Christmas Visitor (10 page)

“You want me to do that?”

In spite of herself, a scream rose to her throat, her hand went to her mouth, and she stared, horrified, at a dark form standing in the doorway. Clutching the hatchet, she straightened, without realizing what she was doing.

A low laugh was followed by, “Go ahead.”

She looked down at the hatchet and then at John Beiler, who was also looking at it.

“Sorry. I really didn't mean to frighten you this way.”

Finding her voice, Ruth asked weakly what he was doing here so early in the morning. She clutched her coat around her waist and realized she was still dressed in her ratty, flannel bathrobe, the one that had most of the buttons missing.

“I came over to put the key on the little hook by the playhouse door. I remembered last night after I got home.”

“What playhouse?” Ruth did not understand.

“You didn't see the playhouse?”

“No. The…fire is out, and I hurried out here to chop kindling.”

“Okay. Let's get the fire going. I'll show you later.”

After a few masterful whacks, there was a pile of neat kindling that was then scooped up by the large capable hands that also picked up the lantern. He uttered a gruff, “Lead the way,” and they were in the basement, where she found herself apologizing for the lines of dry clothes and wishing with all her heart she could take down the laundry ring suspended above the stove.

They said very little
—
at least not much that Ruth could later remember
—
till the fire crackled and burned. John added coal and then led the way up the stairs and out the back door. They crossed the newly fallen snow to the maple tree, where a small white playhouse with black shutters and a porch was set like a mirage. Ruth actually had to touch it before it appeared real.

“Oh, my word!” she said very softly. She was aware of him standing close behind her, and he bent his head and asked what she had said.

Softly she said, “But, who? I mean, why would someone put this playhouse here? How did it get here?”

Her hand traced the windows, the shutters, the posts that supported the porch roof, and she laughed, a happy response to receiving a gift and being glad of it.

“Do you like it?”

“Oh my!”

“Look inside.”

She opened the unlocked door, and by the light of the lantern, she found a small room with a loft and a short ladder reaching up to it. The floor was covered with sturdy indoor-outdoor carpeting.

John followed her inside, and she held up the lantern, feeling very much like a child herself. The wonder of this perfect playhouse set in the clean, new snow provided the happiest moment of her life, at least since Ben had died.

“How soon can we wake the children?”

“We? Wake the children?” she asked dumbly.

“Can I? I mean, since I'm already here?”

She looked up at him, in the glow of the snow and the lantern light, and he looked down at her. And they smiled, a sort of shared conspiracy, as they thought of waking the warm, sleeping children and propelling them rudely out into the cold snow.

“Let's!” Ruth said.

“Should we let the boys sleep?” he asked.

“Oh no! They'll be excited just to watch Esther and Barbara.”

“It is 6:30.”

“Already?”

Everyone was rousted out of bed and bundled into coats and boots. Esther demanded an explanation, and Barbara yawned and sighed. Nothing could be worth getting out of bed before she was finished sleeping.

In the snow, they stood frozen, their faces broadcasting their disbelief
—
especially Esther, who appeared to be in shock.

“But, I didn't mean it,” she stammered.

John put a hand on her shoulder, saying there was nothing to explain. Ruth was visibly puzzled.

They opened the door and examined every inch of the wonderful little house, climbing up the ladder, sitting in the loft, and becoming quite boisterous, the way children do when excitement runs high.

As the first light of dawn broke through the sky that was still spinning with snow, they all trudged back to the house. Ruth became flustered when Benjamin awoke, crying lustily from having been disturbed from a good night's sleep by the older children's chattering.

But John held out his arms, saying “Komm. May I hold you?” as naturally as if he'd had ten children of his own. Ruth handed Benjy over.

Benjamin sat sniffling but content, while Ruth got the children's breakfast on the table, lunches packed, and hair combed. All the while, she was miserably aware of the horrible old housecoat she was wearing and the fact that her hair was uncombed, her face unwashed. But it was a school morning, and there was a time limit.

John would not tell them who gave them the playhouse, in spite of repeated questioning, and only said it was snowing playhouses during the night. Elmer watched John, and they shared a man-to-man grin, one that made Ruth glad.

When the children left for school, Ruth put a hand to her hair and tried to salvage the scrap of pride she had left. John went down to the basement and put another hod of coal on the fire. When he came back up, he twisted his hat in his hands, cleared his throat, and asked if he could bring the children the rest of their gifts on Christmas Eve.

She said she supposed he could, but she had nothing for him.

“I don't need anything.”

“Well, let me make supper for you then.”

“That would be great.”

“Would Saturday evening suit you?”

“Of course.”

When he smiled at her, it completely banished the tortured thoughts in her mind. His eyes never left hers. There were long moments of shyness and kindness and understanding.

Would it be possible it could work? Before she lowered her eyes, she believed she knew the answer. It was up to him to lead her now.

Mamie had a fit. It was the only way to describe her gasping and hand throwing and head shaking and shrieks of glee.

“We're not dating.”

“What else are you doing? Huh? Answer me.”

“No, Mamie. You said he…they…I mean, they broke up only a few weeks ago.”

“No, it was longer than that.”

“How do you know?”

“I just do.”

And so began an afternoon of cookbook searching, the likes of which Ruth had never seen. Mamie kept insisting that the way to a man's heart was only accessible through his stomach.

They spoke seriously then of the near sleepless night Ruth had spent after Mamie had spoken to her about John Beiler.

“For me, Mamie, it was a sort of Gethsemane, a giving up of Ben. It was deeper than I ever realized. The letting go is so much more difficult that I thought. I cling to Ben, or rather to his memory, to get me through the days. I have to let that go now if I want to have another chance at…having a husband.”

“So you have feeling for John?” Mamie asked, her hand stroking little Waynie's hair.

“Yes.”

No hesitation, no pride, just a calm acceptance of something sent into her life that God had intended should be so. He knew when He would take Ben and knew when the time was right for John to be in her life, so there was nothing left but a spirit of willing acceptance, she told Mamie.

“But you're not dating.”

“No. He's coming over for supper, that's all.”

“Mmm-hm.”

The turkey. It had to be turkey and stuffing, gravy, and mashed potatoes. Salad? Coleslaw? Red beet eggs?

Mamie made the best biscuits in Lancaster County, and her dinner rolls were perfection, but her whole wheat bread better than either of the two.

“Which one should I make?” she asked, never questioning whether or not Ruth wanted her to help.

“Dinner rolls.”

“Men like biscuits.”

“Do they?”

It was only Ruth's threats of never speaking to her again that kept Mamie from leaving a message on her sister Hannah's voicemail. They parted with the understanding that Mamie would promise to stay quiet about this.

“It's completely different, being a widow. Everything is top secret, and I can't trust you very well,” Ruth had told her, which hurt Mamie's feelings a bit.

The secret didn't last long. Within just a few days, Mamie had told her mother, Hannah, and Ephraim, but they all promised to keep their mouth closed. Not a word. No sir.

Not until good-natured Ephraim fa-schnopped (gave away) himself down at Stoltzfus Structures. Before Saturday night even arrived, at least fifty people knew that John Beiler was having supper at Widow Ruth Miller's house. They all said they wouldn't tell a soul.

So, trusting and innocent, Ruth cleaned her house until it sparkled, polishing furniture, washing windows, moving from room to room, caring for the little ones in between scrubbing floors. That was on Friday.

On Saturday morning, she mixed the stuffing and put the turkey in the oven after packing it full of the fragrant mixture. Then she shredded cabbage across a hand held grater, mixed mayonnaise and sugar and vinegar, stirred it lightly, and scraped it all into a Tupperware container to chill in the refrigerator.

She cooked eggs for seventeen minutes, cooled them, and went to the basement for a jar of pickled red beets, one of applesauce, and one of raspberry preserves. She peeled potatoes, checked the turkey, watched the clock.

She made two pumpkin pies and one pecan, using her grandmother's recipe for both, hoping and praying they'd turn out okay.

She jiggled the pumpkin pies only a bit, to see if they were set in the middle, and breathed a sigh of relief when they stayed firm an hour later.

Elmer and Esther set the table, Roy folded napkins, and Barbara pushed Benjamin around in his walker. Lillian was the only problem, cranky and uncooperative all day, until Esther wisely observed her lack of motherly attention. The instant guilt provoked by her oldest daughter's attentiveness guided Ruth to her favorite rocking chair and the Mrs. Boot book.

The children were bathed and dressed, the potatoes mashed and the gravy made, so Ruth left Benjamin in Elmer's care while she showered and dressed, choosing a deep plum colored dress, dark and demure enough for someone who'd lost her husband not quite nine months before.

She was grateful for the God-given gift of peace she possessed, somehow. The doubt and anxiety about the future was pushed aside, the darkness banished by the light of her new understanding. It was a gift, the best Christmas gift she had ever received.

She took a deep breath, though, to steady herself when the knock on the door did finally come.

“Do I look okay, Elmer? Roy, do I?”

“Perfect!”

“Yep. What he said!”

So with a smile on her face, partly a grin in response to her boys, she swung open the door and welcomed this kind man into her home.

His dark hair was neatly combed, his shirt a rich blue, his shoes clean and neat. If he was nervous, he did not show it, remaining relaxed and at ease with the boys.

It wasn't until they were ready to sit at the table that Ruth remembered the bread, or the lack of it. She said nothing, and when there was a knock on the back door, she wasn't a bit surprised. She knew her friend through and through.

Mamie entered without being told, her coat pinned over her ample stomach with two large safety pins, her grayish white headscarf tied beneath her plump face. Ephraim's camouflage hunting boots flopped on her feet, and she proudly bore a hot-cold bag from Walmart containing warm, crusty dinner rolls fresh from the oven.

“Thank you so much, Mamie.”

She never heard or acknowledged Ruth but bent completely sideways in her strange attire and peered through the kitchen, searching desperately for a glimpse of John Beiler.

“I thought you were making biscuits,” Ruth hissed.

Mamie was smiling, wiggling her fingers daintily at John. “Hiya, John.”

“Hello, Mamie.”

Mamie ducked her head shyly, then stepped back. “Men like dinner rolls,” she whispered.

Ruth rolled her eyes, smiled, and said she'd talk to her later. But to her chagrin, Mamie stepped forward through the archway into the dining room, her safety pins prominent and gleaming silver on the black fabric of her coat. With a hand at either end of the scarf tied around her head, she jutted out her chin to tighten it and spoke very slowly and clearly.

“Well, John.”

Oh please, Ruth thought frantically.

“So you bought the Petersheim place. Good for you. Now surely you know that house is much too big for one person to ramble about in all by himself. I mean, my goodness.”

She tightened the scarf again, her face reddening a bit from the pressure, before resuming.

“Sorry to hear about you and Anna. But you know, sometimes things aren't meant to be, gel (right)? It's so nice to see you here at Ruth's table. Well, I certainly hope you have a wonderful evening.”

She wiggled her fingers at John, who thanked her and wished her a good evening in return.

The evening was ruined for Ruth. She'd never be able to look at John after that. Mamie let herself out, while Ruth busied herself doing absolutely nothing at Benjamin's high chair.

The turkey was browned and golden in the lamplight with the celery and onion stuffing sending up a rich, aromatic goodness. The gravy was creamy and full bodied, the chicken base giving it a golden color as it draped beautifully over the mounds of mashed potatoes.

The coleslaw was chilled to perfection with the shredded carrots making it colorful and the red beet eggs piled around it in a festive circle on Ruth's egg plate.

There was a moment of silence before John tried to put Ruth at ease saying, “You have done much more than was necessary.”

Ruth found it too hard to meet his eyes.

“Ruth, don't worry about Mamie. I'm not embarrassed by her remarks. So please don't be.”

It was only then that she looked up, met his understanding gaze, and felt the tension leave her body. She was comforted immensely. The remainder of the meal was a pleasure. John included the children in his easy banter, and they exchanged bits of news about the community.

Did they hear about the herd of cows that escaped their barnyard? It was the farmer's own forgetfulness as he was hauling manure and left the gate open.

Elmer was rapt, Roy completely taken. Esther ate her turkey and stuffing, her eyes shifting from one end of the table to John and then back to the other end where her mother sat, flushed and pretty. Barbara spilled her water and became so self-conscious that her eyes filled with tears. This did not go unnoticed by John, who jumped up quickly, snatched a tea towel from the countertop, and dabbed at the wet tablecloth while he teased her, saying she'd have to wash all the dishes. He continued smiling at her, winning her over so completely that she forgot to eat as she was so busy watching his face.

Lillian ate a bit of turkey, pulled up her legs, and yanked off her socks. She sang her favorite song quietly to herself and thought nothing very unusual was happening. They simply had a guest for supper that evening. She was waiting for dessert. That was all.

When John saw the pecan pie, he told Ruth there was no way she could have known that was his favorite. When he tasted it, he sighed in appreciation and told her it was just like his mother's, and he wasn't kidding. He'd tried every restaurant in a twenty-mile radius, and none
—
not one
—
had pecan pie with that particular taste.

Ruth's eyes shone with gratitude. “It's likely the green-label Karo,” she said.

He helped with the dishes, standing too close. What else could it be that made her throat constrict with emotion? She wanted to make a cup of tea and sit with him on the couch and tell him about Ben's death and the months that had followed. She wanted him to share her fear and worry and zeit-lang (loneliness and longing). She wanted to lay her head on his wide shoulder and feel the solidness of him.

Furiously, she scrubbed plates, berating her lack of control. These thoughts were shameful. Or were they? She was only human, wasn't she? Yes, she was only one lonely person with Ben's memory sliding slowly away, fading into the background, whether she was willing to admit it or not.

They played a lively game of Sorry, Roy's favorite. They made hot mint tea, and John ate his second slice of pecan pie, adding a dip of vanilla ice cream. Lillian ate two servings of ice cream, which Ruth doubted had been balanced by very many potatoes or vegetables. But for tonight, it was alright.

When it was an hour past the children's usual bedtime, Ruth announced the end of the evening, which was met with the usual whines and claims of unfairness. After a few minutes, they all accepted their mother's wishes, took turns brushing their teeth, and told John good night.

John looked at Ruth. “Should I leave now, and let you get your rest?”

No, John, don't go. Stay with me. Let this evening go on and on for all eternity. But what she said out loud was entirely different.

“That's up to you.”

Looking at him, though, was her undoing. He held her eyes with his own, so dark and kind and compelling. I would love to stay, they said.

She smiled and asked if he would like another cup of tea or perhaps coffee. He smiled and said coffee would be great.

“Another slice of pecan pie?”

“I was hoping you'd ask.”

She laughed and relaxed as they sat at the kitchen table. She helped herself to slice of pumpkin pie. He looked kindly at her and asked how she managed so well
—
all on her own.

She shook her head, a hand going to her throat. “Oh, it's not the way it appears, believe me. I have my times.”

“You would have to.”

“I do.”

“But you carry on so bravely. I…You know, I'll never forget when I met you that first time. I thought you must be babysitting your sister's children, or perhaps you had company and were taking your siblings to church….”