Little Amish Matchmaker (4 page)

They practiced for the Christmas program in the afternoon at school. Isaac sincerely hoped Abraham Lincoln liked his wife better than he liked Ruthie.

She acted so dumb. She was supposed to look at him when she spoke her lines, but she looked at his right suspender. He checked it to make sure there was nothing wrong with it, like a stink bug sitting on it, but it just looked like his left suspender, unless the stink bug had flown off. They could fly. He told Calvin that once, and he said, yeah, every time a stink bug flew around the propane gas lamp his mam would scream and point and back away, saying it would put a hole in the mantle and burn the house down. Isaac really laughed about that.

The practicing went terribly wrong.

He pitied Teacher Catherine. She kept a brave face, but no one spoke loud enough, they all droned their lines in a sort of monotone and Ruthie said “Heerod” for King Herod, then got all red-faced and muttery when Teacher Catherine corrected her.

It was a good thing they still had over three weeks to practice.

When Isaac yelled “Bye, Teacher!” at the end of the day, she was staring absent-mindedly out the window at the flying snow and didn’t hear him.

T
HE SUN SHONE, THE
winds mellowed and the days turned into fine winter weather, the kind that are blissful for sledding.

Recess was never long enough. Teacher Catherine was kind enough to allow an extra 30 minutes on Friday, but told them the Christmas program was more important than sledding, and they still had a long way to go.

Isaac knew that was true. They didn’t talk plainly. Most of the students spoke in resounding tones, but their words jammed together until no one could understand very well what the poem was about.

How to tell them to speak clearly without being insulting? Teacher Catherine took to pacing the floor, adjusting the shoulders of her cape unnecessarily, sliding her sleeves above the elbow and gripping one forearm with the other until her knuckles turned white.

When it was Isaac’s turn to recite his 14-verse poem, he faced the classroom squarely, lifted his chin and spoke in the best way he could possibly muster.

It’s Christmas tonight.

The hills are alight,

With the wonderful star of God’s love.

On and on he intoned the words of Jesus’ birth. They were well-spoken, perfect and he knew it. Teacher Catherine nodded her head, praised him for his clear speech and asked the rest of the class to follow his example. He knew his face was turning a hateful shade of pink as he made his way back to his desk, so he watched the glossy floor tiles closely, wishing his bangs were longer still. Calvin grinned openly and raised his eyebrows.

They practiced three songs, which went well, especially “Joy to the World,” which started on a high note. Everyone knew most of the words, and the voices rollicked along together in holiday harmony, which really perked up Teacher Catherine’s mood.

After that, little first-grader Eli said his poem in a voice only a decibel above a whisper, his voice shaking with nervous tension. Isaac knew the teacher would not be able to correct him, Eli being so close to tears.

Christmas programs were tough. You had to walk that delicate balance of praise and admonishment, nurturing and controlling.

Ruthie Allgyer sniffed, ducked her head and searched for the ever-present plastic packet of Kleenexes.

Isaac looked out the window and observed Elam King hauling manure with his mules, their large heads wagging in unison, their ears flapping back and forth in their ungainly fashion, as if they were much too big for their heads. He shouldn’t be hauling manure. The snow was too deep, adding to the heavy load on the spreader.

Dat said it was hard for the horses to keep their footing, so instead they’d get ready to butcher the five hogs in the shed next week. Isaac knew he’d be cleaning the kettles, and sharpening knives and saw blades in anticipation of the butchering.

When he looked back to the front of the classroom, he was shocked to see Ruthie Allgyer standing in complete misery, her face red with exertion, her mouth working, devoid of any sound at all.

Isaac couldn’t watch.

He heard a sob, and a wave of heat washed over him. His heart lurched, feeling her embarrassment keenly. His fingers trace a carved R on his desktop, as he heard Teacher Catherine say kindly, “Ruthie, you may go back to your seat.”

Ruthie bent her head, held the white Kleenex to her face and pushed her feet along the floor in humiliation. She slid wretchedly into her desk, folded her arms on the top and buried her face into them as she cried softly.

Isaac couldn’t believe it.

Ruthie Allgyer, of all people!

She stuttered?

When had that all started? She hadn’t stuttered last year. He remembered everyone saying their poems, Ruthie among them.

Hannah Fisher was next, so she started in her singsong roar. She spoke so loudly you couldn’t even hear the words, then plucked the shoulders of her dress in the most self-assured manner it set Isaac’s teeth on edge. Well, that Hannah could be set back a notch, in his opinion. Dat said pride went before a fall, so she better watch it.

Isaac pitied Ruthie so badly. He would be extra kind to her, maybe even say something encouraging at recess if he got a chance.

Maybe she dreaded the Christmas program because she had a stuttering problem that was only visible if she had to speak to a crowd. Maybe that was why she looked so anxious and picked her face.

The students colored bells, candy canes and candles, and hung up letters that said, “Merry Christmas.” They made paper chains with red and green construction paper and hung them from the four corners of the ceiling to the middle.

There was no Christmas tree and no Santa Claus anywhere. The Amish
ordnung
did not permit either one. Santa Claus was a myth, and Christmas trees were too fancy or worldly and were frowned upon.

The Amish believed in gift-giving because the wise men brought gifts to the Baby Jesus, and God gave the greatest gift of all when he gave the world his son. But presenting gifts was to be done
in maus und maz-ich-keit
(with common sense) and not to follow the ways of the world with very large gifts no one could afford.

That, too, varied in each household. Isaac’s parents were conservative with their gifts, giving one package to each child, usually something ­useful.

Calvin got five or six packages, things Dat would deem frivolous. Calvin had a Game Boy with a pile of expensive games, something Isaac could only dream about.

It wasn’t that he wouldn’t have enjoyed having one, it was just the way of it. When you knew something was truly off limits, there was no getting around it. You just read the
Outdoor Life
, ate your whoopie pie and drank milk in the evening and didn’t even think about a Game Boy.

Sometimes he felt left out, just a bit, when Calvin and Michael, the other eighth-grade boy, would discuss the games or bring one to school to trade with each other. But not for long. Calvin would always return to Isaac, saying he’d never have a sled that would beat Isaac’s old wooden Lightning Flyer, and then Isaac’s whole world righted itself.

At recess, Isaac was waiting in line to fill his drinking cup at the water hydrant when Ruthie stepped behind him. Turning around, Isaac faced her squarely and said, “Ruthie, you don’t have to be ashamed. Did you know a whole pile of people struggle with not being able to talk in front of a crowd?”

At first anger flashed in her big brown eyes, but then she bobbed her head in acknowledgment. Isaac had never noticed she had freckles on her dark skin.

“Seriously, Ruthie, you can do it. Just don’t get so nervous.”

“I’m not nervous.”

“What is it then?”

Ruthie shrugged her shoulders.

“Did you talk to your mam?”

“Of course not.”

“Maybe she could help you.”

“I’d never tell my mam.”

“Why?”

A shrug of the shoulders and Ruthie fled. So much for that. He knew he could help her. He had read about that somewhere. He’d ask Sim, too.

On Saturday, they attended a Christmas horse sale in New Holland. Isaac had barely been allowed to go along, not having swept the loose hay in the forebay the way Dat wanted him to. He had been sternly lectured, the big calloused hand coming down on his shoulder afterward, saying there was no room in the buggy tomorrow morning for boys who didn’t listen.

Isaac had blinked tears of humiliation and pushed the stiff bristled broom like a person possessed, bending his back low with the effort.

He hated displeasing Dat. It was just that he had practiced shooting at tin cans with his BB gun, hitting them dead center in the end, after the winter light had faded to gray. Then supper was ready, and he forgot about the forebay.

That, and Sim had really made him mad, mooning around the barn with his eyes rolling around in his head like a coon hound. He couldn’t even focus them right, cutting his finger with his pocketknife when he opened the twine on the bales of straw. Then Sim blamed Isaac for taking too long watering the pigs.

“Do you have any idea how much water five pigs can drink?” Isaac had shouted, sending a good-sized snowball flying in Sim’s direction.

When Sim turned around and started after him, Isaac clapped his straw hat on his head and took off, slipping and sliding, sheer terror lending acceleration to his booted feet. Sim grabbed his coat collar, hauled him back, rolled him in the snow and washed his face thoroughly, the snow melting in icy rivulets down his green shirt collar.

They sat together then. Isaac wiped his face with his coat sleeve and told Sim he was lucky he wasn’t wearing his glasses, or he’d end up paying for a new pair. Sim laughed and asked how his day at school went.

“Catherine looked extra pretty, thank you very much,” Isaac answered, narrowing his eyes.

“I didn’t ask about her.”

“You did. You don’t care about my day one bit. Catherine is also having a hard time with this Christmas program. I’m the only one who says his poem right.”

“I bet.”

“I’m serious.”

Sim smiled.

“But that poor Ruthie. You know, Levi Allgyer’s Ruthie. She’s in my grade, and she couldn’t say her poem. Her face was so red, Sim. It was painful to watch. The words just wouldn’t come out.”

“What did Catherine do?”

“She was so kind. She just asked Ruthie to go to her seat, and I saw them talking at recess.”

Then Sim’s eyes got all stupid again, his mouth lopsided and wobbly, and he didn’t hear Isaac when he asked if it was true that you could help someone with a stuttering problem.

“Right, you can?” Isaac asked louder.

“Yeah.”

But Isaac knew Sim hadn’t heard him, so on the way to the horse sale, Isaac scooted forward from the back seat, stuck his head between Dat’s and Sim’s shoulders and pursued the subject of stuttering once again.

They had stopped at a red light on Route 23 in the town of New Holland. There was traffic everywhere, boxing them in, and Sam the driving horse was a bit too energetic to hold completely still, waiting for that light to change. He hopped up and down on his front feet, so Dat had to hold a steady rein and didn’t answer until the light turned green and they could surge forward with the traffic.

Dat reached down and turned the right-turn signal on after they had moved swiftly for about a block before he answered. “You’d think one of Levi’s daughters wouldn’t have that problem. He’s quite a talker.”

“I read somewhere that you can help people who stutter. You get them to talk very slowly. Or something like that.” Isaac said this a bit hesitantly, afraid Sim would laugh, but he didn’t, just nodding his head in agreement.

Horse sales were magical. The flat, long, white buildings were surrounded by vehicles, trailers and black carriages belonging to the Mennonites who drive buggies, the Joe Wengers, as they were known by the Amish. They lived side by side in unity, but the Joe Wengers were an entirely different sect of plain people. The Amish buggies were gray with black wheels; that’s how you told them apart.

White fences divided the pens of horses and ponies. Motors hummed, people talked and the auctioneer could be heard from the vast sea of concrete that was the parking lot. The horses milled about, whinnying, tossing their heads.

Dat gave Isaac a five-dollar bill for his lunch. It wasn’t enough, but Isaac was ashamed to tell Dat, so he asked Sim for more.

Sim raised his eyebrows. “You can buy a hot dog with five dollars.”

“Not French fries and Mountain Dew.”

Sim shook his head but extracted his wallet and handed him five one-dollar bills. “You can’t go to a horse sale without buying candy and chewing gum.”

Isaac couldn’t believe it. Another five dollars! At the most he had planned on another dollar, maybe two.

“Hey, thanks, Sim.” He ran off before Sim changed his mind.

He’d drink all the Mountain Dew he wanted. That was the best drink anyone had ever invented. He could drink a gallon and never tire of it. Mam said it was not good for little boys, rotting their teeth and supplying too much sugar and caffeine, but Isaac couldn’t see the difference in drinking a few cans of the delicious soda, or sitting around at sister’s day drinking pot after pot of coffee. They were like camels at a watering trough, never getting enough, those sisters.