Courting Cate (19 page)

The front door opened and a woman stepped outside, her apron loosely tied. I held my hand to my brow, trying to block the lowering sun, squinting to try to see her more clearly. She had something in her hand—a broom. She stopped on the first step and began to sweep, her back toward me. By the time she reached the bottom, I was sure she was the woman who had talked to Pete in the field. Now she walked to the edge of the yard, behind a chest-high hedge, just a few feet from the highway. She was young, probably about my age. She wasn’t facing me but was turned toward me as she waved. And waved some more, her hand high above her head. I couldn’t see Pete but could clearly imagine what was going on; he must have been encouraging her with his response.

I turned. What had I gotten myself into? Had I married a man who loved someone else? Feeling sick, I swallowed hard and hurried back down the lane, tears stinging my eyes. I’d never felt so sorry for myself in my entire life.

Wednesday morning I tied a kerchief around my head. With all the weeding, gutting chickens, and mucking out the barn, my Kapps would all be ruined before I got back home if I kept wearing them to work in.

I’d been on the Treger farm for almost a week, and in that time no one had gone into town, and no one besides John had stopped by. But that afternoon Esther told me we needed to start preparing for the family reunion.

“When is it?” I asked.

“A week from Sunday.”

That made sense. It would be another Sunday off from church.

“I don’t know why they want to come here. They all have bigger homes than we do—except for John. But every year they want to come home.” She sighed. “Anyway, at least I have you to help me this year.”

“Don’t they all help?”

She stared at me as if she didn’t understand.

“You know. Bring food. Help set up and clean up.”

“Oh, sure,” she said. “They’re
gut
about that.”

“What do we need to do?” I asked.

“Clean the house. Tidy up the yard. Make pies. And potato salad. They have their favorites that they expect.”

I didn’t know what it was like to still have a Mamm as an adult, but I could imagine wanting favorite dishes one had grown up with. I didn’t bother telling her to make me a list. I knew she wouldn’t. She would just tell me what to do.

I asked Walter a couple of times if he was going into Randolph anytime soon. He said he’d let me know ahead of time when he planned to go. “’Course it could be six months or so. If I’m still kickin’.” He grinned.

“Stop teasing,” I said.

“What’s wrong with the books I gave you?”

“Nothing.” I’d read all my favorite Bible stories and had gone through the devotional three times. “But I’ll have whole passages memorized soon.”

“Sounds like a good idea.” His eyes danced the way Pete’s had when I’d first met him.

It seemed what was consumed the most in the Treger household was fabric for Esther’s quilting. The thin one on the bed
I slept in was completely made of scraps, though. As was the Amish way, when quilting for ourselves.

That evening before supper as we all bowed our heads, I was dumbfounded over what to pray but was convicted that the time had come—I must. I’d always taken prayer seriously—until Seth broke my heart.

Now I realized how much I’d strayed from God in the last two years, and even more so in the last month. I’d gotten myself into this mess by acting willfully and independently, by acting exactly the way God didn’t want me to.

All I could manage now was a silent but very sincere,
Help!
as Walter said, “Amen.”

That night I read the story of Jonah again. He had been in exile, along with Moses, Joseph, and so many others. I couldn’t help but identify. I flipped around, looking for another story I wanted to read that night. Finally, I decided on Esther. It had been years since I’d read the story. As I finished, I realized I identified with her too. I felt her vulnerability. Her need to be patient and bide her time. Her need to be pleasant and submit to others. In earlier readings I’d thought of her as manipulative, but now I saw she was doing what she needed to do to survive, to save her people.

I no longer had any people to save—I’d already tried that. I attempted to be cordial with Pete’s mother, as best I could, but I wasn’t exactly pleasant. And although I kept cooking, was I really doing my best? Then again, I had to remember who I was dealing with. Surly Pete and his sour mother. I closed the Bible. My mother-in-law was opposite, in every way, of Esther in the Bible.

I kept going with that logic. I’d never wanted to be like Esther in the Bible, which now made me realize I might end up a whole lot like Esther in my all-too-real life. I grimaced.
I’d read somewhere that men often subconsciously chose to marry someone a lot like their mothers. I grimaced again. Was that why Pete, along with the motivation of the bribe from M&M, had been attracted to me in the first place?

I had a quick glimpse of the future me—and it wasn’t pretty.

I opened the Bible again, deciding to read the story of Esther a second time. When I finished it, I breathed a prayer, asking God for wisdom. Esther’s husband loved her for her beauty, not for who she was. But God absolutely loved her for who she was. And he used her, used who she was, because she was willing to let him. Her willingness was cloaked in wisdom.

My husband didn’t love me for who I was either—but God did, regardless of the situation I’d gotten myself into.

I flipped to Proverbs, deciding to find the verse Nan had quoted about the unloved woman. I skimmed through quickly, not finding anything similar until all the way in chapter thirty. “
For three things the earth is disquieted . . .
” I read. Nan had said,
“ . . . the earth cannot bear . . .”
but that was a more recent translation, and this was the King James. I skimmed down to verse twenty-three. “
 . . . an odious woman when she is married.
”

Odious! Was the woman unloved because she was odious? It was such an . . .
odious
word. It sounded like how the manure from the dairy farm smelled. Repulsive.

Oh, Lord,
I prayed,
I don’t want to be odious. . . .

Please help me to be wise, like Esther. You know . . . the one in the Bible—

My prayer was short. Pete entered the room wearing his long underwear.

I’d been wanting to ask him about the other woman for days. I cleared my throat. He ignored me. I cleared my throat again.

He looked up briefly as he unfurled his sleeping bag.

“So what’s her name?”

“Whose name?”

“The woman across the street. The one you were waving to in the field.”

“She’s no one.” He blushed.

My heart turned inside out. “She didn’t look like ‘no one.’ She looked like someone who matters to you—a lot.”

He stepped toward the bed, standing closer to me than he had in days, but didn’t answer.

“Maybe that’s why . . .” I stopped, realizing I wasn’t sure how to go on. I felt out of sorts with Pete so close.

The smell of smoke and kerosene mingled with the strong odor of lye soap and the manly scent of my husband. Pete’s hand fluttered, and for a second I thought he was reaching out to me, but then he turned toward the lamp and turned it off, the flame sputtering as it died out.

He stayed put a moment in the dark but then stepped away.

My heart palpitated as Pete wiggled into his sleeping bag.

Why couldn’t he have reassured me that the woman didn’t mean anything to him? Sure we’d agreed to a marriage of convenience, but that didn’t mean he had a right to pine away for someone besides me.

I turned toward the wall. Why couldn’t he love me the way I had started to love him—before I knew the truth?

I stifled a sob.

Because he didn’t love me. Because he’d never loved me. Because he would never love me.

His breathing slowed. Pete would have reached out to me tonight if there was any hope.

I knew I couldn’t survive this, not on my own.
Lord,
I begged,
I really need your help. I really need your love.

The next day, as I weeded the garden and prayed again that the Lord would help me, an Englisch woman pulled into the driveway. I stood straight and greeted her warmly, surprised at how happy I, the introvert, was to see a strange face.

She asked for Esther. I started toward the house, but before I reached the back door my mother-in-law appeared. She ignored me as she tottered down the steps, even though I was just a few feet from her. I headed back toward the garden.

“Come back in six weeks or so,” she told the woman.

“You said you’d be done by today.” Disappointment filled the woman’s voice.

“I said I hoped to have it done by today. I’ve been delayed,” Esther said.

I’d reached the garden, stepping carefully to the row of beans I’d been weeding. I couldn’t hear any more of their conversation, but a few minutes later the screen on the mud porch slammed, and the Englisch woman walked toward me.

“Excuse me,” she said.

I looked up, my hand on my lower back as I straightened.

“Can I ask you a couple of questions?”

I nodded.

“Has Esther been too busy to quilt?”

“I don’t think so,” I said.

“I was going to give it to my daughter, for her wedding . . .”

“When is that?” I asked.

“Two months.”

“She’ll have it done.” I hoped I was right.

The woman frowned. “She’s the best quilter around. But I wonder if she’s getting a little old. . . .” The woman shook her head, as if stopping herself. “You must be her new daughter-in-law.”

I nodded.

“It’s so odd. She told me once you moved in, she’d have more time to quilt.”

I shrugged my shoulders. “I don’t know anything about her work.” I still hadn’t been inside her quilting room.

“You’re from Lancaster, right?”

“Jah.”

For the next ten minutes the woman told me about her trip to “Amish Country” a few years ago, describing the different quilt shops she’d visited. I was familiar with many of them. Finally, as much as I enjoyed listening to her, I said I needed to get back to work. I had to finish weeding before it was time to start dinner.

She sighed. “Well, I’ll be back.”

I didn’t say I’d see her then. I sincerely hoped I wouldn’t.

I made tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for lunch, making sure there was plenty for seconds and even thirds. For the first time since I’d been cooking for the family, I didn’t burn, scorch, or damage a thing. Of course, no one commented on my accomplishment, but Esther didn’t scowl at me either. I was thankful for small blessings.

The days went by, pretty much the same, the only difference
being the chores I did. On Friday a letter arrived from Dat and Betsy, but I found it disappointing. They were happy I was doing well. Betsy said absolutely nothing about how she felt and didn’t write a thing about getting married.

On Sunday I went to church with Pete and his parents. It was the first time I’d been in a buggy since I’d arrived. Esther and I rode in the back, while Pete and Walter, who did the driving, rode up front. We plodded along. The horse was one of the workhorses, so I couldn’t expect anything more.

I sat by Esther during the service and the meal, and I searched the crowd for a young woman who looked like the one who lived across the highway but didn’t see anyone who fit my picture of her.

One of the women sitting at our table asked how I liked living at the Treger farm. I said I liked it fine. What else could I say? Another asked how life there compared to Lancaster. I said there were several things that were the same and several that were different but didn’t elaborate. Still the two women exchanged glances. A third asked how I met Pete. I said I met him at the bookmobile.

That made Esther laugh. “He didn’t tell me that. He said he worked for your Dat.”

“That too,” I said.

“Well, there’s no one who likes books more than Pete,” the third woman said.

Esther made a guttural sound but didn’t say anything.

As soon as we were done eating, Esther was ready to go, but Walter was in the middle of a conversation and it seemed she was having a hard time pulling him away. I went outside ahead of them and found Pete waiting in the buggy. Several of the men standing around outside watched me as I walked by, but none of them said anything.

Pete nodded his head toward me, a gesture that seemed intended more for the nearby men than for me. I climbed into the buggy, unassisted, and then we sat silently until his parents arrived. I was pretty sure we were the first family—if you could call us that—to leave.

The next week was spent getting ready for the reunion. On Monday I washed the clothes and then started on the windows. They hadn’t been cleaned in several years, or so it seemed. Walter mowed the lawn with the push mower, but after his third rest on the plastic lawn chair under the elm tree in just half an hour, I finished it. Tuesday, Wednesday, and Thursday I cleaned the inside of the house, which I was pretty sure hadn’t been done in a long, long time either.

On Friday, my mother-in-law abandoned her quilting and began making pies. She started by bossing me around, telling me to go get the box of apples from the cellar in the basement, then to start peeling the apples. She sat at the table, her hand wrapped around her mug, watching me.

“You’re wasting too much of the fruit.” She put her coffee down and picked up an apple. “That might be the way you do things in Lancaster, but not here.” She reached out her hand, and I extended the knife as I heard a step behind me.

Pete stood in the doorway.

“Why aren’t you at work?” Esther asked.

He held up a torn glove. “I have an extra pair upstairs.” He’d taken off his boots and was making his way across the kitchen in his stocking feet.

“Well, just as long as you’re going back,” Esther muttered.

I cocked my head. I couldn’t figure the woman out. All Pete did was work. Obviously not anticipating an answer
from Pete, she started back in on me. “The idea here is to feed the people—not the chickens or the hogs. They only get the peel, not half the fruit with it.” She went on berating me.

I’d been standing but decided to get a bit of a rest while she had my knife, so I sat down.

Pete stepped back into the kitchen, taking his time, as she said, “You do it like this.” She peeled the apple deftly and quickly. By the time Pete was back out the door, she had the whole thing done, in one long stretch of peel with just a trace of white fruit on it, hanging from the knife. She dropped the peel on the table.

My face burned and my tongue began to itch, but I literally bit it to keep from responding.

“Watch the waste when you core it too. I know how you young girls are—especially pretty ones from wealthy homes. Around here, though, it’s waste not, want not.”

She extended the knife back to me, but I had to stand to reach it. As I did, I saw that Pete was still in the mudroom, probably putting on his boots. He looked up, his eyes meeting mine, and smiled warily.

My breath caught, and I turned my attention back to Esther, taking the knife from her and then concentrating on doing it right while she made the piecrust and then rolled it out. An hour later she chided me for taking so long.

“I guess you’ll have to finish up these pies,” she said. “I’ll go ahead and get started on the vinegar ones.”

I wrinkled my nose.

“Jah, vinegar. Around here, we’re thankful for what the Lord provides, even if it is a bit lowbrow for your tastes,” she responded. “We don’t have lemons the way you do in Lancaster.” She laughed at that, as if she’d made a great joke.

“I could go to town and buy a few,” I offered.

“Don’t get smart with me.” She headed to the pantry.

I hadn’t meant to be smart—but she didn’t know that. I fixed my eyes on a water spot in the corner of the room up by the ceiling, took a deep breath, and willed myself to stay calm. I’d made a really stupid choice, and now I was living with the consequences. Kicking and screaming wasn’t going to make it any better. I knew now what that sort of behavior would lead to when I was old.

That night, I couldn’t find the devotional book. I’d finished it the evening before, for the sixth time, and was looking forward to starting it again. I panicked, looking under the bed and then through my things. It was nowhere to be found. I eyed Pete’s pile in the corner. Where else could it be? He had a flashlight. Maybe he’d been reading it after I fell asleep. I picked up his pillow and when I did, the book fell to the floor. Relieved, I climbed into bed with it.

When Pete finally came in, I offered it to him.

“Denki,” he said. “I’ve been feeling crazy without anything to read.”

“Ach.” I sighed. “Me too. How did you survive growing up?”

He didn’t answer me.

“Pete?”

“I’d get to the library when I could hitch a ride. The first time I was ten.”

I was up on one elbow. “You hitchhiked when you were ten! What did your mother say?”

“A lot. I was grounded from reading for months.” He grimaced.

I plopped back down. Esther was worse than I thought. “But you kept going on adventures.”

“Jah, now and then. But believe me, I’ve always felt tremendous
guilt for it. I’d stay around mostly, until I couldn’t stand it and then take off again. But this last time was the longest.”

“What got you through the times when you were home?”

Pete answered immediately. “I started working at the dairy when I was thirteen—of course, all my money went to my folks. It was still worth it, though, because our neighbor has a nice collection of books.”

“But he’s Amish?”

“Jah,” he answered.

“So it’s just your parents who don’t believe in reading around here?”

“It’s not that they’re morally opposed—just too frugal to buy books, I think. And they’re not interested, so they think it’s a waste of time. Plus, Mamm was convinced reading’s what made me so headstrong—although I’m pretty sure I was that way before I learned to read.”

I bit my tongue from saying he’d gotten his mother’s stubborn streak—she just didn’t realize it. Instead I told him he could leave the lamp on, adding, “I’ll still be able to sleep.”

“Denki,” he said. “My flashlight battery is getting weak.”

I turned over, facing the wall.

“Cate?”

“Jah.” I didn’t bother to roll back over.

“You were good to my Mamm today. . . . I appreciate it.”

“What are you talking about?” I rolled toward him.

“When she was scolding you about peeling the apples.”

“Oh, that.” I’d put it out of my mind. Maybe I was changing, just a little.

“She doesn’t realize she’s so harsh.”

I found it sweet that he felt protective of her, regardless of the way she’d treated him through the years. “She’s wasn’t that bad.” Not like she’d been in the past, anyway, especially
Pete’s past. I told him about the vinegar pie and my comments about the lemons. He actually laughed, although softly, but stopped abruptly at the sound of a knock on the door.

“Put that light out.” It was Esther, of course. “You’re wasting oil.”

I couldn’t help the smile that spread across my face.

Sitting in his long underwear, even though the room was hot and stuffy, Pete looked as if he was going to burst into laughter.

“Are you asleep?” she asked as the door flew open. I fumbled to turn the wick down and extinguish the flame.

Her eyes were glued on Pete. “Why are you on the floor?” But then she turned to me. “What kind of woman are you? Not letting your husband sleep in your bed.”

With one last turn, I managed to get the light out.

“Shame on you!” She pulled the door shut with a bang. Then her voice, a little shaky, came from the other side of the door. “I thought the two of you’d gone to sleep with the lamp on. That’s the only reason I came in.”

Neither Pete nor I said a word. A second later the devotional landed on the bed beside me, and I put it on the table by the lamp.

“Good night,” I whispered, overcome with regret. My coercing Pete into a marriage of convenience was hurting more than just the two of us.

“Jah,” Pete said. “Good night.”

I was pretty sure he was lamenting what we’d done as much as I was.