Christmas Visitor (6 page)

Ruth had received three wedding invitations. She put them back in the envelopes slowly, absentmindedly letting her fingers trace the embossed lettering.

How could she attend a wedding alone? If ever there was a single event that would cripple her sense of being even slightly courageous, it had to be a wedding. How could she endure a whole day surrounded by couples, dating ones or married ones? The absence of Ben was a painful handicap, even just thinking about it.

No, she would not go.

Chicken pox spread through the community all through November. The boys went to school as usual, having had them when they were much younger, but Esther and Barbara were feverish, achy, and irritable. They argued and fought over toys and crayons and books. And relentless, cold rain pounded against the east windows, ran down the panes, and puddled between the wet, swaying bushes. The bare branches of the old oak tree looked cold and black and slick, etched against the weeping sky.

Benjamin fussed in his swing. Lillian somehow found a permanent marker and scribbled all over the hallway, and Ruth felt as if she would not be able to tolerate one more day alone without Ben.

The pustules from the chicken pox broke out all over the girls' little bodies, and they finally felt better. When they became itchy, Ruth patiently filled the bathtub with warm water, added baking soda, swirled it around well, and let the girls play in the tub.

She scrubbed the hallway walls with Comet and Soft Scrub, but a faint gray line remained. Well, it would have to stay that way. There was no money for paint. She could ask Mam, she supposed, but she was always asking her for things like mantles for the propane lamp or batteries or rubber bands, things she never quite had enough money to buy.

But it's my life, she thought, as she sat rocking little Benjamin after she had rubbed his gums with teething lotion and given him a good hot bath and some Tylenol. Poor baby, she thought. He couldn't help it if those hard, little teeth pushed against his soft, tender gums and made them ache.

She wrapped him in a warm blanket and inhaled the smell of him, that sweet baby lotion smell that never failed to bring her joy.

When he was asleep, she laid him in his crib with a soft, white cloth diaper spread over the crib sheet, just in case he threw up during the night. She covered him to his ears and then folded the comforter back so she could kiss him one more time before tiptoeing out.

Lillian was lying on the couch, her pacifier in her mouth, her eyes wide and anxious as they always were when she felt sleep trying to overtake her, though she desperately tried to avoid it.

“Komm, Lillian.”

Gratefully, Ruth gathered her three year old in her arms, savoring the comforting routine of smoothing the flannel nightgown, taut and neat, over the rounded little form. She did love her mighty Lillian, so pliant and adorable now.

“Bisht meet (Are you tired), Lillian?”

She nodded, her eyes wide.

“Shall I sing?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don't want you to. I want my Dat.”

“But Lillian, your Dat is in Heaven.”

“No, he isn't.”

“Yes. His part that is alive went to Heaven
—
his soul.”

Softly, Lillian began to cry, but Ruth remained strong, showing no emotion of her own. Soon, Lillian stopped crying and went to sleep. Tomorrow was another day, and she'd forget. Till the next time.

Ruth held the warm, sleeping form. Outside she heard the wind rattling the downspout at the corner of the house and playing with the loose shutter by the front door. She hoped the boys had remembered to close the barn door after they'd fed Pete.

She stroked Lillian's schtruvvels (stray hairs) away from her face and prayed for strength to carry on.

The Thanksgiving hymn singing was to be held in Ephraim's shop, and Mamie was a complete wreck for an entire week beforehand. She waved her arms and almost yodeled with apprehension. Daily life overwhelmed her, let alone cleaning that shop and getting all that coffee ­going.

“I know just how this will go. Everyone says, oh they'll bring bars and cookies and potato chips and cheese and all the dips and pretzels and stuff, but what do they bring? I'm going to bake my Christmas cookies now. All of 'em, just in case it goes the same way it did last year. Why in the world that husband of mine offered, I'll never know. He knows I don't get around the way some women do.”

But she was pleased to be an important member of the community, hosting this hymn singing for the youth and their parents, or some of them, as it usually turned out.

Ruth walked home with a promise to return to help bake cookies, something she genuinely anticipated. She enjoyed being in Mamie's company. The cookies, too, would be phenomenal, she knew.

Mamie mostly did what she liked, and baking was at the top of her list. Her specialty was raisin-filled sugar cookies. She used an old, old recipe that had been handed down for generations. She also used fillings other than just raisin
—
raspberry, blueberry, cherry, even lemon
—
and they melted away in one bite.

So the week flew by with Ruth helping Mamie and joking with her friend's good-natured husband. As he sat dipping cookies in milk, he seemed happily oblivious to the unbelievable mess around them.

They filled the sugar cookies with the various kinds of fruit fillings. Then they baked oatmeal raisin and chocolate chip cookies and date pinwheels. They made gingersnaps and molasses cookies with one side dipped in white chocolate. Mamie wanted to make chocolate cut out cookies, but Ruth refused, saying the singing was only three days away and when did she think she was going to clean?

Mamie plunked herself down on a flour-dusted kitchen chair and said she'd never get ready, that was all there was to it. Ruth eyed her neighbor's girth and imagined every extra movement of hers was balanced by plenty of extra calories. She'd guarantee Mamie had eaten ten cookies in the past few hours. It was actually scary.

“You know you're going to become diabetic?”

“What? Me?”

Mamie was horrified, till Ruth assured her she was joking. In truth, she wasn't completely.

At the end of the day, the smells, the sounds, and bustle of baking at Mamie's house put Ruth's home in stark contrast as she headed back with her tired children to a cold, dark house, the absence of Ben felt in every room. She'd stoke the coal stove in the basement, light the warm propane lamp, and bravely go ahead for the children's sake, getting them to bed without fights as best she could.

Thanksgiving was spent with her family, a day of feasting on roast turkey and sweet potato casserole, surround by all of her dear family with every face a homecoming for her spirit.

Mam glided smoothly between stovetop and table, serving and barking orders. Her daughters scuttled to obey, pushing children aside in the process.

Twelve o'clock was not allowed to arrive until everyone was seated, the water poured, and heads bent in prayer. As always, Mam accomplished her goal and even ahead of time
—
the long hand on the clock pointing to the ten, the short hand to the twelve.

The children had a great time at Doddy (Grandfather) Lapp's, but anticipation ran high to continue their wonderful day at Ephraim's. They put Pete in the barn at home, unharnessed him, and fed him a good amount of oats and hay. In the house, they stoked the fire, washed a few faces, combed hair, dabbed at a few spots on the girls' pinafore-style aprons, and waited till Roy dashed to his room to change into a pair of black school trousers
—
he had spilled gravy all over his legs. Then they were off down the road to the neighbors' Thanksgiving hymn singing.

The wind was spiked with wet coldness, the forerunner of a chilly November rain, so they wasted no time getting to the brightly lit shop at Ephraim's. Buggies were being parked with teams approaching from either direction, so Ruth huddled the children to the side of the road, out of the way of approaching hooves and steel wheels.

She could always tell the difference between the young men's teams and the teams belonging to families. The youth drove horses with plenty of speed or style, sometimes both, and their harnesses were decked out in flashes of silver or chrome. The battery-powered lights on their buggies also outnumbered those of their parents, whose teams had only the necessary headlights, blinking orange taillights, and the reflective, slow-moving vehicle emblem
—
a triangle of orange in obedience to Pennsylvania laws of the road.

Often the youth decorated their slow-moving vehicle signs with stickers from amusement parks or their favorite football teams, which was tolerated in varying degrees. Some older members of the community smiled knowingly, while others frowned.

The shop at Ephraim's was a haven of warmth and light. Some of the glossy church benches had been set on trestles to form a long table with the remaining benches on either side and the German songbooks stacked neatly along the makeshift table.

Off to the side, Mamie had set up two folding tables end to end and covered them with her good tablecloths. Then she had loaded them with Tupperware containers and plastic ice cream buckets full of her Christmas cookies. Large containers each held five gallons of piping hot coffee, and there was Coffee-mate creamer and sugar and a basket containing napkins and plastic spoons all set out in a manageable order.

Bags of pretzels and potato chips, deep bowls of homemade Chex Mix, platters of cheese and German ring bologna, dips and vegetables
—
loads of food appeared as if by magic as happy, festive women offered their contributions and delivered them to their proper places on Mamie's tables.

“Ruth!” Mamie bore down on her, a locomotive of suppressed energy bristling with excitement.

“Mamie! Everything looks so nice. Your table is all decked out, and the coffee ready. You must have worked hard.”

“Oh, I did. I'm ready to drop. Then Waynie was a mess with his teething, and Fannie had to go wash for Elam sei Katie. She has Lyme disease, you know. Hiya, Benjamin! Hiya. Come here, you sweet bundle. Oh Ruth, he's so cute. Gel, Benjy? Hi, Lillian. How's her head? Komm, Lillian. I want to see your head. Gooka-mol (Let me see).”

Lillian stood stock-still as Mamie's fingers explored the surface of the little skull, her eyes lifted solemnly to Mamie's kind face.

“The bump went away now, so it's better,” she announced solemnly.

“Ach ya, gel?”

Mamie sat down, unwrapped little Benjamin, took Lillian's proffered coat, and left Ruth to search the room for other familiar faces.

The men were assembling on folding chairs, their beards wagging as they talked. They were dressed in colorful shirts, pastel blues and beiges with an occasional navy or burgundy. They smiled as they greeted one another with firm handshakes or familiar claps on the shoulder.

Ruth turned away, the loss of Ben
—
the raw absence of him
—
so unbearable when his brother, Sam, arrived. He smiled, then caught her eye and waved. So much like Ben. No one could ever replace his memory, she knew now. That knowledge was engraved into her being, like the words that were etched on his perfect gravestone.

“Ruth, what? A shadow just passed across your face. You're missing Ben, gel? Ach my, Ruth. Maybe you shouldn't have come. You poor thing. I can't stand it. Komm, sits ana (sit down).”

Mamie slipped a heavy arm around Ruth's drooping form, and the hurt was replaced by her friend's pure kindness along with the scent of her lack of a good antiperspirant
—
the only blight on their friendship. Ruth had never worked up the audacity to mention it. She winced now but resigned herself and chose to accept the kindness, regardless of the less than fresh Mamie.

“It's okay. I'm just being childish,” Ruth whispered.

The two greeted others who came by to shake hands, give an occasional hug, and offer words of friendliness. They asked how she was, always. And always, Ruth would smile and say, “Goot (Good),” nod her head, and hope the person holding her hand would believe it.

No, I'm not always goot. My money is all but gone once again, Lillian is driving me batty, and I miss Ben so much right this minute, I could just run home and wrap up in a blanket and turn my face to the wall. My spigot leaks
—
the one in the laundry room
—
and a section of spouting is loose. So don't ask me how I am, because I'll just have to put on that false veneer of shining goodness that comes from generation after generation of pasted smiles and hidden suffering.

Ruth knew the Amish were always expected to be goot. It is bred in them, this taking up of their crosses, bowing of their heads, and repetition of “Thy will be done.” They carry on, and when the load becomes unbearable, they still endure it. It is the Amish way. The Lord giveth, and the Lord taketh away. Ruth allowed a small sigh to escape.

As the girls filed in, shaking hands and greeting the women with polite smiles, Ruth turned her attention to look with interest at the different colors and styles of the dresses as well as the hairstyles. She noted which ones were neat and which could use a little work.

How well she remembered the anticipation of each hymn singing when she was young. Would this be the evening Ben would notice her? Would he be seated close by or much too far away toward the other end of the table?

Always, there had been Ben. She was fifteen when she spoke to him that first time. She'd fallen hard and had never been the same. It was at a volleyball game on a lovely summer evening. She was not yet sixteen, so she wasn't actually rumspringing, but he'd come over to her and Rachel and said, “Hello, Ruth, how are you?”

Their time together had been so short, and yet her mind was packed with many memories of their love. It remained a wondrous thing to file away those golden mental files that hung neatly in her special place labeled “Marriage, a heaven on earth.” For she had loved him, given herself to him, and adored the ground he walked on.

Could she ever love again, in that same way? No. A steely resolve closed her heart to the thought. It seemed wrong somehow. She felt sure Ben would not want her to consider a second love.

You need to care for our children, Ruth.

Ruth blinked, frightened, her eyes wide. Who had spoken?

She looked left, then right, and then straight ahead and directly into the deep brown eyes of that bachelor who was single but dating Anna
—
Paul King's Anna. Ruth tried to look away, but she was held by his gaze that was asking her questions again.

How can eyes speak? she wondered much later that night. Those eyes had asked, Who are you, Ruth? How can I ever get to know you?

At the moment, because she had felt flushed and brazen and was still pondering whose voice she had heard speaking to her about the children, she had finally lowered her head. Her downcast eyes and the heavy lashes sweeping her softly blushing cheeks
—
none of it was lost on Mamie, who sat straight up and blinked. She pursed her lips, clasped her hands firmly in her lap, and knew.

The singing rose and fell. The lovely old hymns of the forefathers were coupled with choruses of English songs as the men's deep voices blended in complete harmony with the lighter tones of the women.

Ruth cuddled Benjamin, bent over him, and kissed his downy cheeks as she pondered her explosion of emotion, masked, of course, by her steadiness of character.

The coffee was piping hot, and the assortment of cookies and bars and pretzels and cheese and popcorn passed from person to person in a steady stream as the voices of young and old raised in cheery banter during the fellowship that always followed an shoene singin (a nice singing).