Trading Secrets (12 page)

“Amen.”

As before, there's not much chit-chat during the meal. Besides the usual polite requests to pass food and dishes and refill milk glasses, as well as a minimal amount of small talk about the planting and the school day and Mrs. Miller's
unfortunate injury, it is fairly quiet around the table. I do wonder if this has to do with my presence. Are they more talkative when it's just their family? I remind myself to ask Zach about this later. Maybe I could eat my meals up in the loft like I did the time Katy brought me dinner in a paper sack. I wouldn't complain.

As the meal winds down, Mr. Miller reaches for his Bible again. He opens it up and reads from Psalms again. This one is about praising God in the midst of hard times. I wonder if he's reading it for his wife's benefit. I'm sure that being laid up with a hurt foot feels miserable to her. Although in some ways, it might also be like a forced vacation. I don't think I've seen her “do nothing” since I got here. I'm sure she thinks it's sinful to be idle.

After Mr. Miller closes the Bible, he turns to his wife. “God has blessed us with an extra pair of hands to help you during the day.”

“What?” She looks alarmed.

“While your foot is getting well,” he continues, “you will need help with the kitchen chores.”

“Katy will stay home from school,” Mrs. Miller declares. “She will help me.”

“No,” he says firmly. “Katy will not stay home from school. Micah will be here. She will stay in the house to help you.”

“No,” she protests. “It is Katy's job to stay home when I need—”

“No,” he says even more firmly. “It is Katy's job to go to school. God has provided us with Micah.” He turns to look at me. “Are you happy to help in the house while you are here?”

“I, uh, yeah, sure. Of course I am.” I nod nervously. Seriously, did I just agree to this crazy plan? I'd rather run a
marathon on red hot coals, get seven root canals, climb into a viper pit with no clothes on—anything but be forced into being Mrs. Miller's servant girl tomorrow.

“That is good,” Mr. Miller says triumphantly. From across the table, Zach gives me a funny little half smile.

“Well, if I'm going to help around the house, I might as well start tonight.” I start to help Katy, Sarah, and Ruth clear the table. As I stack some plates together, I can feel Mrs. Miller's eyes locked on to me, like she's taking inventory of my ineptness at something as simple as picking up dishes.

“Let me help you up, Mamm.” Zach offers his mother his arm. “You can sit in the front room and put your foot up.”

“I want to stay here,” his mother insists.

“Zach is right,” Mr. Miller says. “You should go rest your foot. We'll help you to the other room, or maybe you should go upstairs now.”

Feeling relieved that Zach's mother is being relocated, I ask the girls to show me the ropes in the kitchen. Of course, this is easier said than done, but they're patient. By the time we finish up, which I'm guessing I made take longer than usual, I have a vague idea of how things are done and where things go. But I am not looking forward to tomorrow at all. I suspect I'll have nightmares now.

I
n the morning, I wake to the three sisters helping each other get ready for school. I'm surprised to see that the baggy teal dress is laid out at the end of my bed again. “Is that for me?” I ask Katy in a slightly grumpy tone.

“Ja.”
She looks uneasy. “I thought Mamm might be easier on you . . . you know, if you're not dressed in man clothes.”

I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. “You're probably right,” I admit as I stand up and stretch. “I wonder if I remember how to do this.”

Once again they assist me with the pins, but mostly I manage to put myself together without too much ado and without drawing blood. While I'm taking my turn in the bathroom, I'm relieved to hear Katy convincing her mother to remain upstairs while the girls tend to breakfast preparation and their usual morning chores. I am assigned to feeding animals and some other mundane outdoor tasks. I suspect this is because they have discovered I'm not that much help in the kitchen. Eventually we all come back together around the breakfast table, where Mrs. Miller is seated and once again observing me with a dour expression.

After breakfast I help the girls clean up, but it's time for them to go to school before the dishes are washed. Assuring them I can handle it, I wave them off on their way and continue the long, laborious process of washing, rinsing, drying, and putting away the dishes for nine people. It's sort of like running a small café. At least our number will be reduced for lunch, or
dinner
, as they call it.

“Today is baking day,” Mrs. Miller informs me from where she's seated in a chair with her injured foot resting on the bench. “Do you know how to bake?”

“Sure,” I say with confidence. “I've baked cookies and brownies and even a few cakes before.”

She looks surprised. “You bake from scratch?”

I try to look confident as I
scratch
my elbow, but naturally I don't confess that my baking expertise is limited to boxed mixes where you only add eggs and oil and water, then stir. But really, how much more difficult could her way be?

As she barks commands at me like she thinks this is Le Cordon Bleu, I discover baking from scratch is a lot more difficult. For instance, how am I supposed to know what a flour sifter looks like or that when used improperly it can coat everything within a three-foot radius with a fine white powder that's very tedious to clean up? Or that when she says to “cream” the wet ingredients, she doesn't mean to add cream to them? Somehow I muddle through a batch of cornbread muffins. Despite being a little scorched on top, they seem okay. But when we start in on cookies, I can tell her patience is wearing thin.

“Samuel,” she calls out to the back porch where her youngest son is just setting some firewood in the box. “I need you to run an errand for me.”

When Samuel comes into the kitchen, she immediately switches over to Pennsylvania Dutch to converse with him. Obviously it's to keep me out of the loop, not that I care. After she's done, he glances at me with his hand over his mouth and breaks into boyish giggles. But he nods a confirmation to his mother, then darts out the back door as if on a mission. Probably to go tell his daed that his mamm is about to kick me out of her kitchen. Maybe she'll send me to work in the field again. One can only hope.

I continue muddling my way through combining the dry ingredients with the wet ones. Why couldn't I have just put them all into one big bowl in the first place, so there would be no need to “combine” anything, plus it would save on dishwashing? But I keep my contrary thoughts to myself as I struggle to push the big wooden spoon through the thick, lumpy batter that is supposed to transform itself into delicious oatmeal cookies by the time I'm done.

Finally I've chopped nuts and added these along with oatmeal and raisins and stirred some more until Mrs. Miller holds out her hand, insisting on sampling my work. I spoon out a generous dollop of the rather aromatic cookie dough and give it to her, waiting expectantly—and hoping for praise—as she takes a tentative bite.

But her nose immediately wrinkles up, and she gives me a severely disappointed look. “You forgot the salt,” she tells me.

“How do you know?” I demand.

Now she gives me a hopeless look. “Because I tasted it. Try it for yourself if you don't believe me.”

I take a small sample of dough and realize that something about it does taste slightly off, or maybe it's just a bit bland. “Okay,” I agree. “Can't I just add some salt now?”

She makes an exasperated sigh. “You can and you will. But it must be thoroughly mixed into the dough.” She proceeds to explain how I should carefully sprinkle it over the dough, little by little, and patiently stir it all in until it's thoroughly mixed. This seems to take forever, and by the time it finally meets her satisfaction, I feel like my arm is about to fall off.

“Do you know how far apart to put the cookies on the cookie sheets?” she asks doubtfully.

I shrug. “An inch or so?”

She holds up two fingers.

“Two inches?”

“About two fingers' width,” she explains. “And do you know how big to make the cookies?”

I give her another shrug.

“The size of a large walnut.”

“A
large
walnut?” Really, could she make this any more complicated?

She holds her thumb and forefinger together, making an oval.

Trying hard to match her specifications, I begin to put “large walnut– sized” blobs on the first cookie sheet. I'm just doing the second row when she holds up her hands and yells to stop. “Did you grease the sheets?”

“Grease?”

“Yes,” she declares. “So the cookies don't stick.”

“But I never grease them at home.”

She lets out another sigh, then in a resentful tone instructs me to remove the cookies from the sheet, clean it off, and start over. “The lard is in the pantry. The big red can on the second shelf.”

I find the can, trying not to cringe over the hydrogenated fat content as I slather the white lard onto the cookie sheets. I've barely gotten the first batch of cookies into the propane oven before she starts directing me in how to get some things started for the midday meal. I can tell this is going to be one of the longest days of my life.

I'm just removing the last of the cookies, some which got a little scorched, when Samuel returns. I can tell he's reporting something back to his mother, but following her lead, he speaks only in their secret language. However, she seems satisfied, and to my surprise, her patience seems to have increased as she continues directing me in the preparations for lunch. Just the same, I can't help but feel like a marionette—and not a very coordinated one either—as she pulls the strings to control me.

Thankfully the lunch menu is a fairly simple one. I make a stew that consists of hamburger that I brown with chopped onions, garlic powder, salt, and pepper. To this I add home-canned jars of tomatoes, corn, and green beans. It looks like some kind of goulash to me, but it smells okay. The plan is to serve this with the corn muffins. Maybe the cookies are for dessert.

“Put out some peaches too,” she tells me as I'm gathering plates to set on the table.

“Okay,” I agree as I lay out five place settings.

“And set another place.”

“Oh?” I go get another heavy white plate. Most of the dinnerware seems to be chipped and stained, but I realize these are plain and simple, no-frills people. Chipped dishes just come with the territory. I'm curious as to who the sixth guest is, but since I feel like it's none of my business, plus I have enough to keep me busy, I don't ask.

“Good morning,” a cheerful female voice says from behind me.

“Rachel!” Mrs. Miller exclaims. “What are you doing here?”

I turn to see a young woman coming into the kitchen. “I heard the news—that you hurt your foot. Mamm told me to come over and lend you a hand.” She holds out a paper bag. “And Mamm sent over blueberry muffins. Just baked.”

“Thank you, Rachel.” Mrs. Miller graces the young woman with a lovely smile. “Have you met our house guest yet?”

“No, but I have heard about the girl named
Micah
.” Rachel exchanges glances with the older woman and giggles as she sets a cloth bag on a bench by the door.

“That's me,” I say glibly. “Zach's pen pal from Cleveland.”

Rachel laughs more openly. “The pen pal that Zach thought was a boy but turned out to be a girl.”

“Yeah. The joke was on him.” I sigh. “Poor Zach.”

“I had a pen pal too,” Rachel tells me. “But she quit writing to me. Her name was Lizzie.”

“Lizzie?” I say in surprise. “That's my best friend.”

“Oh?” Rachel tips her head to one side. “She doesn't like to write too much?”

I shrug, remembering how Lizzie complained about the boring letters about cooking and cleaning and kittens. “I, uh, I really don't know.”

“But Zach kept on writing his pen pal,” Rachel says in a knowing sort of way. “He was always that kind of boy. He loved school. Loved books. Loved to write. Most boys aren't like that.” She peers at me. “Or maybe English boys are like that?”

“Some are.” I set the jar of peaches on the table. “Some aren't.”

“Do you want me to put the peaches in a bowl?” Rachel asks Zach's mother.

“Oh,
ja
, Rachel. That would be nice.” Mrs. Miller smiles again. “Rachel is good in the kitchen. She knows how things are supposed to be done.”

As we put the finishing touches on the meal, it becomes very clear that Rachel Yoder meets all of Mrs. Miller's high expectations of what a good woman should be. It also becomes clear that Rachel would be Mrs. Miller's first choice for Zach's wife.

“I have always told your mother that you and my boy would be good for each other,” Mrs. Miller tells Rachel. “Zach could do no better.”

Rachel makes a nervous giggle. “Oh . . . I don't know.”

“
Ja
, it's true. You are a good cook and a good housekeeper. A hard worker. You will make someone a good wife. I hope it will be my Zach.”

For some reason I find this conversation to be more than just a little aggravating. Oh, I know that it's perfectly normal for an Amish mother to want to help her son secure a good Amish wife. But to speak so blatantly in front of me, well, it seems a bit over the top.

As Rachel is making the coffee, which apparently can be properly made only by a proper Amish girl, I sneak a good long look at her. To my dismay, I must admit she is exceptionally pretty. Her honey-colored hair is glossy and smooth, pulled neatly up under her clean white
kapp
. Her complexion is peaches and cream, and her lips are pink and plump. Plus she has the biggest blue eyes, even without the aid of mascara.
I'm sure a guy could get lost in them. As I notice Zach and his dad washing up on the back porch, I wonder if Zach ever has gotten lost in them.

Soon everyone but Rachel and me is seated at the table. My plan is to start filling the bowls with soup, but Rachel stops me. “I will do the serving,” she says. “You sit down.”

I feel a mixture of relief and annoyance, but I don't argue as I take my place opposite Zach. While Rachel serves, I watch him watching her. I can tell that he's curious as to why she's here, but I can also tell that he's enjoying watching her. And why not? She is gorgeous—in a sweet, pure, Amish sort of way. As she reaches in front of him to place his full-to-the-brim bowl on his plate, she flashes him a pretty smile, and I think perhaps their shoulders brush. Zach's cheeks seem a bit ruddier as she stands up straight.

Soon we're all seated and Zach's father bows his head. I try to remember to say a prayer of gratitude, but I know that it's laced with jealousy. As crazy as it sounds, I am suddenly wishing I were Amish. And that Zach would look at me with as much interest as he seems to be lavishing on Rachel.

After the prayer ends and the eating begins, Zach's mother points out that Rachel has come to help in the kitchen. “I don't need Micah's help now,” she tells her husband. “She can help with planting the corn again.” She clears her throat. “Unless it's time for her to return to her own home.”

“Micah's father is coming to get her tomorrow,” Zach explains.

“Tomorrow?” Mrs. Miller echoes the word as if that is too far off.

“I am curious,” Rachel says to me, “why you are wearing that dress. I heard you prefer men's clothes.”

Samuel chuckles.

“It was Katy's suggestion,” I admit. “But if I'm to work out in the field with the men, I'll happily change back into my man clothes.” I force a smile.

Zach looks slightly embarrassed by my proclamation.

“And tomorrow I will be gone,” I tell her. “Flying off into the wild blue yonder with my dad.”

“Flying?” Her fine brows arch. “You mean in an airplane?”

“Micah's father is a pilot,” Zach explains. “He's picking her up in his very own plane.”

“Are you very rich?” Rachel asks.

I laugh. “No. Not at all. We're just normal people. Flying planes is my dad's job. He has an air freight business. He delivers things for people.”

“And tomorrow he will deliver you,” Rachel proclaims in what seems an almost triumphant way. “Back to your English home.”

I just nod, poking my spoon into my soup.

“What will you tell your English friends about us?” Rachel continues in what seems a rather bold sort of way. “What will you say about your visit to the Miller farm?”

Everyone at the table seems to be quietly waiting for my response.

I set down my spoon and think. “I'll tell them that the Amish are good, hardworking people, and that they aren't so different from English people. But I'll also tell them about the lovely countryside and about all the simple pleasures that can be enjoyed here.”