Inescapable (5 page)

Several of the houses on Paradise Road had been painted colors other than white, the only shade once approved by the elders. I was seeing the seeds of a revolt. It was certainly about time.

My house finally came into sight—still white, of course, and looking in need of some attention. There was peeling paint, and a screen was off one of the front windows. The two-story structure was only a shadow of what I remembered, and I was amazed by how much smaller it looked.

I pulled the car over and stared at the place where I'd been born, trying to gather courage to go inside.

“I want outta the car, Mama,” Charity whined. “I need to go potty.”

“Okay, Cherry Bear. But wait just a minute, okay? I have to make sure Grandma and Grandpa are home. I'll be right back.”

She wasn't happy about it, but my daughter nodded her assent. I wasn't being totally honest with her. I could see our horse in the corral and the buggy in the shed. But until I knew we wouldn't be turned away, I didn't want Charity anywhere near my parents.

I left the car running, even though the heater was almost useless, and I hurried up to the front door, dreading the response that might be waiting for me on the other side. I knocked lightly, and a few seconds later the door swung open. My mother's face registered shock.

“Hello, Mother. I—” was all I got out before she threw her arms around me.

“Lizzie,” she said between sobs. “Lizzie, you are home.”

I hugged her back, trying to blink away tears that sprang into my eyes. “I . . . I was afraid you wouldn't want to see me. . . .”

She put one hand on each of my cheeks. “You are my daughter, Elizabeth Lynn. There will never be a day when I do not want to see you.” She studied my face as if trying to memorize it. “Are . . . are you home for good?”

“I don't know, Mother. I lost my job, and I need a place to stay for a while.”

She bit her lip, and her already pale face turned even whiter. “Your father . . .”

“I know. But I had nowhere else to go.”

“Shush.” Mother took her hands away and dabbed at her eyes with her apron. “Your father is not at home now. We will talk and try to find a way.”

“But the buggy . . .”

“He has ridden with Elmer Wittenbauer to a special meeting. He will not be back for a while.” She looked out toward the street. “Is Charity . . . Is she with you?”

I smiled. “Of course she is. I'll get her.”

“Oh my. Yes, please. I want to hold my granddaughter.”

I hurried back to the car and helped Charity out of her car seat. “That's your grandma, honey,” I told her. “And she can't wait to give you a big hug.”

Charity looked past me and saw my mother standing in the doorway. She stared up at me, her eyes big. “Mama, why does Grandma look so funny?”

I knelt down next to her, pulling her red wool coat tight to protect her from the cold. “People dress a little different in Kingdom, honey. But it's okay. Your grandma knew you when you were just a baby, and she has always loved you.”

Charity gazed silently at me for a moment. Something in my expression must have reassured her, because she suddenly beamed. “Okay, Mama. If she already loves me, then I should love her back.”

I shut the car door and took her hand. As we walked up the stone path to the house, she suddenly let go of me and ran to my mother, her little arms flung out wide. Mother knelt down and waited for her, wrapping her up in a big hug.

“It's really cold out here,” I said when I reached them. “Let's hug each other inside, okay?”

My mother nodded and stood up. “Please come in. I will heat up some cider.”

Charity and I followed her into the house I'd left behind so long ago. It looked the same but shabbier. The wood floors were scuffed, and the furniture was in need of refinishing. My mother had obviously re-covered the couch and a chair. But a rocking chair that had once belonged to my grandmother sat broken and pulled to the side of the room. And an ancient bookshelf where religious books were kept was short one of its shelves.

“Why hasn't Father taken care of the house or fixed the furniture?” I asked. My father was a harsh man, but he'd always been faithful to keep our home and furnishings in good repair. He had prided himself on being able to fix anything that was broken, although he would never admit he had any kind of pride. Instead, he considered himself to be a good steward of the blessings he believed God had bestowed on him.

Mother gently removed Charity's coat and hat and held her hand out for my jacket, not meeting my eyes. “Things are a little different from when you left,” she said quietly.

“I definitely noticed some changes in Kingdom, but that doesn't explain why Father has neglected our home.”

Mother took our coats over to the coatrack on the wall near the door and hung them up. Then she pointed toward the kitchen. “Let us go into the kitchen, where it is more comfortable.”

I glanced over at the fireplace. It was cold, and the wood basket kept nearby was empty. In the winter, it had always been stocked with wood.

I took Charity's hand and led her to the kitchen, where an old woodstove provided needed warmth. Mother's carved oak table and chairs, also once my grandmother's, looked the same. The tablecloth my grandmother had made for her beloved daughter was slightly more threadbare, but the stitched flowers were still vibrant. The middle of the cream-colored tablecloth contained a ring of blossoms in light pink and blue with yellowish green leaves, thin vines connecting each flower. All four corners were decorated with small bunches of blossoms, and on each end, hanging over the side of the table was a big blue flower.

Mother loved it so. When Grandmother Bessie Lynn passed away, it became even more special to her. Every stitch had been done with love, and I'd always been very careful not to spill anything on it. Right after Grandmother died, Mother tried to store the precious cloth in a trunk in an attempt to preserve it, preferring to use the old oilcloth covering we'd had on the table for many years. But my father had forbidden her to put it away. “Tablecloths are to be used, Anna. It is pride that makes you want to ignore the reason it was created.” As was always the case, Mother didn't argue, just left it on the table. But every time a stain appeared, I watched her cringe.

I ran my hand lightly over the old tablecloth, wishing Grandmother were still here. She'd died a couple of years before I left Kingdom. I'd been named after her. Even though everyone called her Bessie, her actual name was Elizabeth Lynn. Frankly, I was surprised my father had allowed Mother to pass down the name to me. But she'd told me once, in a moment of unusual candor, that Father hadn't always been the harsh authoritative figure I'd only known. He'd actually been close to my grandmother at one time. I could still see Grandmother's kind smile. She was the one who nicknamed me Lizzie when I was a child. Mother and most of my friends called me by that name, but Father refused to call me anything except Elizabeth. He never explained why, but to me it was just one more sign of his contempt for me.

“Mama, I need to go potty,” Charity reminded me. “Real bad.”

“I'll take her,” Mother said. “You warm up. We'll be right back.”

I watched the confusion on Charity's face as my mother led her outside to the outhouse. The day was going to be filled with new experiences for my daughter.

Some of the houses in Kingdom used generators to pump water through pipes, but my father had never seen the need to bother with that. Having to go outside on harsh winter nights was solved another way. I couldn't help but giggle when I thought of trying to explain a chamber pot to Charity.

A few minutes later they walked back up the path. Charity looked somewhat stunned.

“Mama,” she said with dramatic emphasis when she came inside, “the potties here are just like the ones at the lake.”

I nodded, having forgotten the trip we took to a state park once. It had taken me a while to get Charity to use the outdoor commode. She'd had a hard time believing there wasn't a regular toilet hiding somewhere nearby. “This is a bad potty, Mama,” she'd said, wrinkling her nose. “It smells bad, and you can't flush it.”

“You two sit here,” Mother said, smiling. “I'll get the cider on the stove.” She took an old pot from under the sink and filled it with cider from the propane refrigerator. Then she set the pan on top of the woodstove.

Mother had been cooking on this stove ever since she and Father married. It had two dampers. One that moved smoke out of the house and another that controlled how much heat went to the burners. Even though I'd loved my electric stove in Kansas City, I had to admit that this ancient cousin did a fine job. Mother was a whiz with it, creating wonderful meals with a minimum of fancy kitchen equipment.

I watched her as she worked. She seemed thinner. Mother had always been rather frail, but I'd never seen her back down from hard work. She was the kind of person everyone took for granted, because she never complained, never admitted to being tired or ill. Although I could remember her taking care of me when I developed colds or the flu, I couldn't actually recall her ever being sick herself. Mother had quiet strength and a graceful, ethereal beauty about her. Her large blue eyes were certainly mirrors to her soul. I'd always been able to tell how she felt by looking in her eyes.

“How about some butter cookies?” she asked Charity.

My daughter frowned. “I don't know what those are.”

Mother opened the old cookie tin on the counter and withdrew several cookies, which she placed on a plate. “You try these, Charity. I believe you will like them.”

I smiled and nodded at her. “Your grandmother makes the best butter cookies in the world. Trust me.”

Charity picked up a cookie from the plate, still unsure about this plain-looking treat. She gingerly took a bite, and her face lit up. “These are really good, Mama. I love them.”

My mother pushed the plate toward me. “Here, Lizzie. You have some cookies too.”

It didn't take any additional prompting. I bit into one, the familiar taste igniting memories of sitting in this kitchen, warming in front of the stove, eating cookies and drinking cider before Father came home. The pleasant memory vanished at the thought of my father, and my stomach tightened the same way it had all those years ago when he returned from the shop or the church.

“So when will Father arrive?” I asked after finishing one cookie and as I reached for another.

“He should be home shortly.” She frowned as she ran a finger down the stitching on the tablecloth. “Kingdom is different now, Lizzie. Your father . . .” She sighed and looked up at me, her smile tight. “There are younger people in the church who . . . well, who are pushing for change. They say the old ways are too restrictive, and that the love of God should be emphasized more than His judgment. Pastor Mendenhall is very supportive of this opinion. He has said that the true tenets of the Mennonite church stress grace, as does God's Holy Word. But your father and several of the elders do not agree.” She hesitated, her eyes searching my face. “Your father insisted we leave the church, Elizabeth Lynn.”

I couldn't hold back a gasp. “He . . . he's left? I don't understand. He's no longer an elder?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, and two of the church's other elders have gone with him. Three others remain and three new elders have been appointed. That is where your father is today, meeting with the men who departed. They seek to find a way to remove Pastor Mendenhall from office.”

“How can they do that if they're no longer part of the church?”

“I do not know. But since Kingdom Mennonite Church was founded without the oversight of a larger governing body, there is no one to intervene.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “Your father is determined to start a war in Kingdom. I do not know what to do.”

“And where do you stand, Mother? On which side do you find yourself?”

Her face turned pale and she looked away. I really didn't expect her to contradict my father, so her response took me by surprise. “I hate the way people have been treated in this town,” she said, her voice trembling. “And I hate that my daughter had no choice but to run away.” She reached out and took my hand in hers. “My Bible talks of a God of love and forgiveness. This is not the God your father purports to know so well. I do not want to be disobedient to his headship in our home, but I believe he and his friends are wrong.”

I was shaken by her words. For some reason the smile I'd seen on her face when Cora defied my father drifted back into my mind. “So what are you going to do, Mother?”

She let out a long, tortured breath. “There is nothing I can do, Daughter. My job is to stand by your father even if I disagree with him. I am his helpmeet.” Even as she spoke of acquiescence, a look of defiance painted her delicate features. “But I pray every day, Elizabeth Lynn. I ask God for His help to change our church and our community into a place that honors Him.

“My parents raised me in the Mennonite faith, and I was proud to be a part of such a wonderful, caring group of people. Our congregation was small, but we were a family. We loved each other because God loved us, and we forgave each other because He became forgiveness for us. Our modest dress was beautiful and worn out of respect for our God. It was not a prison uniform. But then we came to Kingdom, and everything changed. Here, we have become hateful and critical under the rule of men like your father. And I believe it stinks in the nostrils of God!”

Her sentiments were spoken with more emotion and passion than I'd ever seen from her. I was so shocked, at first I could only stare at her. It took several seconds for me to respond.

“Why didn't Grandfather and Grandmother leave Kingdom, Mother? Why did they stay if they disagreed with the way the church was run?”