The Englisher (36 page)
Essie Ann was squirming to be fed, so Annie kissed her soft head and gave her to Esther. Looking round the kitchen, she felt right at home, seeing the clock shelf like Mamm’s, the corner cupboard with a few German books and the pretty floral china teacups and saucers, and the greencheckered oilcloth on the table.
‘‘Here, let me help,’’ she said, taking a pillow from Yonie when he came back through the kitchen with her bedding and a bulky quilt. Then she followed him and Zach up the stairs.
In the room where she would sleep, Zach leaned against the door, smiling shyly. Annie took in the cheery light in the bedroom, which was larger than Julia’s attic studio, to be sure.
Plenty of space for an easel and palette,
she thought.
Well,
maybe someday . . .
Setting down her things, she went to admire the handmade quilt folded over the footboard. Immediately she recalled the many quilting frolics she’d attended with Louisa, and how she’d taught her friend the art of stitching.
I wonder how Lou’s getting along. . . .
She had received a birthday card from her and would probably get a long letter soon.
Zach still lingered near, eyeing her . . . seeing her in a different light, maybe. She was now his mother’s houseguest, not merely a family friend. ‘‘This was Mamma’s room before . . .’’ he began, his voice trailing off.
She nodded and gave him what she hoped was an encouraging smile.
If these walls could talk
. She couldn’t imagine what the bishop’s shunning decree had meant for Esther and Zeke.
Going to the window, Zach pressed his hands and face against it, staring out. She looked fondly at the back of his little round head.
I’ll be happy again someday,
she thought, trying in vain to push thoughts of Ben from her mind.
Won’t I?
She realized suddenly, with a great sigh, how very small her own concerns were compared to the trauma in Esther’s life. Yet as Esther had so confidently stated, the Lord God had chosen to respond to her desperate prayer.
Annie had not heard it expressed in quite that way before, except from Cousin Julia. But she decided, then and there, to do her very best to be just that answer.
T
here’s something peculiar about time—knowing when an important event is to take place but realizing you aren’t present as you had planned to be. Such a thing happened yesterday, and I brooded over it, imagining the brethren talking with the baptismal candidates while I sat in a Mennonite meetinghouse for Sunday school, of all things. It was the strangest gathering I’ve ever submitted myself to, but I went along for Esther and the children’s sake. Whatever puts a smile on Essie’s face is well worth any hesitation on my part. I just hope none of the brethren gets wind of it.
Cousins Irvin and Julia drove both their cars, meeting us here at Essie’s, where we divided up, since there were too many of us to squeeze into one vehicle. And Julia, ‘‘to be extra safe,’’ had infant seats all ready for the baby and little John, so not only did the two youngest ride in style, but we all broke yet another rule—going in a car on the Lord’s Day. Seems anymore I’m breaking rules right and left.
I received a letter from Lou today, somberly delivered by Luke at Mamm’s request. I’m going to write back tomorrow, letting her know where I’m staying now, so I can receive her correspondence directly. I’ll also offer to send back her skirt, blouse, and pretty boots, since I won’t be needing them anymore.
Louisa’s letter to me was seven pages long—written on both sides of the paper. She clearly pines for Sam, and I’m not at all surprised, because I believe I know something of what she feels . . . as I think much too often of Ben. I suppose if he were to come looking for me now, I might even consider seeing him again. I’ve already disappointed my parents so much—what would one more thing matter?
Truth is, he’s planning to return to Kentucky, according to Julia. So he must be as hurt as I am over my letter, though we had no business seeing each other, really. How could it ever have worked out?
Honestly, I think it was Ben’s curiosity with Plain ways that got us together in the first place. But now? I’m ever so sure he’ll be more content in his own world, just as I must smile through the storm of my life here.
And a storm it is. Esther’s brother and sister-in-law, as well as her mother, came over yesterday afternoon and carried on something fierce about a magazine cover one of the farmers showed them. Pushed it right into poor Essie’s face and said she was giving board and room to the Devil. She never took sides, but when they marched out to their buggy, she whispered to me, ‘‘Don’t think another thing of this, Annie. You do what the Lord’s called you to,’’ and that was that.
I have no idea how almighty God calls someone, though it seems to me I was born with this insuppressible passion for art. Does that mean it’s a calling, as Essie seems to think?
If so, I’d be doing my heavenly Father’s bidding, while defying Daed and the church. ’Tis beyond me, really.
I daresay my brother’s in a similar pickle. Laura and I were out on the road Saturday, and who but Yonie came driving along, his English girlfriend sitting smack-dab next to him. He slowed the car and waved, smiling like nothing at all was wrong. I guess what Daed knows and doesn’t seem to mind for now isn’t an issue. As for Dory, his girl, that’s another thing yet.
I’m not so sure I ought to feel sorry for Yonie, though, since he sure looks like he’s leaning toward jumping the fence. If he doesn’t end up English, when his runningaround is through, he’ll be stuck right back here with a great big hole in his heart. Like mine.
Esther and I saw Susie Esh, Rudy’s bride, out hanging up wash this morning. Looked to me like she might be expecting their first wee one, but I didn’t stare, just waved, watching her woeful expression as she turned slowly away. She was shunning Esther, no doubt. Or maybe news of my transgression, the painting on the cover of the
Farm and Home
Journal,
has found its way to the Esh home, too.
Can’t win for losing,
Mamm sometimes said when the pressure cooker blew its top, or the fence around the peacock pen fell over.
All the same, the sun comes up every morning and sets each and every night. The moon and stars slide across the same sky I see here that Ben will soon see in Kentucky. The hands of time tick ever so slowly.
Essie says not to fret; seasons come and go. And I say right back to her: ‘‘Well, then, ’tis a waiting season. . . .’’
Yet it’s painful to think of never seeing Ben again. When I am alone in my room at day’s end, tired after chores, I lie awake and rehearse his features in my mind, counting the weeks till my promise to Daed is done. Oh, how I long to take brush in hand and paint Ben’s face, for fear I should forget him in due time.
H
eartfelt thanks to three storytellers—Aunt Betty, ‘‘Auntie’’ Madge, and Cousin Dave—whose verbal brushstrokes of joy and inspiration are responsible for several anecdotes in this book.
I am grateful for brainstorming fun, which I shared with my husband, Dave, my ‘‘big-picture editor,’’ and our bookworm daughter, Julie, who also enthusiastically read the earliest chapters. Also, I offer my deep appreciation to our daughter Janie, our son, Jonathan, and to my parents, Herb and Jane Jones, for endless prayer support and practical encouragement (such as unexpected goodies and brain food).
Although I have mentioned my superb editors numerous times, I cannot repeat too often my gratitude for the insight of: Julie Klassen, Carol Johnson, David Horton, and Rochelle Glo
ege. Also, my thanks to Ann Parrish, who reviewed the manuscript.
A special note of thanks to John and Ada Reba Bachman, remarkably kind to help with ongoing research, and to Rev. James Hagan for expert advice. Much appreciation also goes to my praying partners in various parts of the planet, as well as to regional and cultural assistants and proofreaders who have asked to remain nameless.
Thank you, as well, to my mother’s dear cousins for allowing me to refer to and use scene settings from their beautiful colonial inn (Maple Lane Farm B&B) on Paradise Lane in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
Thanks, as always, to my devoted readers. In countless ways, these books belong to you . . . and always to God.
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