Hester on the Run Read online

  She was weary, and a few minutes with Emma were a good reason to sit. She watched Annie from the corners of her eyes, turning her head slightly so Annie wouldn’t know. The late afternoon sun cast a square of yellow light on the oak floor. The light from the fire illuminated the remainder of the house in a warm glow, reminding Hester that a house was a home, as long as there was a group of people in it.

  She was trying hard. She scrubbed floors, wiped walls, washed bedding and blankets. She took on the hardest tasks, trying to win her stepmother’s affections. Her shoulders were wide and capable, her arms rounded and muscular. The seams of her dresses strained beneath the power of her arms as she hoed the corn, cut it with a sharp scythe, and carried it to the barn for bedding.

  As the winds became colder, rustling the last of the clinging, brown oak leaves, she was in the fields. With her ungloved hands, she ripped the ripened ears of corn from the stalks and threw them on the wooden wagon, her nose red from the cold, a warm scarf around her head.

  Lissie was helping her. Noah and Isaac had gone to help Hans with the foundation of the new stone house. The corn rustled in the wind, a dry brittle sound that spoke of the coming winter. The mound of golden ears was reaching above the wooden walls of the wagon. Hester’s stomach growled.

  She lifted her face, searching for the sun, but the gray clouds had reduced it to a shaded, white light. It would rain. The clouds in the evening sky had resembled fish bones, a sure sign of rain, Kate had always told her.

  Thunk. Thunk. The ears of corn flung into the wagon made a satisfying sound. This was sustenance for the horses, as well as the family. They would roast the ears of corn in the bake oven, then shell the corn into the wooden dishpan. The next step was to grind the kernels into a fine, golden meal, set it to cooking with water and salt so that it bubbled slowly in the black cast iron pot hanging above the fire, then pour it into pans. The cornmeal mush would set, so that it could be sliced and placed carefully in sizzling lard, where it was fried to a rectangular piece of crisp goodness.

  Or Annie would dish the bubbling corn pudding from the pot, lace it with molasses, and pour rich, creamy milk over it. Sometimes she made cornbread. It was all very good.

  Thinking of it made Hester swallow, her eyes searching the clouds yet again. Surely the dinner bell would soon ring. Unaware of any changes, Hester continued stripping ears of corn from their husks, flinging the cobs onto the wagon, a mindless repetition, until she called to the horses. “Dot! Daisy! Giddup!” Dutifully, the horses leaned into their collars, tugging the wagon through the emptied cornstalks, until Hester said, “Whoa.”

  It was only then that she noticed Lissie’s absence. She stooped, her eyes searching the cornstalks. “Lissie!”

  “Hm.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Here.” Lissie lay on her stomach, her face in her cupped hands, her feet kicking the air above her.

  “What are you doing?’

  “I’m lying on my stomach.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do people lie down? Because they are tired.”

  Hester laughed quietly. “Come, Lissie. It’s almost dinnertime.”

  “I’m starved. I’m falling-down tired. I can’t pull one more ear of corn.”

  Hester knew she meant it. Lissie was young to be husking corn all day, but Hans had said he felt the hurry in his bones. Winter was going to catch them this year if they didn’t stay steadily at the husking of the corn.

  There was no doubt about it, with Annie as his wife, Hans’s stride matched hers, side by side. He began laying the foundation for the new stone house after digging the cellar with shovels. Neighbors lent a hand, with Noah and Isaac helping after school.

  Annie was the taskmaster, the one wielding the scepter, barking orders, shoving the family into a regimen of good management. Where Kate had been relaxed, her work done well and in an orderly fashion, content with her log house and small farm, Annie’s goal in life was getting ahead, attaining status and wealth. Of course, she never spoke of it, but Hester knew by the narrowing of her eyes and the lift of her chin when they drove into Amos Hershberger’s farmyard, that she aimed to have a house like Mary’s, and soon. So Hans took his place beside his thin, energetic wife and met her requirements.

  It was only at times, at unguarded moments, when he sat pensively staring into the fire at night, that Hester saw the longing, the remembering, and she wondered. Did he really want this stone house?

  Some things, you never could know, but as the days grew colder and Hans redoubled his efforts, laying one stone upon another steadily, week after week, his cheeks became gaunt and lost their rosiness. His shoulders stooped with tiredness, and his eyes glittered with a strange light. Hester shivered. Where would it end?

  In due time, the house was built with frolics, those days when men swarmed into the farmyard with wagons and carts, their able bodies a boost to Hans as they bent to the task of cutting and laying the good, solid limestone.

  Before those days, Annie and Hester worked from dawn till past sundown, preparing food for the hungry men. They made Leberklosschen, the dumplings made of chopped liver and onions, boiled in a good, rich, beef broth and served with pungent mounds of sauerkraut from the crocks in the cold cellar.

  Annie made the most wonderful chicken they had ever tasted, serving the dish on a big redware plate with creamy chicken gravy poured over it. There were great dishes of Schpeck und Bona, beans cooked with ham, a salty, savory dish served with cruets of vinegar for those who liked the beans strongly flavored. Filling out the tables were stacks of homemade bread and apple butter.

  Annie loved to cook, using her mother’s recipes whenever she could.

  Hans proudly hosted these wonderful meals for the men who came to the frolic. He urged the men to fill and refill their plates, and he ate two platefuls himself. But never once did anyone see him lift his face to find his wife or speak to her as she darted from oven to table and back again, holding her head just so, a bit to the side, away from him.

  Isaac observed this, beginning to understand his son’s empty eyes. A great sadness lay like a heavy stone on his chest and his breathing, so intense was his pity. And when he observed Hans’s eyes on Hester’s face, a look that struck Isaac with the force of a sledgehammer, he knew the power of his prayers were more necessary now than they had ever been before. He knew the way of life with a woman like Annie. Rebecca was so much the same. He knew the sacrifices his son would need to make.

  Yes, a man gave his life for his family. It was in the Word of God. For years, Isaac had struggled with this monumental sacrifice, this giving up of a close relationship, a shared intimacy, the relaxed and loving way of a wife.

  He had much, Hans had. A mother for his children, a willing and able worker, a manager, a zealous woman, but one who left him with an empty heart, a longing. And there was Hester. Isaac shook in his shoes.

  CHAPTER 18

  DURING THE SUMMER MONTH OF AUGUST, THEY moved into the new house. It was a house that exceeded even Annie’s expectations. The floors were wide, golden oak, set with wooden pins, smoothed, sanded, and oiled to a fine, glistening sheen. Winding steps led to the second floor with two bedrooms, each one containing a glass-paned window.

  Large pieces of furniture held all of Annie’s blue and white dishes, which she had brought from Germany.

  A fireplace was located in the center of the house, with a wide hearth for cooking.

  Noah and Isaac cut wood for cooking and for heating the rest of the house from the fireplace, the back wall of which jutted into a large room for gathering opposite the kitchen.

  Annie kept the floor of the big room swept clean. And when visitors came, she often put down some hand-sewn rugs she had made. The chairs were always dusted, just in case someone would drop by. She hung some of her favorite coverlets over the backs of the chairs to add warmth to the room. She liked doing needlework and wasn’t shy about displaying her skills to others.

  It was a f
ine house, with closets built under the stairways and little pantries built in nooks off the kitchen. One of the pantries contained a small window that Annie always left open in winter, which was a wondrous idea. That kept food from spoiling for a week at a time, but no one needed to go outside to bring it in. Water from the spring stayed cold in the large, covered bucket inside this pantry, as well as many foods.

  Annie was always pushing for more. She thought a black stove would allow her to do more efficient cooking. And she had heard talk of a pump in the house, which would bring in water at the lift of a handle. Hans knew how expensive these conveniences were, but he kept thinking about the possible depletion of his saved coins, plus the burden of owing a debt to his father. How he hated to ask his own father for money. He eventually had to admit defeat and allowed himself to ask for help to keep his new wife content.

  He trembled under his mother’s wrath. “Neither a borrower nor a lender be,” she said, the words like icy pellets ingrained into his conscience.

  “Yes, Mam. But I did not have quite enough money to finish.”

  “Hans, it’s all right for you to have this big house, but not with our money.” To have a son who was well-to-do was one thing, but to give up her own pot of coins was quite another.

  “He’ll pay it back,” Isaac offered.

  Rebecca chose not to answer. She leaned against the doorframe, crossed her arms, lifted her chin, and asked, “How’s it going, son? With Annie?”

  “Good. Everything’s fine.”

  Rebecca’s eyebrows shot up, disbelief lifting her upper lip. She snickered. “Well, good.”

  That was all she said, but Hans felt as if his mother had seen straight into his soul, leaving him struggling to put up the shield of happiness he had been accustomed to holding. “She’s a good cook.”

  Isaac nodded.

  Rebecca said, “That’s about it.”

  Hans left his parents’ house with higher resolve. He would work harder, hide his feelings with more ease, and become the son his mother expected.

  When the new house was finished, Annie turned on Hester. She rarely performed any given task properly. The washing was not done to her specifications. When she cleaned, she left dust in the corners. When she washed windows, they were streaked. Her sewing had to be ripped apart and done over.

  Hester could not cook, she was told over and over, until she believed it was true. She avoided the kitchen as much as possible and took on more and more of the boys’ chores.

  For reasons beyond Hester’s understanding, Lissie seemed to be able to fulfill Annie’s expectations, spending hours in the kitchen producing cakes and biscuits, bread and cookies, with Annie’s assistance. It was only Hester who rankled her moods.

  Hester climbed the mountain to her rock, as she thought of it now, the great ledge of pure limestone that jutted out over the hillside allowing her a view of the hills surrounding her home, her community of Amish people, the only way of life she had ever known.

  She was almost seventeen now, so she was allowed to go with the youth. But so far, she’d chosen not to socialize with them. There wasn’t anything she wanted there except to be with her girlfriends, whose inane giggling set her teeth on edge.

  Her eyes took in the sky, the heat shimmering above the restless, green trees. She watched a few brown birds wheeling in the sky, those daring swifts that flew so gracefully.

  She drew up her knees and laid her head on them, closing her eyes wearily. She felt beaten today. Finished. Surely there was more to life than this endless round of disapproval. She woke up to it and went to bed with it, a knowledge of all her shortcomings. She was never quite enough in Annie’s eyes.

  The next day, Annie asked Hester to cook a huge kettle of apples, so none went to waste. She had built a good-sized fire, burning hot, so the apples would finish cooking before it was time to start supper. She was struggling to lift the heavy kettle onto the hook set over the fire, but she bumped it when she swung the loaded pot up and over the bank of flames. Determined not to ask for help, Hester pulled the kettle back again with a broad arc of her arm, balancing herself carefully so as not to have the sparks that were racing across the hearth catch her skirt.

  But as her elbow flew back to its highest point, Hester felt a burst of heat at her feet. Her skirt had swept the edge of the hearth, and flames ran quickly across the width of her hem.

  Determined to achieve the perfection Annie required, Hester landed the pot of apples onto the hook over the crown of flames. Perspiration formed on her forehead and beaded on her upper lip, but she didn’t slacken her pace once.

  She bent to smother the flames on the bottom of her skirt before they could race up the threads, consuming her weekday clothing. But as she stooped to stamp on the smoldering cloth, a stinging slap connected firmly with the side of her face, then another. “You’re just a strong-willed, insolent Indian,” Annie hissed, her wide eyes alive with the anger she felt, never acknowledging the danger Hester had been in.

  Hester escaped in the only way she knew how, straight up the mountain to her rock, the only place of solace she knew.

  Today, she did not see the eagle, as she often did. Where was her God? Did he hear when she prayed? It seemed as if God had hidden his face from her, the way he had allowed Annie into her life.

  It was the endless, mind-numbing disapproval she felt continually. She tried and tried, doing her best each day, but she guessed Indians must be like that. What other explanation could be valid? Indians were incapable, untrustworthy, slackers who shirked their duty, unable to perform the way white people did. At least that’s what Annie wanted her to believe. But did she? Her thoughts jumbled and twisted painfully. Stuck in self-hatred, she examined each of her flaws and cringed before them.

  Yes, she was unworthy, but there was nothing she could do to help that.

  Gott im Himmel (God in heaven), she prayed. I know we are not supposed to ask for signs, but today, when I am not sure if you are there, please show you care about me. I need something or someone to show me how to be a better person.

  The sky remained blue and bright and empty. The leaves whirled and danced, the thin, brown branches waved in the summer breeze. A curious green lizard scuttled out on the edge of the shelf of rock and watched her with wide red eyes, its sharp, forked tongue darting in and out so rapidly, Hester could see only a blur. Bees hummed past on their way to a certain type of nectar from a flowering bush.

  Hester lifted her head, her eyes searching the great blue sky so empty today, devoid of one puffy white cloud. She sighed, straightened her legs, and propped her shoulders by extending her arms behind her.

  A clear, melodious whistle entered her consciousness. Not a bird, certainly. She held her body motionless, a part of the limestone. The whistle was clear, a melody, a song, although she didn’t know the tune or the words. Who would be here? Noah or Isaac? It was a beautiful tune. It sent chills down her back. Had God heard her? Was this an angel? In the German Bible she had learned to read, a visitation from an angel was always frightening. Should she be afraid?

  Slowly, the whistling faded away into the distance, leaving Hester frustrated, longing to know.

  Sighing, she prostrated herself on the rock, hid her face in her hands, and thought of William King. What a name! Worse than the red-haired youth named Paddy. The King of England, this one.

  Yes, it had been nice, and oh, he was handsome. A fine man. But if she harbored thoughts of him, it would only lead to heartbreak. She could never have him. She wouldn’t be white enough, with skills to do housekeeping properly.

  A butterfly hovered over her, then danced through the sky with its fluttering, erratic pattern of flight. Perhaps she was like this butterfly, made to be the way she was. Hadn’t God created her? John Lantz, the bishop, had explained it very well. God had taken a rib from the man he created and formed a woman. That was a wonderful idea.

  Hans was not like Annie. He was a good person. Perhaps all men were better than women. Sh
e knew that thought was incorrect. Kate had been the best person Hester had ever known. And Lissie Hershberger. She smiled. Local gossip swirled around the portly woman and her tall, skinny co-worker, Theodore Crane.

  She strained to hear the whistling, unafraid, curious, but there was no sound except the leaves rustling, distant bird song, the faraway cawing of crows.

  Hester sighed. She did not want to go back. If she stayed here on this rock, would she suffer much if she didn’t eat or drink for days and days? Now that was only being foolish.

  One thought became very clear to her. She would find the Indian woman who gave her the herbs to heal Kate’s wounds. She sat very still as the thought saturated her being. Yes, she would go. Somehow she would find her way, perhaps only to the river, but perhaps Padriac Lee would go with her.

  She felt a clear direction, a newfound purpose. The old woman would help her in much the same way she had healed Kate’s wounds. Lifting her hands, she felt thankful for the direction. It was a simple thought, but a belief so strong it was like an object she could hold.

  She drew a sharp breath when a doe stepped out of the trees, followed by a fawn, its white spots already disappearing. The doe’s ears flicked forward, her large, dark eyes examined Hester quietly, then she lowered her head and lifted her feet delicately, disappearing into the surrounding trees, the fawn at her heels.

  Again, Hester lifted her hands, then flung her arms to the sky. Freely, her spirit worshiped the Creator. She praised him; she thanked him for sending the deer and her fawn. She would go to the Indian woman.

  Revived, she didn’t dread her return to the house like an unwanted chore. Everything was possible. She could survive, even prosper, under Annie’s disapproval.

  Later, when she retrieved the twice-washed bed linens from the line, she lingered by the emptied washline, the courage she had felt earlier in the day slipping away from her. Footfalls behind her made her stand erect, at attention, waiting for the harangue that was sure to follow.