Summer Promise (14 page)

“Well, I haven't,” Sarah said. She seized one of the plates, taking it out of Miriam's hands, and marched smartly out the kitchen door. It closed behind her with a bang, leaving Miriam and Daniel alone.

“Do you need help with the dishes?” Daniel asked, a question Miriam could never remember him posing before. Doing dishes was woman's work.

“No,
danki
,” Miriam replied. “I can manage on my own.” She turned and extended the piece of pie she still held toward her husband. “It's blackberry,” she said, as if this were a thing Daniel could not see perfectly well for himself. “Sarah and I picked all afternoon. I'll start on the jam first thing tomorrow.”

“Miriam,” Daniel said, “you are working too hard.”

“No harder than you are,” Miriam replied.

She turned back toward the sink, still clutching the plate with its single slice of pie. As if from a great distance, her brain sent a message—
Put it down
—but Miriam seemed frozen. She could not get her arm to comply.

“I'll just go try and get caught up on the farm journals, then,” Daniel finally said.

“
Ja, gut
,” Miriam answered. “I know it troubles you to be behind.”

For a moment, she thought Daniel would say something more. But he turned and vanished into the house, leaving Miriam alone.

* * *

The rest of the evening passed in a strange blur. The details of the tasks she performed stood out, clear as day, but it seemed to Miriam that the world beyond the scope of her hands had simply ceased to exist. Daniel had ceased to exist. She could not reach him anymore.

Miriam did the dishes, gently wiping them dry and putting them away with such care they made no noise even as she set one plate atop another. The dishes done, she got out her canning supplies in preparation for making jam tomorrow. She checked the jars to make sure the rims were free of cracks. She matched the number of jars to rings and lids, making certain she had enough to go around. She would wash them tomorrow. The jars needed to be clean and hot when the jam went into them, so there was no sense in doing it tonight. She was lining the supplies up into meticulously neat rows on the kitchen counter when Sarah came back in through the kitchen door. A waft of sweetly scented evening air blew in with her. In her hand, Sarah carried her now-empty plate and fork.

“Miriam,” she said as she took in the kitchen. “You should have let me help.”

“It's all right,” Miriam said, not turning. “I'm fine.”

“
Miriam
,”
Sarah said again. She moved to put her plate in the sink and then stepped to Miriam's side, placing a hand upon her arm. “How can you say such things? It isn't all right. And you're not fine. I can see that for myself. Let me talk to Daniel,” Sarah urged. “Let me explain. It's unfair that he should blame you when it's really all my fault.”

“No.” Miriam shook her head. “Daniel is right. It was a foolish idea, and I should not have taken part.”

“But . . .” Sarah began.

Miriam gripped the counter edge so tightly, the knuckles of her hands showed white. “Please,” she whispered. “Please, Sarah, just let it go. No more tonight.”

Miriam felt her sister's hand drop away. “If you're sure,” Sarah said, her voice still troubled. “Miriam, I wish you would let me—”

“I am sure,” Miriam said forcefully. “I appreciate your offer, honestly I do, but this is between Daniel and me now.”

“I'll see you tomorrow morning, then,” Sarah said. She turned to go. “You'll probably have to lend me an apron,” she said from the kitchen doorway. “You remember what I'm like when it comes to making jam.”

“I remember,” Miriam said softly.

But she did not turn. A few moments later, she heard Sarah's footsteps recede into the house. Sarah had to pass through the living room to reach the stairs to the second story, but Miriam did not hear her sister wish Daniel good night. Nor did she hear Daniel go upstairs. Had he already gone up to their room?

Miriam put off leaving the kitchen for as long as she could, but finally even she could find nothing more that needed to be done. Besides, she couldn't put off facing Daniel forever. Squaring her shoulders, Miriam headed for the living room. It was empty. But there was a kerosene lamp burning on the table by her favorite chair. Slowly, her legs feeling wooden, Miriam walked over and sank just as slowly down into the chair.

Whose kindness was responsible for the light? she wondered. Was it Daniel or Sarah who had left it burning for her? Just for a moment, Miriam leaned back in the chair, resting her head against its high back. Hands clasped loosely in her lap, Miriam closed her eyes. She could feel the old farmhouse settling all around her, whispering and sighing to itself as it began to let go of the heat of the day and welcome in the cool air of night.

I want to be like this house,
she thought.
Patient and enduring. Able to let things come and go.
But even as she made the wish, she knew that it would never come true. She might learn to endure, but she would never truly be patient. She longed for too much. And how could she learn to let go of something she had never been certain had ever been hers to start with? How could she let go of longing for her own husband's love?

She winced as she thought of Daniel's reaction to the pie contest. She had been so happy, had felt so close to him, and seconds later, he shamed her.
I was wrong,
she admitted,
but if he really loved me, he wouldn't have rebuked me that way, especially not in front of Sarah.
Her mind circled back to the awful possibility.
Perhaps he doesn't love me. And who could blame him? What kind of wife is unable to give her husband children? And how does any man come to love a wife who's his second choice?

Miriam realized she had drawn her knees up to her chest and was hugging them to her, as if to shield herself from all the grief she felt, for her marriage, for herself.

For a short, sweet time today, she had believed that things were getting better between her and Daniel. Instead, everything was so much worse.

I cannot bear this,
she thought.

Miriam opened her eyes. There was something else she could not do. She couldn't put off facing the consequences of her own actions any longer. Pushing up from the chair, she turned down the light.

* * *

Daniel was sitting in the chair by the window in their bedroom, his face illuminated by the soft glow of lamplight, a tidy stack of farm journals at his feet. He looked up as Miriam came into the room.

“You were a long time,” he observed quietly.

“Sarah and I will make jam tomorrow,” Miriam said. She walked to her dressing table, fingers fumbling with her
kapp
strings. “I wanted to make sure everything was ready. It will be good if we can get going early, before it gets too hot.”

“She didn't help you with the preparations?”

“It's all right,” Miriam said quickly, suddenly moved to defend her sister. She sat down at her dressing table and turned up the lamp. The bowl was warm. “I don't mind. Sarah has other things she needs to do and I . . .” Miriam removed her
kapp
and placed it on the dressing table. “We're not the same, Sarah and I.”

“I know that, Miriam,” Daniel said softly.

Miriam's breath caught in her throat. For one terrible moment, she feared that she might cry. Quickly, she began to remove the pins from her hair, setting them in the dish she kept on the dressing table for just this purpose. They made soft pinging sounds as they landed.

And then, with a suddenness that made her gasp with relief, Miriam's hair was down. Freed from its pins and the tight coil in which it was confined all day, it rippled down her back, thick, luxurious, golden. On their wedding night, the first time Daniel had taken her hair into his hands, he had gazed at it in wonder and then said that it was like holding a spill of sunshine.

Abruptly, Miriam realized that her head ached. The lamplight hurt her eyes. Although she'd turned it up just moments before, now Miriam reached to turn it down again, then decided to simply blow it out.

In the darkened room, she burrowed her fingers into her hair, pressing her fingertips against her scalp.
Breathe. Just breathe,
she thought. She reached for her hairbrush. As she did, Daniel's hand came down to cover hers.

“Your head hurts, doesn't it?” he asked.

Miriam jumped. She'd been so taken up with keeping her emotions contained that she hadn't noticed that Daniel had gotten up and come to stand behind her. She nodded.

“Yes, it does.”

“Let me brush your hair,” Daniel said. “That usually helps, doesn't it?”

Again, Miriam nodded. But she could not bring herself to speak this time. Slowly, she slid her hand out from under Daniel's. He lifted the brush. A moment later, Miriam felt the stiff bristles ease through her hair and then glide along her scalp. She closed her eyes.

Oh, but it was glorious! Daniel hands were gentle yet sure as he lifted Miriam's hair and slid the brush through it over and over again, in a steady, even rhythm that had the pain easing from her head, neck, and shoulders almost from the very first stroke. The room around them was peaceful and still. A faint breath of air brushed against Miriam's shins. She could hear Daniel breathing in the same rhythm with which he stroked the brush through her hair. In time to the beating of Miriam's own heart.

How I wish it could always be like this!
she thought. If only she could always feel so close to Daniel. So much, so very much in love.

“I am sorry for your pain, Miriam,” Daniel said.

Miriam jerked beneath his hands. In spite of herself, she made a soft, inarticulate sound. He was trying to be kind, but that wasn't enough. It wasn't kindness she needed. It was for Daniel to love and desire her as wholly as she loved him. Miriam pulled in a breath and felt it move in her chest like the twist of a knife.

“Stop,” she gasped out. “Please, Daniel.”

Daniel's fingers stilled at once. “What is it?” he asked. “What's wrong?”

“I'm sorry,” Miriam said. “I'm sorry. It's just . . . this isn't helping after all.”

Just for a moment, Daniel stood without moving, still so close that Miriam could feel the heat of his body. She gripped her hands tightly together in her lap, desperately fighting for control. Her fingers were icy cold. Then he set the hairbrush down on the dressing table with a sharp
click
.

“I'm sorry, too,” he said. He took a step back. “I will say good night.”

Without another word he walked to his chair and extinguished the light, plunging the room into darkness. A moment later, Miriam heard the soft creak of the bed as Daniel lay down. She sat at her dressing table, head in her hands, until she thought she heard his breathing become smooth and even. Only then did she rise. She changed into her nightclothes, draping her work clothes over the back of her chair. They would be perfect for making jam in the following morning. Finally, Miriam moved on silent feet toward the bed. She held her breath for a moment as she slipped between the sheets, but Daniel did not stir.

As he had from their first night together as husband and wife, Daniel slept on the side of the bed closest to the window, his body turned so that his face was angled toward it. Miriam had teased him about it, during those first few weeks of marriage, claiming that Daniel was so eager to get to work he slept so that he could see the first rays of sun.

Sometimes, in the years that followed, Miriam had wished that Daniel would turn around. That he would sleep with his face toward her, as if she were his sun and it was her face that he longed to see the instant he opened his eyes. She wished that he would turn to her, spontaneously, in the night and hold her in his arms. He never did, though. Instead, when she was troubled and unable to sleep, Miriam had taken to laying her hand against Daniel's back. Not a caress, simply a touch. A way to feel his skin against hers, to be connected to his solidity and warmth. She had never known if Daniel was aware of what she did or not.

Now, lying beside him in the bed they had shared for six long years, in the bed where they had tried without success for all those years to conceive a child, Miriam did not reach out. Instead, she rolled over, clinging to the side of the bed.

It was a very long time before she closed her eyes.

Twelve

S
ummer is a remarkable season of the year,” Bishop John said at worship that Sunday. “We see God's work, His bounty, everywhere we look. But this bounty brings with it a special challenge. A challenge to remember to give thanks for all that we are given, to not become so wrapped up in the hard work it takes to keep our farms and businesses going that we forget that we cannot, we do not, accomplish this work alone.

“We need the support of those who work beside us, our families and friends. And, always, we need God. We need His guidance and strength. Sometimes I think we need it in this season of bounty most of all. Because with bounty can come distraction, even complacency. It is easy to ask for God's help when the days are cold and difficult, but less easy to offer up thanks when they are bright and warm.

“And so, as we prepare to recite the Lord's Prayer in the silence of our minds and hearts, let us do so in a true spirit of thanksgiving, remembering that even the strongest hands will falter if they are not guided by a heart that is dedicated to, and humble before, God. Let us pray.”

Seated just behind Rachel and Leah, Miriam bowed her head and closed her eyes. As so often happened when Bishop John spoke, she felt as if his words were meant specifically for her.

I need to give thanks,
she thought. The farm stand was prospering. Although her father was gone, he was with God, and Miriam still lived in the house she loved so much. And she was who she had always wanted to be. She was Daniel Brennemann's wife. The fact that being his wife had not turned out to be quite what she had imagined did not make the gift of her marriage any less precious.

Perhaps I have been wrong about my imagination all these years,
she suddenly thought.
Perhaps it isn't that I have too little, but that I have too much.

Too much to give thanks for things precisely as they were. For life precisely as it was, with all its pain and flaws.

Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us,
she prayed. Even if the one who trespassed against her most was Miriam herself.

* * *

“Here, let me take that,” Miriam offered. She held out her hands for the plate of sandwiches Victor King's wife, Rebecca, had just lifted from the kitchen counter. “It looks heavy.”

“It is!” Rebecca admitted with a smile. She relinquished the plate, then pressed her hands into the small of her back. The action thrust her pregnant belly forward even more. “I get so tired lately. I admit, I will be happy when this baby comes.”

“You should sit down,” Miriam suggested. “Aren't you near your time?”

“Early September,” Rebecca said. She lifted a smaller plate, of cookies this time, with a laugh. “Less than a month and not nearly soon enough!”

Miriam smiled. Rebecca shot her a quick look, and Miriam could feel herself brace.
Here it comes,
she thought. Some well-meaning remark about how hard it must be for Miriam because she and Daniel were still childless.

“I hope that Eli is behaving himself.”

“He's doing more than that,” Miriam replied, grateful that it was Eli who was the topic of conversation. She held the door for Rebecca as the two left the Kings' kitchen to head for the food tables set outside near the barn. It had been Victor and Rebecca's turn to host worship services.

“Eli is a hard worker. I am happy to have him,” Miriam went on.

Rebecca stopped walking. “You really mean it?” she asked, turning so she could look Miriam right in the eye.

Miriam nodded. “Of course. I had reservations at first. I admit it. But I was wrong to worry. Eli has worked out very well. And his leg seems to be healing nicely. He favors it much less, I think.”

“Yes.” Rebecca nodded. “He does. He walks almost all the way home now, which is a help to Victor. It was difficult, always having to pick Eli up. The days are already so long. But Eli cannot drive again until Bishop John and the elders give their permission.”

“I see,” Miriam said.

The two women continued walking toward where the food tables were set up near the barn.

“I am relieved to hear you speak well of Eli,” Rebecca continued after a moment. “It matches what I feel myself. I was very uncertain when Victor first proposed he come to live with us. I know Victor hoped his influence would be a help to Eli, but I worried what Eli's influence would be on our own little ones.”

“But it's turned out better than you hoped,” Miriam filled in.

“It has.” Rebecca nodded. “He's very good with the little ones, in fact, and I think he's even more stern with the older ones than Victor is sometimes. It's as if Eli doesn't want them to repeat his mistakes.”

“That certainly doesn't sound wild,” Miriam said.

“It doesn't, does it?” Rebecca agreed, her voice thoughtful.

“
Mamm!
” a high-pitched voice suddenly cried. A young girl in a dark dress and sky blue apron came hurtling toward them.

“Oh, my,” Rebecca said, and Miriam could hear both humor and exasperation running through the other woman's voice. “I wonder what the crisis is this time.”

“Give me the cookies,” Miriam suggested. She shifted the larger plate she held so that she could balance a second, lighter one. “I can manage.”

“If you're sure,” Rebecca said.

“Positive.” Miriam nodded. She took the plate, then watched Rebecca hurry toward her young daughter. The girl seized her mother by the hand, talking a mile a minute, and began to tug her back the way she had come. They disappeared around the side of the house. Smiling to herself, Miriam continued on toward the barn.

I'm glad I'm not the only one to notice Eli's hard work,
she thought as she walked along. Perhaps she and Rebecca could put in a good word with Bishop John. Though the day when she would close the farm stand for the winter was still far off, Miriam wondered suddenly what would happen to Eli at the end of the harvest. Would he stay in his brother's house or go back to Ohio?

“You notice
she
didn't come today,” a voice suddenly said, slicing across her thoughts.

Miriam stopped short. Not a half dozen steps in front of her was the corner of the barn. Turn that corner, and she would be at the food tables, where many of the other women were already gathered, setting out the food that was always a part of the social time after the worship service was over.

I know that voice,
Miriam thought. She was almost certain it was Berthe Meyer, the woman Sarah had once been so afraid Daed would marry that her fear had kept her up at night.

“Of course she didn't,” a second voice said. “She hasn't come once all summer, I notice. But then, why would she? She left the community, after all. She was never baptized.”

And that's Erma,
Miriam thought. Erma, Berthe's oldest daughter, was not much older than Miriam. She had married Stephen Fisher the year before Daniel and Miriam were married. Miriam had never really liked Erma Meyer when they were growing up, though she had never admitted this to anyone, not even Sarah.

“I still think it's funny that Jacob would just let her go off like that,” Erma went on. “I heard he even gave her his blessing! Can you believe that? He didn't even try to change her mind!”

“Things would have been much different if those girls had had a mother,” Berthe Meyer huffed. “A man on his own raising two girls like that. Anyone could see nothing good would come of it.”

“But surely something did,” a new voice put in, one Miriam did not recognize. “Miriam and Daniel are a fine couple. Anyone can see that.”

“A fine couple with no children,” Berthe Meyer came back at once. “Anyone can see that as well. Though I will say this much: Much as I pity her, Miriam has backbone. Imagine, just the three of them in that house together, with everybody knowing the truth.”

“What truth?” Miriam still couldn't identify the speaker, but she no longer cared.

“Why, that Daniel would have married the younger sister, Sarah, if he could.” Erma spoke before even her mother could get a word in edgewise. “She was always making eyes at him when we were growing up. Then she up and left and Daniel married Miriam instead before the year was out. But she was never the one he really wanted. You mark my words. And still no children after all these years. That tells you something right there, doesn't it?”

“Poor Miriam,” the unknown woman said. “I had no idea.”

“Well, it's not really the sort of thing you talk about,” Berthe Meyer said.

Miriam would have laughed aloud if only she could have caught her breath. But it seemed to her suddenly as if there was not enough air in all the world. Her lips parted. She panted for breath, but still she could not fill her lungs. Her whole body flushed. She trembled. Spots danced before her eyes. From fury or lack of oxygen she genuinely could not tell.

Away. I've got to get away,
she thought. Away from the sniping and the false pity. Away before anyone knew what she had overheard.
That
she had overheard.

She turned, only vaguely aware that she was still clutching the plates of food in her hands. Her feet felt like lead as she lifted them to walk back across the yard. Finally, she sank down on the Kings' front steps, cradling the plates of food in her lap.

“Miriam?” As if from a great distance, she heard a voice speak her name. “Miriam!” A hand touched her shoulder, shaking gently, then with more insistence. “Miriam, are you all right?”

Slowly Miriam turned her head, focused her eyes. Leah Gingerich's concerned face swam into view.

“Leah,” Miriam croaked out.

“Miriam, what is it?” Leah asked, and even through her strange haze Miriam could hear the fear and worry in the young woman's voice. “You're so white. Don't you feel well?”

“That's it. Yes, that's it,” Miriam said, suddenly seizing on the possibility that Leah offered. “I don't feel well. I wonder, would you see if you can find Daniel for me? I think that I would like to go home.”

“Of course I will,” Leah said. After a moment's hesitation, Leah took the plates that Miriam had forgotten about from her lap and set them on the step beside her. “Do you want anything—some water, maybe—before I go?”

“No,
danki
, Leah,” Miriam replied. “If you would just . . .
please
, Leah.”

“I'm going,” Leah said. Pivoting on one heel, she dashed off.

Miriam sat on the steps, hands folded tightly in her lap, and gazed straight ahead at nothing. If only, she thought, she could feel nothing as well.

* * *

Leah sped across the yard, skirting around the back side of the barn so that she'd attract less attention. She wasn't quite sure where Daniel was, but she was sure that the last thing Miriam needed was for Leah to go charging around calling attention to herself by searching for him. Then everyone would know that something bad had happened.

How dare those old biddies?
Leah thought. She had been too far away to hear most of what had been said, but Leah had been at the perfect angle to see what had happened. The group of women clustered around the food tables, leaning in to listen as Berthe Meyer and her daughter spoke. And Miriam was about to come around the edge of the barn. Leah heard only a few words but it was clear that they were talking about Miriam and her marriage. Leah didn't want to hear any more; she had stopped short, then staggered away. Just the thought of the wounded expression in Miriam's eyes made Leah's own eyes fill with angry tears.

Oomph!

With a suddenness that left her gasping, Leah collided with another body. She staggered back and felt strong hands close around her arms, steadying her, holding her upright.

“Leah, what is it?” a voice asked urgently. “What's wrong?”

Leah looked up into Eli's forest green eyes.

“Eli,” she sobbed out. “Oh, Eli.”

“You're crying!” Eli exclaimed. He took a quick step back, studying her intently. “Leah, are you injured?
Tell me what's wrong.
”

“Not me,” Leah gasped out. She reached to dash the angry tears from her cheeks. “It isn't me. It's—”

“Miriam,” Eli said.

Leah's mouth dropped open. “How did you know?”

“Leah.” Unexpectedly, her name came out on a sigh. “I'm not stupid, you know, and I'm certainly not blind. I know how much you look up to Miriam. If you're this upset, it has to be about somebody you really care about. I've just seen your
aenti
and
onkel
, so I know that they are well. That leaves Miriam, or you yourself, and you tell me you're fine. So, once again, we're back to Miriam.”

“It was awful,” Leah whispered. “Oh, Eli.” To Leah's dismay and annoyance, she began to weep once more, huge tears that welled up and rolled down her cheeks. Eli released her to fish in his back pocket for a handkerchief. Then, before Leah realized what he intended, he tilted up her chin and wiped the tears from her face, precisely as Aenti Rachel had always done when she was small. Then he tucked the handkerchief into Leah's hand.