with all kinds of questions about many different subjects pertaining to that particular room.

“But you know, Stephen, the biggest problem is that there isn’t a doorway between your gun-cabinet room and our bedroom,” she stated quite firmly. Stephen lowered his eyebrows.

“Why would you need a doorway between our bedroom and the other room?” he asked.

“Well, I’d have to walk all the way through the living room, and besides, I couldn’t hear Laura very well when she cries,” Lizzie said.

Stephen didn’t say more after that. He just got up and walked into the living room, sitting heavily on the brown recliner and picking up a fishing magazine. Lizzie crossed her arms and glared at him. Of all the nerve! There he goes, tuning me out and refusing to talk. Well, she wasn’t finished yet, so she’d talk anyway. Sitting opposite him on the sofa, she leaned forward and began speaking in a sweet voice. Or so she hoped.

“But listen, Stephen, we can’t get a full-sized crib in our bedroom. It’s too small. You know that. I know you don’t want to give up your hunting room, but you’re going to have to anyway. You can’t just have that room for your stuff if we need it for the baby. And besides, you can keep all that junk upstairs.”

Stephen sat straight up.

“Junk! My hunting stuff isn’t junk!”

“Well, kind of.”

“That does it, Lizzie. I’m not moving out of there. We can arrange a big crib in our bedroom somehow.”

Lizzie sat straight up, gripping a small square pillow with both hands, her eyebrows reaching for her hairline, her eyes wide with disbelief and sorrow.

“You have to, Stephen!” she wailed.

“I don’t have to do anything,” he said, very quietly, but very determinedly.

He may as well have been a judge in a courtroom, raising his gavel, banging it down, and passing a sentence that would send her to prison, Lizzie thought wearily. All her dreams of pink gingham curtains and a little changing table flew out the window, disappearing somewhere above the sun.

She was afraid of the firmness in his voice, so she sighed as loud as she could, hoping her eyes would convey how hard it was when he refused to do her bidding. When he didn’t respond, she slowly returned to the kitchen. Cleaning all the dishes off the table in slow, sad, little movements, she watched him out of the corner of her eye to see if he felt badly. She fervently hoped so.

There was nothing to do but give it up. Well, there was half of a small saucepan of macaroni and cheese left. She got a clean fork from the drawer and ate great comforting mouthfuls of the gooey, cheesy dish. She didn’t care if she gained five pounds. Actually, if he was going to be so mean, maybe she’d just keep eating macaroni and cheese until she gained 20.

Turning on the hot water, she grabbed the bottle of dish soap and squeezed it angrily, creating way too many suds. She had to rinse the dishes twice as long, and there were suds over everything. She had always loved that feeling as a little girl, but now, the bubbles only irked her more.

After she wiped the counter clean, she felt very thirsty. She drank a large glassful of cold water from the refrigerator, then felt fat and uncomfortable and worse than ever. She didn’t want to join Stephen in the living room, because she wasn’t planning on talking at all. All evening—not one word.

She supposed she could go sit in the bedroom, but Laura was asleep, and she certainly did not want to wake her. She had two options: continue to stand right where she was, against the kitchen counter where he couldn’t see her, or sit in the bathroom, which would seem a bit suspicious.

Maybe she could pretend to be sick and make terrible retching noises, and he would become extremely alarmed and so sorry. Then he would put his arms around her and tell her he loved her and would do anything she wanted. He couldn’t bear the thought of living without her.

Well, knowing Stephen, he’d go right on reading his fishing magazine without worrying about retching noises in the bathroom. She sighed and then blew her nose, which sounded a lot dryer than she had hoped. She wanted desperately for him to think she was crying, standing all alone in the kitchen, sobbing so pitifully. Taking a few soft steps, she peeped around the partition, wondering if he looked her way at all.