The Englisher (9 page)
Once again, Ben came to mind.
Unequally yoked,
that’s what she’d be if ever she were to give in and go on a date with him. It was as far from being Amish as the modern mannequin Courtney was now pointing to in the shop window. There was simply no middle ground.
‘‘Hey, check out that cool sweater,’’ Courtney said, her gaze on a bright yellow V-neck top.
Lou pulled her black shawl around her more closely, looking over at Annie as if to see how she was doing, exploring this too-modern environment.
‘‘We can go into any store you wish,’’ Annie offered. She did not want to stand in the way of Courtney’s desire to
shop till she dropped
. Or Lou’s, for that matter.
Annie had made up her mind to enjoy herself, even if it meant haphazardly showing the slightest interest in the modern clothing and whatnot. Even if it meant denying the images of color and design stirred up by surrounding herself with this aspect of the modern English world. Simply stepping foot into a store like Liz Claiborne Shoes was yet another factor in whetting her appetite. It did not serve to discourage her thoughts of worldly Ben either.
I must hold fast to the Old Ways,
she told herself, following Lou and Courtney into the store.
As best as I can!
Ben had decided first thing this morning he was going to brown bag it. He’d learned to pinch his pennies from his mom’s endless, but gentle, lectures. Replaying last evening’s phone conversation in his mind, he contemplated his mother’s ability to hide her disappointment. During other conversations she had not been so successful, calling it ‘‘ridiculous’’ of him to leave home for an unknown locality.
She’s resigned herself to my absence. . . .
When the shop door jingled open, Ben scooted his turkey sandwich beneath the lip of the counter as a matter of course. Looking up, he saw Zeke. ‘‘Welcome, neighbor,’’ Ben said.
‘‘How’s business?’’ Zeke nodded curtly, then removed his wide black hat.
‘‘Slow.’’
Zeke’s golden brown hair was smashed down from his felt hat. He ran a big callused hand through his hair while glancing around the shop. ‘‘Anybody here but you?’’
‘‘Only the leather and me.’’ Ben smiled, glad for the company. ‘‘Help you find something?’’
‘‘Well, s’pose I could go for a thick, juicy steak and some mashed potatoes and gravy ’bout now,’’ Zeke said.
‘‘Oh . . . you just missed the kitchen help. They’re out for lunch.’’ Ben laughed, and Zeke cracked a smile, unexpected for someone who seemed so hard-faced. But Ben had purposely set out to lighten things up between them.
‘‘Thought I’d drop by, is all,’’ Zeke said.
A man lost among his own people,
Ben decided.
Appearing more at ease, Zeke went to sit near the long table where Ben laid out the harnesses for polishing. Zeke pulled out a small bag of pistachio nuts. ‘‘Care for any?’’ He held up the bag.
‘‘I was just finishing my lunch here. But thanks.’’ He thought it rather generous of Zeke and not in keeping with his harsh reputation.
‘‘Thirsty?’’ Ben asked, returning the gesture. ‘‘I’ve got a case of Pepsi out back.’’
Zeke’s brown eyes lit up as if Ben had offered him a tractor, church approved. ‘‘That would be right good,’’ he replied, getting up and going to lean on the counter where Ben’s simple lunch was hidden, laid out on the back of a folded paper bag.
Returning with a can of cold soda, Ben offered it to Zeke, thinking now he ought to have brought along a large Thermos of hot black coffee instead.
Zeke continued to talk. ‘‘Our bishop—name’s Andy Stoltzfus—and his great-grandson are neck and neck against two other fellas in a checker game to beat all games,’’ he said. ‘‘You hear anything ’bout it?’’
Ben wouldn’t come right out and say Annie told him. ‘‘Yeah, someone mentioned it.’’ He paused, observing this man who continued to exhibit all the signs of being a loner—or lonely. He didn’t know which it was, though he knew full well that Zeke’s wife and kids were still staying with Irvin and Julia.
‘‘Well, there’s not much goin’ on this time of year, ’cept for mud sales . . . and a few checker games, like I said,’’ Zeke said.
‘‘Anyone play chess around here?’’
‘‘I do, but I shouldn’t.’’
‘‘Certain games aren’t acceptable?’’
Zeke’s eyes grew suddenly darker. ‘‘In a manner of speaking, no. The fact that it’s a war game . . . well, chess causes problems with some of the brethren. Same with playing cards in some of the more conservative circles. Most don’t even know why it’s forbidden. Just is.’’ He walked across the shop to examine one of the larger harnesses.
‘‘You mentioned mud sales. I’m curious about that.’’
Zeke turned and broke into a full grin. ‘‘Why, they’re auctions—sometimes twenty or more auctioneers at once. Some on the back of hay wagons or flatbed trucks . . . some on a makeshift stage in a pole barn quilt room . . . and all to raise funds for our local volunteer fire companies. Last year’s sale raised a whoppin’ fifty thousand dollars.’’ With a fleeting glimmer in his eye, Zeke continued. ‘‘Lots of them take place outdoors, under a big tent. The ground can get mighty squishy with mud durin’ the spring thaw.’’
‘‘So . . . that’s how mud figures in.’’ Ben laughed.
‘‘If you ever go, I’d recommend you get yourself some old work boots.’’ Eyeing the ones Ben had on, Zeke said, ‘‘Some that are a mite worse off than them there.’’
Ben smiled. ‘‘I’ll keep that in mind.’’
‘‘First big one’s comin’ up here ’fore too long. ’Bout two weeks from now, over in Honey Brook on Firehouse Lane. Heard it starts at eight-thirty sharp.’’
Ben was interested. ‘‘What things are auctioned?’’
‘‘Oh, just everything. Livestock, farm supplies and tools, sometimes brand spanking new pine staircases, rings of Lebanon bologna, manure spreaders—I’ve seen as many as seventy handmade birdhouses. But if it’s the chicken corn soup you’re after, go early, ’cause the four hundred gallons the womenfolk bring is usually half sold out by nine o’clock of a morning.’’
Ben detected Zeke’s almost jovial change of attitude. ‘‘Next time you come, if you let me know when, I’ll bring along some home-brewed coffee,’’ he offered.
‘‘All right.’’ Zeke’s mouth turned into another quick smile, then straightened again. ‘‘Do they have farm sales down where you hail from?’’
‘‘Thoroughbred auctions. I helped a lot at the county fairgrounds in Central City, every third Saturday. Quite a showing of tack, equipment, and fine horses . . . all to raise money to help locate stolen and missing horses.’’
‘‘What kind of person steals a horse?’’
Ben nodded. ‘‘I know . . . it’s crazy.’’
Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, Zeke’s otherwise ruddy face turned pale. ‘‘I daresay there are some wicked folk in this ol’ world.’’
‘‘Can’t argue that,’’ Ben said, looking up to see Preacher Zook pulling up to the side door with his horse and carriage. ‘‘We’ve got company.’’
Zeke spotted the preacher and immediately raised his hand to wave at Ben. ‘‘Best skedaddle,’’ he said over his shoulder. ‘‘Be seein’ ya!’’
‘‘Hatyee,’’
Ben called.
Zeke turned suddenly, an odd smile on his face. ‘‘Ach, now, ya speak
Dietsch
?’’
Ben was confused. ‘‘Why, what’d I say?’’
‘‘ ‘So long.’ That’s what.’’
Ben shrugged it off. ‘‘Must’ve picked it up . . . working around all these Amish farmers.’’
‘‘Jah, s’pose.’’
Ben waved again, watching as Zeke stopped to greet Jesse Zook before heading outside.
Ben inhaled deeply and stood as tall as he could, glad for the boots he wore today. ‘‘Hello, Preacher! What can I do for you?’’
Jesse Zook made his way toward the counter. ‘‘Oh, I’ve come for two black hames and the rosettes.’’ He glanced over his shoulder at Zeke. ‘‘Do ya often see Zeke round here?’’
Ben had a strong feeling the preacher was checking up on Zeke. It wasn’t his place to squeal on the man who seemed in need of a friend. ‘‘Oh, Zeke was just saying he’s counting the days till the first mud sale.’’
‘‘Oh, jah. That one’s a doozy. You should go, just for the experience if you’ve never been.’’
Ben was glad for the preacher’s seemingly genuine ease. ‘‘I think I just might.’’
Jesse seemed to mentally agree, although he appeared to be somewhat distracted. ‘‘What was it I said I was here for?’’
‘‘Hames, sir.’’ Ben led the older man to the wooden boxes filled with hundreds of harness accessories.
Esther was much too nervous to meet with her husband alone, even though she was residing in the safety of Irvin and Julia Ranck’s home. She had confided her greatest fears to Julia, expressing what a frightening thing it was to be so displaced. Julia kindly agreed that she and Irvin should definitely accompany Zeke upstairs to meet his newest daughter.
Twenty-day-old Essie Ann lay sleeping soundly in her arms. Esther made an attempt to will her heart not to beat so hard, gazing at her beautiful baby girl. ‘‘Your dat’s comin’ up here to meet ya,’’ she whispered in the pink little ear. ‘‘He loves ya so. . . .’’
Well, she was ever so sure Zeke did love their wee babe Essie—or would. She just didn’t know for certain how much Zeke loved her. Not after raising a hand to her. Not after she’d run off to Rancks’ to have his baby. Run off and never told Zeke where she could be found . . . secretly hoping he wouldn’t find her at all. Yet he’d tracked her down all the same. Came right out looking for her at Julia’s, after the horse went trotting over to Irvin’s tack shop instead of heading on home the way she thought for sure it would. Had it not been for Ben Martin, Zeke might not have figured out where she and the children were staying for quite some time.
But now she was about to present little Essie Ann to him. The sound of voices downstairs put Esther on edge all the more.
Ach, my life might’ve been easier if I’d never gone to
that first singing seven years ago. . . .
Mamma had been hesitant about having her go that September evening, the first Sunday following Esther’s sixteenth birthday, pleading with Dat to think hard about having their daughter stay home for a few more months . . . ‘‘till she’s older.’’ Worries plagued Mamma for a full week before the barn singing. ‘‘Seems a body ought to know when her daughter’s ready to be out alone with a boy nearly all night,’’ Esther overheard her mother telling Dat. But Esther’s father wouldn’t hear of it. Sixteen was the ‘‘appropriate’’ age when such things were expected to take place. Tradition reigned.
Esther remembered fretting over what to wear and had ended up choosing her plum-colored cape dress, which her mother said made her blue eyes look even bluer, her ‘‘perty golden hair’’ fairer.
She met Ezekiel Hochstetler that night, a boy from Honey Brook, who some of the other youth whispered was ‘‘too far away from the Paradise church district to be included.’’ Yet there he was, participating in the activities, along with the pairing up. Ezekiel took one long look at Esther and made it clear he had to have what he saw, and there was no turning back for either of them.
She let herself breathe deeply now, in and out slowly, so as not to awaken the little one who slept peacefully—
innocently
—on her lap.
I must be calm. Must smile convincingly when I see Zeke
again. Oh, dear Lord, I must
.
L
ouisa, Annie, and Courtney stopped at the food court for cookies and a warm soft pretzel at Auntie Anne’s Cafe
in the Rockvale Square Outlet mall. Annie was still waiting in line for some hot cocoa, not the smooth espresso mochas Louisa and Courtney had chosen. ‘‘We’ll grab a table,’’ Louisa told Annie, motioning for Courtney to join her.
