Esther Hochstetler trembled as she made her way to the back door, glancing over her shoulder toward the barn. Time had simply flown from her, and she crept into the house, having just returned from visiting an elderly aunt.
Past time to start supper, she thought, pulling out the heavy black frying pan from the low cupboard. It was in her best interest to serve up a hearty platter of fried chicken this supper hour.
I could’ve stayed much longer, she thought sadly of ailing Aunt Rebecca. If only . . .
But she had known better than to risk it. As it was, she’d missed the imposed limit on travel time by two long minutes.
Scurrying about the kitchen, she set the table and made ready for the meal. All the while she heard her little ones upstairs, looked after by her widowed mother. Such a good thing it was to have Mamma so close by. Maybe, just maybe I won’t catch it bad this time. . . .
Any minute now, her mother would come down, describing the cute antics of her wee grandsons, as well as saying what a big help Laura had been again this short visit. Mamma would also say, Why on earth don’t you take more time away, Esther? You rush off and rush back . . . makes no sense. Mamma had made a point of encouraging her to get out to quilting frolics and such, frequently pressing her as to why she stayed home so much. Impossible it was to explain, so she bit her lip and never said a word, letting Mamma think she’d become a loner, content to stay put.
She’d never understand how I feel.
But today Esther was especially grateful for the help her mother could give with the children. While tending to her elderly aunt, she’d had the strongest urge to get out more, to pull her weight in the community. Helping Aunt Rebecca was only part of it. Actually, being in what she assumed to be a safe environment was altogether enticing to her, as well.
The potatoes came to a rolling boil, and she thought she best be calling up the steps. She leaned her head that way, getting ready to tell Mamma to bring the boys down and let them play in the corner of the kitchen on the floor for a bit.
Suddenly her heart leaped within her. Oh no, I forgot again! The thought of having little Zach and John play on the bare floor had triggered her memory. What’s-a-matter with me? How dare I forget this chore?
But she knew too well. More and more, she felt angry, even defiant, having buried the resentment deep inside where it festered. Bitterness was beginning to take shape in her dreams, and sometimes she would awaken terribly frightened, being chased by a vicious animal or attempting to run to safety, only to be frozen in place. Just as she felt even now, nearly motionless with panic wondering how she could get supper on the table, the floor scrubbed well enough for an inspection, and Mamma out of the house and back home where she lived in the Dawdi Haus of Esther’s brother and wife. All in the space of a few minutes.
O Lord God, it is not possible. I have failed once again.
Just then Esther heard her daughter running down the stairs. Did she dare ask happy-go-lucky Laura for help? And if so, she might be found out, having shirked her own duty.
Breathless now, she looked at the clock, calculating the time. ‘‘Laura, I need you to wash up the floor, quick as a wink. And you mustn’t miss a single corner, ya hear?’’
Her only daughter thus far, fair-haired Laura, tiny for six years old but quick on her feet, nodded quickly. Laura’s normally bright blue eyes became suddenly dull and far too serious. ‘‘I’ll help ya, Mamma . . . jah, I promise I will.’’
Poor dear, thought Esther. And her mind raced back to the day she had discovered herself expecting a baby, with her wedding day still six weeks away.
‘‘Show me how much you love me. . . .’’ Zeke had whispered it so often she eventually believed that what he wanted from her was all right. And oh, how she’d loved him. Desperately so. But being in love at sixteen and getting hitched up soon after were two entirely different things. She had not waited till ‘‘the appointed time,’’ like her mamma and Grandmammi and all the women before her surely had, although no one ever spoke of such things. At least not that she knew of.
Laura, their precious firstborn, was said to be premature, at least that’s what Zeke had told the People. But she knew the truth. They both did. And she’d never forgiven herself, let alone her husband.
Sighing aloud, she tested the potatoes with a fork—still not quite done. Then she turned over the chicken pieces, careful not to splatter the grease, wishing she didn’t feel so frantic.
Mamma . . . I need to call Mamma down this instant.
With a fleeting look at Laura down on her hands and knees scouring the linoleum, Esther made haste and headed upstairs. There she found Mamma rubbing two-year-old John’s ‘‘ouchie’’ on his chubby finger and watching three-year-old Zach build a tower with blocks.
Pausing in the doorway, she placed her hand on her chest, catching her breath. The last thing in the world she wanted to do was to worry her dear mamma. Nor did she wish to cause alarm in her tiny boys. No need, she thought.
‘‘Time to wash up for supper,’’ she said softly. ‘‘Mamma, can ya help with that?’’
Her mother turned to look at her and her pretty gray eyes twinkled as she smiled. ‘‘Why sure. We’ll be right down.’’
A great sigh shuddered through her and escaped unnoticed, she hoped, as she turned away from the boys’ room, making her way down the hall. On the landing, she steadied herself a bit, feeling slightly dizzy as she stood at the top, looking down. Dear Lord God in heaven, grant me added grace—
‘‘Mamma! I’m nearly finished.’’ Laura was calling up to her.
Ach, good . . . good. She was careful not to slip as she hurried down the steps, securing her balance by holding on to the railing.
When she looked at the shining floor and saw that Laura had not only washed it but she’d also taken an old towel and dried it to a nice shine, she fought back tears. ‘‘Oh, lieb—dear—such a girl you are. Such a wonderful-gut help to me.’’
Laura ran to her, holding out her slender arms. Esther held her near, laying her hand on the top of Laura’s head. ‘‘Denki, ever so much!’’
‘‘I’ll help Mammi with the boys now,’’ Laura said, and she was off.
Quickly Esther went to check on the frying chicken. She put the lid on it and removed the pan from the fire, then set about draining the potatoes for mashing.
Saved by the skin of my teeth, she thought, resisting the urge to go to the back door and peer out. No sense in that. Any minute now she would hear the swift sound of work boots on the walkway.
Willing herself to breathe more slowly, she took down a large mixing bowl from the shelf and began mashing the well-cooked potatoes by hand. She wished Mamma would hurry and come down as she pressed the masher deep into the bowl, the steam rising to her face.
In spite of the heat, she felt suddenly cold, recalling the last time she’d made mashed potatoes, standing here near the cook-stove. A good portion of the potatoes—bowl and all—had fallen to the floor, splattering every which way, all over the floor. For the life of her, she hadn’t known how the accident had even happened . . . whether she’d momentarily blacked out or just what. But she’d ended up scurrying around as she had today, heart pounding in her temples at the thought of being schlabbich—careless. Never before had such a thing happened, and she couldn’t help but wonder if her fingers had merely slipped. Nothing more.
Fortunately for her, no one but little Laura had known of the mess. And from then till now, she had been determined to be more careful, forcing herself to pay better attention to the work at hand . . . not letting herself fall into an alluring daydream, where she had come to find a place of solace from the tempest. Where she was a young girl again, single and happy, enjoying the freedom of being as unhitched as can be.