Leaving Lancaster (7 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Sitting across from her mamm and Nathaniel, Esther felt pent up, a lamb being carted off to market.

Isaac dominated the table, sitting where their father used to eat. Her little brother was now a preacher, chosen by lot, ordained by God. In letters, Mamm hadn't mentioned his highly respected status, a full-time unpaid burden on top of working the farm. Esther wondered if Isaac relished the power and prestige accompanying the position. He certainly wouldn't approve of her choices and lifestyle.

Judging from his gruff tone and lack of eye contact—with her, anyway—he had taken on their father's disposition. She recalled Dat's flaring temper, how the family would cower when he fell into a foul mood. Esther's mamm never shielded her children from his ranting nor did she speak up in her own defense. Not that Mamm could, according to the Ordnung—the bishops', preachers', and deacons' interpretation of the Bible. A woman must submit to God, her husband, and her father.

Esther repositioned herself on the pad-covered wooden chair, but couldn't get comfortable. She was glad she'd dressed in her conservative calf-length skirt and hadn't chosen her blouse with the embroidered front, nor worn earrings or a wristwatch. She didn't want to look more fancy to her mother and brother than she already did. At least her hair was fastened into a bun, much like Greta's, but without a
prayer cap.

The three kids gobbled their lunch, followed by fluffy molasses shoofly pie, then, after Isaac led another silent prayer, they congregated in the sitting room to play checkers before naptime. Their laughter reminded Esther of her childhood. At their age she had expected she'd help raise her brothers, do chores, tend the garden, get baptized, married, and raise a family, the more offspring the better.

She watched Mamm serve Holly another portion of shoofly pie and was surprised Holly didn't protest, “Hold on, that's way too much,” but rather inhaled a mouthful and exclaimed, “This is the best pie I've ever eaten.”

“Ich bedank mich.” Mamm's eyes lit up with delight.

“Guess I'll need to take a walk later to burn off the extra calories.” Holly savored another bite. “I usually go to the gym and jog on the treadmill four days a week.”

“No need,” Isaac said. “There's plenty of work to be done around here. Ain't that so, Esther?”

Esther bobbed her head, her words trapped in her mouth along with the pie she was having a tough time swallowing. If she'd only come back a decade ago, this meal wouldn't be so excruciating. But each year, she'd found an excuse. The Amish Shoppe couldn't operate without her; Holly was studying for her SATs, applying to colleges, and graduating from high school. Not enough money, no time, no backbone.

She checked the battery-run clock on the wall. The minutes seemed to tick at half speed. She remembered herself as a preteen; at the noon meal, time crawled while she longed to streak out the back door barefoot, run across the field, and wade in the creek. But no, she must wait for everyone to finish eating, put away leftovers, and clean the kitchen. After, weeding the garden awaited her.

Esther's hands scrunched her napkin, then she flattened it across her lap as best she could. Last week riding the Metro bus home from the Fiber Gallery, a yarn shop, hadn't she thought her days too stressful? At her annual physical, her general practitioner advised, “You should consider blood pressure medication, although I'm guessing anxiety is the culprit.”

Esther pushed the rest of her pie around her plate with her fork as the others chatted about Nathaniel's organic farm. She recalled Nathaniel King from childhood. He was a couple years younger than she and Samuel, but they'd studied together in the same one-room schoolhouse. She'd thought he was all moony-eyed over her those many years ago, but he probably didn't remember her anymore. She shuddered to imagine his opinion of her now.

“When I do the grocery shopping, I buy only organic,” Holly said. She seemed interested in Nathaniel's farming techniques, but Esther could tell by the way her daughter's gaze flitted about that she found Nathaniel boring. And the house? She bet Holly saw it as unappealing compared to Dori and Jim's home, their walls adorned with family photos and prints of the Pike Place Market.

Setting her fork on the edge of her plate, Esther remembered how pretty and spacious her parents' house had seemed when she was a child. Compared to her little home in Seattle it was huge, and for good reason. The front rooms' wall partitions could be removed to accommodate the whole district community, over two hundred on one preaching Sunday a year, rotating throughout the parish. As a young girl, she'd been thrilled when church members brought food dishes and thick-crusted pies to eat after church service.

Esther was an alien today. It occurred to her she should have brought her mother a gift—a hostess present, at the least. Self-centered Esther was still only thinking of herself.

“More pie, Isaac?” Mamm asked.

He belched and Holly turned to look at him. “Yah, please,” he said.

Mamm smiled and sliced into it. “Anyone else?”

“Me, too,” Nathaniel said, adding a belch.

Esther wished she'd warned Holly belching was considered good manners, a sign the person was enjoying his meal.

She wondered what had happened to Nathaniel's deceased wife. Giving him closer inspection, she saw slate-blue eyes the color of the yarn she'd recently chosen to knit Jim a sweater vest, framed by strong eyebrows and lashes any woman would covet. If only Holly could find a fine man like him; he'd be suitable husband material. No, Holly would never marry a bearded fellow wearing suspenders and baggy trousers, let alone become Amish.

“Do your children live nearby?” Esther asked Nathaniel.

“My Tina lives two miles east and has three children,” he said, “and Hannah is down in Strasburg. No Kinner
yet.”

“You live by yourself?” Holly said, which seemed impolite to Esther.

“Yah, just me and my cows and chickens.”

Holly tilted her head. “And horses?”

“A thoroughbred, four mules, and six Clydesdales. Not that I'm boasting, mind ya.”

Esther wondered if he were courting anyone but knew better than to ask. Courting was kept strictly between the unmarried man and woman. Often family members and best friends were kept in the dark until an intention of marriage was announced at church a couple weeks before the marriage season commenced—next month in November and through December, on Tuesdays and Thursdays, now that she thought of it. As the notion rambled through her mind, Nathaniel glanced over at her and smiled, revealing laugh lines. She couldn't help but smile back. A butterfly fluttered in her chest. Was he flirting with her? No, not possible with her stunning daughter sitting close by.

She broke eye contact, took hold of her fork. “Mamm, your pies are as good as ever.”

“Thank you.”

“My mother bakes a mean pie, but she's never made this kind,” Holly said. “Lunch was delicious, Grandma. Especially the biscuits. And the butter's creamier here.”

The corners of Mamm's mouth curved up into a crescent moon. “I must admit, the butter's store-bought. But it's from a local dairy.”

“Beth said she takes you shopping,” Holly said, then sipped her water.

“Yah, she carries my groceries to her van and then into our house, and helps me put them away.”

Esther gritted her teeth as she imagined Mamm and Beth chit-chatting on the way to the market. She wondered how much Beth already knew about her life, wondered if Mamm had brought Esther's letters along to read aloud.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I felt I'd landed in a Northern Germanic country, transported hundreds of years back in time, immersed in rustic surroundings—although my grandma did have a refrigerator and stove, run by what I wasn't sure, since they didn't plug into the wall. My young cousins spoke only in Pennsylvania Dutch. I could catch bits of what they said.

After lunch, Greta addressed Mom. “I'll clear and wash the dishes if you'll look after our Lydia.”

“Yes, please,” Mom said. “I'd be delighted to hold her for as long as you need.” Greta handed the baby to my mother's receptive arms and Mom began rocking Lydia and cooing.

If only I had my own child to include in this gathering. My mother had her daughter, me, to represent her branch of the family tree, but I was a desert. I might as well be barren; within years I would be.

Grandma placed a hand on Nathaniel's shoulder. “Would ya please take Holly for a buggy ride and show her the sights?” she said. “Looks like the sun's comin' out real nice.”

“He's probably too busy.” I didn't care for her suggestion. Was she setting me up for a date with an older man?

“I have much work ta do,” Nathaniel said, hooking his thumbs in his suspenders, looking uneasy. “This late in the year, the sun sets early.”

Isaac stood, then headed out the back door wearing his boots and hat, suggesting Nathaniel was right. Without modern equipment, Uncle Isaac must work twenty-four hours a day. And, frankly, who wanted to spend time with Nathaniel? Not I.

“The chores'll be waitin',” Grandma Anna said. She smiled at me, the way I'd always dreamed a granny would. “Maybe Holly can help out later.”

“I know zilch about farming,” I said, because I wanted to stay with her. Yet I needed a break from my mother. And I needed to move about after eating too much—I'd even polished off the morsels Mom said she didn't have room for. She'd hardly consumed her meal. I imagined Grandma Anna noticed but hadn't mentioned her skimpy appetite. So far, I couldn't find one detail not to like about my fabulous, picture-perfect grandmother. What had Mom been thinking all these years? Grandma Anna was the greatest.

“No hurry getting back, you two,” were my grandmother's parting words to Nathaniel and me as I zipped on my jacket. “Have a
wunderbaar
time. Nathaniel, be sure to show Holly a covered bridge.”

We left by the back door. Once outside, I felt the midday sun radiating warmth through a crepe paper–thin veneer of clouds. I inhaled the fresh farm air, laced with smoke from a distant fire. Nathaniel and I strolled down the road to his home, similar to Grandma's, about half a mile south. Behind it stood a freshly painted white barn, two silos, and a windmill.

I checked the far end of the house. “No Daadi Haus?” I said, pleased I remembered two words in Pennsylvania Dutch.

“Not yet. Neither my parents nor my former wife's parents dwelled with us.”

I wondered why he'd never remarried and if he must wear a beard the rest of his life, even though he was single.

“I'm intrigued that you grow only organic crops,” I said, not daring to bring up personal questions.

“Yah, organic only.” He picked up his speed, his legs a foot longer than mine. Was he afraid a neighbor would see him with a stranger? Did he resent playing tour guide—my stealing him away from his duties? This was going to be a dreary afternoon as far as company went.

Tagging a few feet behind, I let my eyes embrace the serene landscape: pastureland, harvested fields, neighboring farms in the distance. I inhaled robust air unlike the city's smog and listened to trilling birdcalls I'd never heard before.

We rounded Nathaniel's house and I followed him into an area accommodating a barn he said was used for milking, a larger barn I guessed for storing hay and straw, small outbuildings, a chicken coop, and a gate leading to a lush pasture containing horses and two dozen black-and-white cows he said were Holsteins.

Behind them stretched another field of what looked to be drying cornstalks. Or was it wheat? I decided not to inquire and escape Nathaniel's one-word answers. Grandma Anna could fill me in later.

Nathaniel clicked his tongue.

A dappled-gray horse raised its majestic head, then bolted past the cows to receive a sugar cube from Nathaniel's hand. Nathaniel took hold of its halter and led the horse to a hitching post near an outbuilding lodging two buggies, one like ours at the Amish Shoppe and a smaller one without a roof.

“Which would you prefer?” Nathaniel asked.

I pointed to the open two-person buggy. “I'll get a better view.” I wouldn't admit our brisk walk had warmed me.

The horse's tail flicked.

“Steady, boy, I'm movin' as fast as I can.” Nathaniel harnessed the horse to the buggy.

“He's gorgeous.” I admired the sculpted beauty, but was afraid he'd step on my foot or kick me. “Is he a stallion?”

“No, a gelding.”

“What's his name?”

“Galahad. A retired racehorse I found at auction.”

Nathaniel was not much of a conversationalist. At least I'd get a tour of the county and a retreat from my sulking mother.

“Sorry to put you to this trouble,” I said.

Nathaniel extended his hand and helped me into the buggy. “'Tis no trouble.” But his dour expression showed otherwise.

“I think Grandma Anna wanted me out of the house to give my mother and her a chance to speak in private. Finally. You know my mother's been gone.”

“You both have.”

“Our absence wasn't my fault. I honestly didn't know Grandma was alive.”

He surveyed my face as if he didn't believe me. My, what beautiful blue eyes this man had. But not the greatest personality; no wonder he was still single.

He climbed into the buggy on the other side and took up the reins. The horses pulling buggies I'd seen so far appeared to trot demurely, but once Nathaniel spoke to Galahad and jiggled the reins, his feisty steed took off as if itching for an adventure. I felt every joggle and bump, then a joyous sensation as the horse cantered down the road.

My senses were heightened, colors magnified by the October sun sitting low in the sky, casting elongated shadows. Towering maple trees, their remaining leaves ranging from ginger to burgundy, blurred past. The wind swirled through my ears—invigorating. We overtook a gray covered buggy and an SUV full of tourists, I assumed, the way Nathaniel turned his face away when they took photos.

The farms and fields, pumpkin patches, meandering streams, and a stone mill I guessed was two hundred years old fascinated me. And Nathaniel? Yes, his steady grip on the reins piqued my attention. His knuckles were hefty and his nails in need of a manicure—a workingman's hands, seemingly able to tackle any job.

“You warm enough?” he said. “I've got a blanket.” He stretched the woolen square across my lap.

“Thanks.” Leaning back, I listened to the clip-clip-clopping and felt the soothing buggy swaying beneath me. Out of the corner of my eye, I gave Nathaniel a casual inspection. Except for his funky haircut and his scraggly beard—I'd never cared for facial hair, except a movie star's two-day-old stubble—he was ruggedly handsome. He possessed a manly quality, the opposite of Larry Haarberg back in Seattle.

With a spoken word and a subtle tug on the reins, Nathaniel steered the buggy off the main road onto a lane. We passed a herd of grazing sheep. I envisioned newly born lambs frolicking on the pasture next spring. Why did my mother leave this extraordinary place? Oh, yeah. No cars, electricity, or telephones. But still, why not visit her mother and brothers? Not to mention her outlandish lying to me.

Through a grove of partially bare elms, their limbs reaching to the sky like ballet dancers' arms, I spotted farmhouses much like Grandma's, also with green shades. And no electric wires running from telephone poles.

“I'm finally getting the hang of it,” I said. “No electric wires means Amish live there.”

“That's right.”

“How can you stand living without electricity?” I thought of our TV—the five o'clock news and
Masterpiece Mystery
.

“Electricity brings in the outside world and separates our community.” His voice turned forceful, emerging from his abdomen. “It separates us from God.”

“Are kids required to join the church at a certain age?” I thought of my rebellious parents.

“They're given a choice,” he said. “At age sixteen, they enter a running around period, what we call Rumspringa. By age twenty-one, around ninety percent of young adults raised Old Order Amish get baptized and commit themselves to God and the church.” The man who hardly finished a sentence seemed primed to give me a lecture. But I wanted to learn about their ways, my parents' history.

“And once they get baptized?” I said.

“They're committed to remain Amish for life.”

“I guess my parents didn't want to be baptized for some reason.” I hoped Nathaniel would fill me in, but he clammed up, his focus directed on a bearded man in a field steering a team of mules.

Feeling cozy, I unzipped my jacket. As I watched a rabbit scamper across the road, my thoughts skittered back to Mom. I was thrilled my grandma was alive, but Mom's past behavior baffled me more than ever.

Dori had mentioned meeting my mother in San Francisco when Mom was first pregnant, but Dori hadn't divulged further details, only that my mother traveled to Seattle, where she gave birth to me. She'd lived with Dori and Jim for several years, until moving to her own home, later transformed into the Amish Shoppe with Jim's assistance.

Fifteen minutes later, Nathaniel slowed the horse and circled back toward his house. We hadn't crossed a covered bridge, but I could see one tomorrow. Now might be my last chance to grill him for information about Dad.

“Did you know my father, Samuel Fisher?”

He loosened up on the reins and Galahad slowed his pace. “I was a couple years younger, but we all went to a one-room schoolhouse together.”

“Just checking. My dad really existed?”

“Yah. For sure.”

“Mom has only one black-and-white photo, taken when Dad was eighteen.”

His eyebrows lowered, and a look of disapproval morphed his face—why, I couldn't fathom. “She owns a photograph of him?” he said.

“Yes, on her bureau.” Inquiries about Dad, everything from his personality quirks to his hobbies, crisscrossed my mind. Did Amishmen have time for hobbies? Mom had mentioned volleyball games on weekend afternoons. “What was he like?” I asked.

“It's been many a year.” Nathaniel repositioned his hat. “I haven't seen Samuel since I was thirteen. As I recall, he was outgoing and energetic. You should ask Esther.”

“I have, but she sidesteps the subject.” I turned to face him; his hair and beard seemed more pleasing. “I wonder what his ambitions were. To be like his father? Mom said his dad was a farmer.”

“He still is. Ready to retire. Samuel's parents live not far away. Maybe you and your mother will visit them while you're here.”

Would Grandma Anna orchestrate that gathering, or did the Fishers hate Grandma, too?

“They may not know about me. They might think my father died childless.” Nothing new, but voicing the facts made my throat constrict like I'd swallowed a tablespoon of salt.

“Of course they know about you. Anna would have told them years ago.”

“But they've never reached out to me.” Because of Mom.

Having no relatives in Seattle was an advantage, I'd always told myself. But I knew deep in my core it wasn't true. Thanksgiving and Christmas were humdrum without a houseful of family. Thank the Lord for Dori and Jim. But they had their own children, as well as siblings and cousins they often visited in Portland, Oregon.

“Out of curiosity, where do my dad's parents live?”

“Not far away.” Nathaniel massaged the reins. “I could drive ya by their farm right now if ya like.”

“No, we'd better not.” I avoided conflict. Hated it, really. “Mom said they never wanted to speak to her again.”

“I'm sure Samuel's parents have forgiven her. Holdin' a grudge goes against the teachings of the Good Book. Luke 6:37. ‘Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.'”

“Mom's recited that Bible verse enough times, but why should I forgive mean-spirited bullies who teased me as a girl and never apologized?” Even if they'd forgotten all about me.

I supposed I hadn't forgiven my dad for dying, either. Which I knew was ridiculous. But still, it seemed like he'd deserted Mom and me.

“The Lord admonishes us to forgive.” Nathaniel's home was still a good trek away, but he pulled up on the reins and Galahad halted at the side of the road. Maybe he was going to make me hike back.

When the reins went slack, the horse lowered his neck to munch grass and dandelions.

“Thank you, I've enjoyed our ride tremendously,” I said. “This is a beautiful area. So peaceful, I forgot to check my cell phone for messages all day.” Why was I babbling? Because I didn't want our outing to end.

Yet I couldn't help pondering my life in Seattle. I'd turned my cell phone to silent. I slipped my phone out of my pocket and saw four missed voice mails. Three from Larry, and one from my newlywed girlfriend, Joanne. Before leaving the city, I'd left her a message, nothing specific, only wishing her well and saying I'd be out of town.

So my old boss Mel hadn't called. I didn't expect him to, I told myself, but couldn't shake the melancholy sludge engulfing me. I made the decision not to dwell on finding new work again for twenty-four hours. Who needed a dynamic career, anyway?

I slipped my phone back in my pocket. “Our trip here was worth it if nothing more than this ride,” I said. “Thank you for taking the time, even if my Grandma Anna forced you.”