Disappearances (14 page)

Was it the lack of a good, hot supper on Thursday? Had she become too snippy about leaving his soiled boots beside the stove on Wednesday? That was likely what it was. She would have to remember next time. Place a rug along the back of the stove for his boots, then shake out the accumulation that hardened on the soles afterward. She’d have to be more careful.

Having reached a reasonable conclusion for herself made all the difference, so she laid her book down, blew out the lamp, and soon fell asleep. You just had to know how to work at these things. Didn’t even the experts say marriage wasn’t easy?

When Mark disappeared on Saturday morning, she presumed he went to town, or forgot to tell her he had a few horses to shoe, or went out back to chop more firewood. She cleaned her house all morning, starting in the back, throwing open every bedroom window, allowing the spring breezes to enter, filling the room with the sweet smell of new growth, rain-washed earth, and spring flowers. She swept the wide-plank oak floors with the soft broom she had just purchased at Fred Ketty’s new dry goods store. All Amish women had to have a Soft Sweep broom. Inexpensive, the bristles so soft and pliable, it allowed a much cleaner sweep than those stiff bristled ones at Walmart.

The thing was, English women used vacuum cleaners, which whirred across the floor and sucked up the dirt and dust and household accumulation of questionable things, like pet hair and dander and bugs and spiders. When she cleaned at the ranch, she dusted first, then ran the powerful vacuum cleaner across the carpeting or hardwood floors.

At home she swept first, raising little puffs of dust and woolies from under the bed, making a pile outside the bedroom door before collecting it in a dustpan, then liberally spraying her cloth with Pledge furniture polish. She removed the candles, lamp, tray of lotions and colognes and worked the cloth energetically across the surface. When everything was replaced, she used the Swiffer, picking up any dirt and dust the broom had missed.

There. Now for the bathroom.

At the ranch, she had to dry the huge garden tub, then spray it with Tilex. Never anything else. Barbara Caldwell considered it the best product, so Sadie used it and never said a word. It was Barbara’s bathroom, and if she was happy with the result of her cleaner, it was good.

But at home Sadie used cheap old Comet. The dry stuff you shook out of a tall green container, wet a cloth, and scrubbed away. It never scratched anything she knew of and had a cleaner, smoother finish. No water spots.

She was on her hands and knees, scrubbing happily away at her new white bathtub, the water running, when she thought she heard someone calling her name. Quickly, she yanked down on the lever, stopping the flow of water. She stepped outside the door, looked left and right, but couldn’t see anyone. Wolf hadn’t barked, had he?

“Sadie!” There. Someone was calling.

Wiping her hands on her apron, she hurried to the front door and was gratified to see Mark standing by the barn door, waving a piece of paper.

“What?” she called, so glad he was talking to her.

“I’m going to the ranch.”

“Okay.”

She stepped back, eager to finish cleaning the bathtub. Why did he let her know now? He had been gone all morning without letting her know of his whereabouts. Pushing back the resentment, she tried to think of more pleasant subjects. She wished he’d finish the porch steps so she could wrap up her landscaping project. She could hardly wait to plant shrubs and flowers, especially since Dorothy had offered to take her to Rhinesville to a huge nursery and greenhouse combination. She promised the use of Jim’s truck so she could buy anything she wanted, even trees.

The thought of Dorothy weaving that rusted pickup truck in and out of traffic, her short legs and arms barely able to reach the pedals or the steering wheel, driving the same way she did everything else—as fast as possible—talking all the while, definitely caused Sadie a few misgivings. If only she wouldn’t maneuver the turns like that—seemingly on two wheels, sometimes spinning gravel from under the tires when her foot hit the gas pedal too firmly. But still, it was a free trip.

That was an awful bunch of dust and woolies on her broom. Stepping outside, she whacked it down on the porch railing to loosen them, and after a distinct crack, was left holding half a handle, the remainder of her broom lying in the mud below. Oh, no. That was the only broom she had except a porch broom, and she certainly did not want to use that. So she decided she needed a few dresses for summer, and she’d hitch up Truman and drive to Fred Ketty’s store. The cleaning would have to wait till she returned.

Smoothing back her hair, she pinned on a clean, white covering, grabbed her purse, and was out the door.

The loss of Paris was always worse at the barn. She hated going there and struggled to keep her eyes from wandering to the empty stall. The currycomb still contained honey-colored hair from Paris’s coat. She raked it out with her fingers, savored the softness as she sifted it between her thumb and forefinger, slowly letting it fall to the concrete floor of the forebay. Setting her mouth determinedly, she brushed Truman hard, willing the dark brown horsehair to drive away the endless longing for Paris.

She knew, now, that Paris was a very valuable horse, so perhaps it was for the best. She’d be in good hands, likely making some rancher wealthy with that bloodline of her past. She’d have to give up. Wasn’t that the way of it? What you couldn’t change, you had to accept.

Throwing the harness across Truman’s back, she adjusted it, fastened all the snaps and buckles, the collar riding well on his thick neck. Leading him to the buggy, she told him to stay, then hurried back to lift the shafts. There was always that small space of time when you were never sure if the horse you were hitching up would stand obediently until the shafts were lifted. Even then, if he had a mind to, he could have gone running and kicking, free of doing his duty of pulling the buggy. Truman was well trained and, with a slight tug of the britchment strap and a command of “Back,” he responded, stepping back lightly, fitting between the shafts neatly.

Truman was in high spirits, and Sadie’s arms felt as if they had quite a workout by the time Fred Ketty’s store came into view.

That Fred. Sadie smiled to herself as she noticed the gray siding on one side of the building, white on another, and beige-colored siding on the front. Likely he’d been scavenging the local lumberyard to build his wife her dry goods store. The dubious-looking stainless steel chimney poked its way out of the black shingled room, a thin, white column of smoke whirling away on the breeze. Why a fire in the stove? Sadie barely needed her sweater. The door stuck, so Sadie shoved harder, entering the store with a bang and two quick steps.

“Sadie!” Ketty boomed.

“H…hello, Ketty,” Sadie said, floundering a bit, grabbing for composure.

“Welcome to my store!”

“It’s nice!”

“Really nice, isn’t it? My Fred is something. Never saw anyone that can put up a nicer building for less than 2000 dollars.”

“Really?”

Ketty nodded proudly, then lowered herself around the cash register to whisper confidentially that Fred is good buddies with Jack from the lumberyard. Gave him stuff he can’t sell anymore.

“That’s good,” Sadie said, smiling.

It had to be close to a hundred degrees in the place. Sadie took off her sweater, asking if she could put it by the cash register.

“You too warm? Well, I got a bunch of cheap apples from the fruit man, and we don’t eat so many apples, me and Fred. I hate to see them go to waste, so I told Fred if he starts me a wood fire, I’d cook down the apples for
loddveig
. Nothing better than
loddveig
on a warm dinner roll,
gel
, Sadie?”

Sadie nodded, smiled, said all the appropriate things, her eyes looking for the right shade of blue, her fingers searching for a good, lightweight, sturdy fabric. She scratched her head, then wiped her forehead with a clean handkerchief. This was absolutely miserable. What was wrong with this woman? Why didn’t she open a window? Perspiration beading her forehead, she quickly made her purchase, steering clear of the red-hot, potbellied stove snapping and crackling in one corner, a heavy pot of apples bubbling and steaming on the top.

“Three yards of this, please.”

“Sure.”

Fred Ketty made a sweeping motion with her arms, a grandiose gesture of the experienced store owner, one who would become quite well-to-do the minute she had sold Sadie her fabric.

Sadie looked behind Ketty to the plush recliner, the cup of coffee, the heavy book. What had she been reading? On a Saturday? This early in the morning? A half-eaten cinnamon roll lay haphazardly across the Saran-wrap-covered plate that contained five more.

War and Peace
? Fred Ketty was reading
War and Peace
? Sadie looked sharply at Fred Ketty as if seeing her for the first time. Was she a genuine intellectual? People said she was way smarter than she looked, which was a blunt statement, but honest.

She imagined Fred Ketty with her hair down, dressed in English clothes. She was tall, statuesque, actually, her eyebrows quite regal-looking. If she wasn’t wearing the rumpled dress, the too-small glasses, the lopsided covering, she could probably look quite distinguished. A lawyer?

Sadie imagined Fred Ketty walking the streets of New York City, wearing a black belted trench coat and large, dark glasses, carrying a designer briefcase, four-inch heels coming down on the paved sidewalk. She bet she could do it if she hadn’t been born Amish. But here was Fred Ketty, her keen eyes looking at the world through her plain glasses, perfectly happy, avidly curious about the world’s goings on, about history, especially World War II. It was an innocent outlet for a mind that could have been taught so much more. It was the way of it. No sadness in this birdlike happiness.

“How’s marriage treating you?” Fred Ketty asked, folding a three-yard length, her bright eyes looking straight through her.

Sadie opened her mouth to say, “Fine,” but instead, ended up with a catch in her throat, her mouth wobbling. She sat behind the counter with Fred Ketty for an hour, eating the softest, most wonderful cinnamon rolls with cream cheese frosting and drinking chai tea, which Fred Ketty said was good for the sinuses, among other things.

She told her about Mark, and Fred Ketty clapped a warm hand on her shoulder and said that boy had a rough start. How in the world could she ever figure it wouldn’t show up sometimes? The human spirit could only take so much and not more, and he was likely doing the best he could, and she’d always said that Mark had married exactly the right girl, as strong as Sadie was. She was the perfect helpmate for a guy like him, and if he went into a depression like that, she’d have to detach herself and go on with her life and know she couldn’t change him. And if it got too bad, she could come over and sit in her store and eat sticky buns and drink chai tea.

She laughed so deeply and genuinely when Sadie told her about Mark sleeping on the couch, that it rolled between them and caught Sadie infectiously until her whole world looked better and better.

“It’s called marriage, Sadie dear!” she gasped, lifting her too small glasses to wipe her eyes, and Sadie was so glad Fred Ketty was here in her cheap little store and not a lawyer in New York City.

“W
HY DID YOU NOT
tell me, Mark?”

Sadie’s words were ripe with frustration. “Why? Why put me through all these days of silence, the months of not knowing what in the world is eating you, and suddenly, bingo, you let me in on your wonderful secret, which you had absolutely no right to hide from me at all?”

Mark leaped up, pushed back his kitchen chair, and slammed the door behind him as he left the house, giving Sadie no answer. She was so angry.

It was sweltering. Dry, hot wind tugged at the curtains, stirring the thick, tepid air but giving no real relief. In Montana the summer was not as unendurable as in Ohio, but there were always a few uncomfortable weeks, and this year had been no different.

Absentmindedly, she stirred the cold soup, that sweet concoction the Amish still considered a good, refreshing alternative to cookies on days when no one was comfortable. A large amount of fresh blueberries in the bottom of a generous pottery serving bowl, a liberal amount of sugar, a few slices of heavy homemade bread broken on top, and ice-cold milk poured over everything.
Kalte sup
.

It was so good. Sweet and creamy and fruity. Dorothy shivered to think about it, which made Sadie smile.

Wearily she began gathering knives, spoons, and forks, heading for the sink. Why had he done this on his own? Searching, going to the library, asking Duane Ashland, of all people, to use the computer.
Genealogy
. The word was hostile somehow. Against her. So now, out of the clear blue sky, he announced he had contacted his brother Timothy, and they planned to meet. He lived in Oregon. He was going, and did she want to go?

What about the months of wondering if she’d actually made a mistake? Marrying him the way she had, thinking her whole life would be one long day of love and adoration. She felt angry, bitter, and betrayed by his secrecy. So angry, in fact, that he was going to know it. She was absolutely not letting him get away with blithely skipping over these past months of hurt and disappointment.