The Longing (10 page)
Ach, pretty . . .
She felt like dancing, even though she’d never danced a step in her life.
Saturday morning held an air of expectation as Rhoda drove herself to the beauty shop. Even the sky seemed a deeper blue, and the song of robins had awakened her—a right good sign.
Today was her special day, and she knew precisely how she wanted her hair to look, like that of a movie star she’d seen in a magazine left behind at the restaurant. She’d discovered it while closing up one night recently. She had been struck by how long and
graceful the actress’s neck looked with such a short bob, complete with wispy bangs.
Unlike the actress—Suzanne somebody—Rhoda was not a brunette. Nor was she at all interested in dying her blond tresses a dark brown.
She only hoped she would not regret this bold move today—her hair was the final link to her formerly Plain appearance. Knowing Ken was in agreement with her decision encouraged her.
An hour later, Rhoda stared at herself in the beauty shop mirror, touching her hair repeatedly, surprised at how short and bouncy it was. Not only was the weight of it gone—and the weight of what her bun had signified—but she felt an overwhelming sense of defiance. She gave the beautician a nice tip and stepped outside to her car, parked at the curb.
She relished the breeze blowing through her short ’do and realized her life had already changed completely. Cutting her hair was only one more step toward her hope of becoming a fully fancy woman, a life that had begun with her purchase of this wonderful car.
Slipping into the driver’s seat, she somehow felt even freer than the day she’d left Dat and Mamma’s house. Moving her head from side to side, she adjusted her rearview mirror to admire herself once again.
She pushed her glasses up and slid the key into the ignition, never tiring of the sound of the engine starting up.
Ach, what power.
She signaled and looked over her shoulder to check for oncoming traffic, then pulled into the street, rejecting thoughts of tedious horse-and-buggy travel.
All of that’s behind me now.
She was headed directly to Ken’s house, eager to see him—and for him to see her new look, as well.
At the first traffic light, she noticed a scruffy fellow wearing tiny “granny glasses,” standing on the curb, holding out his thumb, his hair long and stringy. She knew from listening to Ken talk that this young man was a hippie—“a flower child.” The name struck her as peculiar, yet another English term that made no sense to her. Feeling sorry for the man, she considered picking him up, but something hazy and odd about his eyes made her think better of it.
The light turned and she focused on the road ahead, enjoying the drive. She glanced now and then at the speedometer, as both Ken and James had instructed her. Thinking of her brother again, she felt a sudden mix of emotions. James had asked her to leave his house. So many sacrifices she’d made for her new life, though surrendering two feet of burdensome hair was not one of them.
The sight of Ken’s big house inspired her as she parallel parked on the street. The stonemasonry work made her think of the houses on Beaver Dam Road, near her father’s own sprawling farmhouse.
Glancing up, she saw Ken standing in the doorway, waiting. She ran her hands through the back of her hair, checking the mirror quickly, liking what she saw, and then got out of the car. She called to him as she hurried up the flagstone steps. “Well, I did it . . . what do you think?”
“It’s nice . . . really cute.” He cocked his head humorously. “You look like someone in the movies.”
“Oh?” she said coyly. “Who’s that?”
“She starred in a horror flick—an Alfred Hitchcock movie.” He snapped his fingers. “Not the lead actress, but a pretty brunette. . . .” He looked at her, studying her again as she angled her head demurely from side to side. “Ah yes—Suzanne Pleshette. She was in
The Birds
.” He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “You’re simply dazzling, darlin’.”
She had no reason not to believe him, and let out a little laugh, nearly frightened at this latest victory. “Thanks ever so much,” she said when he repeated how pretty she looked. “Well, I’d better head off to work.”
“It’s definitely you, Rhoda.” Ken was nodding as he waved, all smiles. “I’ll drop by in a while, if you’d like.”
She smiled her response.
“See you later,” he called.
Everything she’d longed for was coming true.
Rosanna King had awakened extra early to redd up the house the morning before Sister’s Day, scrubbing the floors in the kitchen, sitting room, and front room. More than a dozen women were coming, including Nellie Mae and her sister Nan and their Bird-in-Hand cousins Treva and Laura.
She needed this time to sweep the dust bunnies out of the corners, dust the furniture, and wipe down the windowsills. If she’d felt up to it, she might have washed all the downstairs windows—inside and out—but she must conserve her energy.
Before it was time to make the noontime dinner for Elias, Rosanna felt drawn to go to the nursery upstairs, where Eli and Rosie had slept.
All those many weeks they were ours.
She stood there, taking in the cozy room with its single dresser and blanket chest filled to the brim with receiving blankets and baby afghans she’d made. The lump in her throat turned to sudden tears, and she sat in the middle of the floor in a heap. The matching oak cradles made for their twins soon blurred as she wept uncontrollably.
Hugging herself, she rocked forward and back, thinking of her babies in Kate’s and John’s arms now. She remembered the last time she’d seen precious Eli, nestled in Kate’s embrace across the room from her, where she’d held little Rosie for the final time. It had been the day the bishop had called the two couples to his house—the day Rosanna had relinquished both babies back to their original parents.
She could not erase the images from her mind. Hard as she tried, she kept seeing her sweet babies . . . Eli, Rosie . . . even all the nameless ones she’d lost since her first failed pregnancy.
And silently she promised herself not to let on to Elias what she now knew to be true: Another wee babe lived within her. But for how long? The knowledge brought her no joy. “Is this my lot in life, Lord?” she prayed, knowing she must somehow prepare herself emotionally and physically for the likelihood of yet another miscarriage.
She cried out to God for grace to bear the impending loss, loving her baby for the few short weeks it was safe in the haven so near her heart. Her very soul felt bound up in this life, just as it had been with each of the others, and she felt she might simply break apart. Oh, the desperate way she loved her forming child, though she was never, ever to see him or her, or to hear her little one’s cry for nourishment and love.
“How many more times, dear Lord?” Rosanna sobbed. “How many?”
Over the lunch hour, while the pies for Sister’s Day were baking, Nellie asked Nan to help her make up the bed in the spare room. Nan, who had been darning several of Dat’s socks, hurried upstairs with her. “I ironed the bedsheets and pillowcases yesterday, so they’ll be extra nice,” Nellie said.
Nan’s face shone. “Treva must be looking forward to comin’ to our neck of the woods, jah?”
“She’s curious ’bout the bakery shop, too, I think.”
“Is that why she’s comin’?” asked Nan.
Nellie suspected the reason had more to do with hoping to find a baby for Rosanna than with the shop. “Well, we’ve been writing letters all these years, so it’s certainly time she visited.”
“Seems odd, really.” Nan scrunched up her face. “To think we have cousins we know mostly through circle letters and whatnot.”
“Well, when there’re more than a hundred of them—and they don’t all live round here—it’s hard to keep up.”
“Even so. Family’s family.”
She looked at Nan, who was making square corners on the bottom sheet, and suddenly thought of Nan’s best friend. “Do you think Rebekah Yoder will come tomorrow . . . with a friend or a cousin?”
“I’m sure she won’t bring her sisters Leah or Emmie.”
“I hadn’t thought either of them would go.” She wondered how poor Elizabeth was getting along, traveling
back and forth between the house and the hospital, as she was rumored to do daily. Her husband’s survival was no longer in question, but his paralysis remained. “Any news on David Yoder?”
“Only what Rebekah told me yesterday—that her father’s comin’ home today or tomorrow.”
She couldn’t imagine what a sad reunion that would be for the whole family, and especially for Caleb. She assumed he was working the dairy farm, since he was back at home. He would be seeding the tobacco beds real soon, as well. His father, like quite a few others, depended on that cash crop, which required the help of nearly the whole family and a “dark-to-dark” work schedule. Anymore, though, Preacher Manny was speaking out against growing tobacco, and plenty of farmers were agreeing with him that it was just “feedin’ the devil’s crowd.”
Plumping the pillow on her side of the guest bed, she waited for Nan to do the same. Then together they pulled up the old quilt—the bold Bars pattern, in shades of deep blue, red, and palest pink—and tucked it beneath the pillows. She stepped back to appraise their work.
“Too bad Mamma didn’t let Rhoda move into this empty room,” Nellie said softly. “Maybe she would’ve stayed put.”
“Ach, you can’t know that.” Nan leaned on the footboard.
“Rhoda’s her own person, and she’s makin’ that mighty clear.”
Nan hung her head. “Maybe we should talk less ’bout it and pray more.”
“Jah,” Nellie agreed. “Well, s’pose it’s time to check on the pies.”
Nan went ahead, and Nellie stayed to open the window to let the room air out a bit. She looked to the west, drinking in the view of the meadow, hoping it would please her cousins, too. It wouldn’t be long now till Treva and Laura arrived.
Nellie sighed. She half wished she’d told Rosanna that her wait for a baby could well be over.
No, I can’t do that to her,
she decided. But what could she tell Treva was the reason she’d held back such astonishing news?
Caleb felt strangely like two different people, standing in the barn looking through the milk house window as the van pulled into the drive—bringing his father home. There was the Caleb who’d been tending to the brand-new calf, coaxing it to nurse from its mother, wanting to hurry to the house to help Mamm—and the others—get his father settled. His wounded father was home after eleven long days in the hospital, although he would have to return regularly for rehabilitation.
The other Caleb kept himself in check, lest he rush outside and look like a bumbling fool in front of Daed and the family.
That
Caleb knew the right thing to do but was nearly frozen with fear and frustration . . . even guilt.
If I’d been home, would the accident have even happened?
he’d asked himself a dozen times. Yet it was his father’s doing that he’d been absent that evening, living over at Dawdi and Mammi’s place.
Cast out for loving Nellie Mae.
He watched his sisters hold the door open for the wheelchair to pass through, and surprisingly, it cleared. Mamm’s face was as solemn as he’d ever seen it. He knew from observing her jerky movements that she was as frightened as he was. This wasn’t the usually confident and poised mother who could weather any storm.
If only he could describe how wretched he felt, knowing his father was severely injured . . . and frail as could be. If only he could utter his deepest fears to someone, whether they understood or not—just saying them might bring some sense of relief. But he was reticent to breathe a word, especially to his brothers, and Mamm had worries enough of her own. Rebekah, now, she was a different story—the smart one, long gone as she was and staying away, just as he sometimes wished he had. Yet now he was back, running the farm for Daed, under Abe’s oversight. That brother most likely stood to inherit everything someday, since he was renting his farm and their older brothers already owned theirs.
How foolish I’ve been.
Yet Caleb felt powerless to change the circumstances. At night he dreamed maddening dreams where he was ensnared in a pit, unable to move or get out.
He would have much preferred to dream of Nellie Mae, despite knowing she was forever lost to him. At least then a hope of some beauty and goodness could be evident in his recurring nightmares. She, of all people, might understand how he felt today.
Caleb heard the sound of Chris’s car rolling up the drive later that afternoon, right on schedule. It was nearly time for the second milking of the day, and Caleb had yet to make it to the house to welcome his father home.
Just as well,
he decided. “Hullo again,” he greeted his jovial cousin as he pushed open the barn door.
Chris grinned. “Time to extract milk from the milk makers.”
“You’re far too excited about this.” Caleb laughed and led him to the milking parlor.
“It’s great to be back.” Chris took a deep breath and held it, catching Caleb’s eye. They broke into guffaws.
“We’ve got nose plugs on hand for English folk.”
“Seriously?”
“No,” Caleb admitted, instigating more laughter.
They shoved open the back barn door, and the cows began to move toward their assigned stalls. Quickly, Caleb started latching them into their individual stanchions.
“It’s restful here,” Chris said, moving between the rows of cows to wash down udders in preparation for attaching the milkers.
“Well, the roosters are raucous at times, cows complain, dogs bark—”
Chris chuckled. “So you’d compare them to blaring horns, squealing brakes, and the endless hum of the city?” He patted the bulging side of a cow.
“You’ve got me there,” Caleb replied.
“Coming here is about as peaceful as it gets, other than early morning, when I have my devotions.”
Caleb nearly groaned. So Chris was one of
those
Christians. He should have suspected this of his Mennonite cousin; he’d heard this about Preacher Manny’s group, too.
The troublemakers . . .
He still despised what they’d done to his Nellie— feeding her such nonsense.