Rebecca's Promise (5 page)

W
alking toward the barn that afternoon at four thirty with Rebecca leading the way, John glanced down at his chore clothing. They fit, sort of, he supposed. Not that the bagginess in the legs really mattered, but he just liked things to be right.

Seeing his glance downward, Rebecca chuckled. “Dad’s clothes are a little too big for you.”

“Yeah,” he allowed, “wrinkled too.”

“Don’t let it bother you.”

“I guess I’m not used to farming.” He glanced at her. “Probably never will be. You ever want to marry a farmer?”

She looked at him sharply and answered, “No. I never thought about marriage in those terms.”

“Some girls do,” he offered as explanation, suddenly feeling like his question needed one.

“Some girls do? So you have a lot of experience asking girls about marriage?” she asked, only half joking.

“No, of course not,” he said. “I’ve never been engaged before.”

She allowed a smile to spread slowly across her face. “Ever asked?”

He allowed the air to come slowly out of his lungs. “Look, before you I never even dated a girl. You were the first.”

“Oh,” she said, as she faced forward, but not before John thought he saw that look of fear flash again briefly in her eyes. Then he thought to ask, “You ever been engaged before?”

“No,” she said, continuing to walk and not looking at him.

“Seriously dated?”

“A little. In Milroy. Not seriously…no.”

“How much is a little?”

“Don’t you think you should have asked these questions first?”

“They didn’t seem important,” he said, because they hadn’t. Why they were important now, he couldn’t figure out, but they were. Was it the fear he had seen in her eyes?

“How much is a little?” he asked again.

“Once,” she said.

“How many dates would that be?”

“Two.”

“So,” he asked, “did he drop you?”

“No,” she said. “I said no after the second time.”

“Was there trouble?”

“You sure are something,” she stated, the fire gone from her eyes. “No. I just said I wasn’t interested.”

Rebecca seemed to want the discussion to end. She reached out and took his hand. “Let’s get to the chores.”

“All right,” he said, “but we need to be careful.” He pulled his hand away from hers. “Your parents will see us.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“Well, I do. We have to keep our relationship right.” He noticed a hurt look on her face and added, “Rebecca, it’s going to be hard enough.”

“It’s just those rules, isn’t it?” she asked.

He thought for a moment. “Yes, it’s the rules. I want to keep them because I think they’re for our good. But it’s more than that.”

“And?” She kept her eyes on his face.

“It’s…” He found himself stumbling to say it. “It’s just that I don’t trust myself.” His eyes softened as he stood looking into hers.

She was still for a moment and then said, “I trust you.” Pausing a moment more, Rebecca broke away saying, “We have some chores to do.”

He let his breath out slowly, mixed emotions running through him…but best to drop them now.

“How many cows do you milk?” he finally asked awkwardly.

“Thirty,” she replied. “Dad says that we’re among the last dairy farmers in the county.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, “there aren’t too many around. Has your father ever thought of doing something else?”

“He likes farming,” she said. “We raise most of our own feed. Saves money…and milk prices are up a little. Besides what else would he do?” she asked with a chuckle. “Compete with the Miller’s operations on the hill?”

“Your uncle already does that,” he said dryly. “Keim Family Market, but we get along.”

“There you go,” she told him. “A dairy farm is safer. But Dad does work at Keim’s sometimes. Brings in extra cash.” Arriving at the barn, she held the door open for him, waiting as he entered.

Stepping inside, the sounds and smells of a dairy barn hit him—the faint smell of cow manure hung in the air, the lowing of cattle just outside the sliding wooden doors.

“We just whitewashed,” she said, seeing that he noticed. “The inspector passed us on his first trip out. He said Dad does a good job of things.”

John nodded while thinking how much he preferred work tools that didn’t splatter the ground with smelly droppings from their backsides. “When does the milking start?” he asked.

“Fifteen minutes. Let some feed out of the shoot over there. Give each cow a shovelful. Keeps them occupied till we get the milkers on.”

He responded by finding the feed shovel and lifting the sliding board that controlled the feed flow. The pressure surprised him as the spray of brown feed, smelling of molasses and squashed grain, shot down to the floor by his feet.

“Not too much,” she said calmly. “Save the extra for next time.
They can’t reach it from there anyway, so it will keep. I’m going for the milkers now.”

He picked up the shovel, scooped up a portion he figured was equivalent to the prescribed amount and deposited it in front of the first open station. When all sixteen spots were done, he retreated to the back and waited.

She pushed open the swinging door behind him, coming out with a milker in each hand, their hoses hanging just shy of the floor.

“I’ll take them,” he offered, reaching out his hand.

She gave him one and lifted the other up to snap in place on the wire suspended from the ceiling. Obviously she wanted him to follow suit, so he did, feeling the weight of the effort quickly tire his arm. He wondered what she was doing carrying two of these at the same time.

As if in answer, she said, “I wouldn’t have brought out two if you hadn’t been here. They can’t touch the ground outside the milk house. Cleanliness issue.”

He nodded. “What time did you say the milking starts?”

“Five sharp,” she said. “The cows should be coming in any minute now.”

The sound of the approaching cows confirmed her words. As Lester came into the barn, he smiled at the sight of John in his oversized chore clothing and asked the two, “Ready to start?”

Rebecca grinned, noticing the reason for her father’s smile, and nodded her head. Lester opened the door to the outside barnyard. The first cow stuck her head in, looked around as if deciding what to do, then proceeded forward, nervously glancing about.

Standing motionless and staring intently at the advancing cow, John missed the exchange between daughter and father. The cow overcame whatever contrary thoughts it had as soon as it caught sight of the feed John had shoveled out. Lifting its head, the cow headed for the closest station. Rebecca was ready and pushed the two side rods together as the cow stuck its head through the stanchion. The metal snapping closed around its neck caused no reaction, its nose deep into
the shovel of feed. The cow munched contentedly, its eyes looking at nothing and glazed over in contentment.

The other cows lost no time following suit. Lester counted under his breath until sixteen had entered, then he slapped the next cow in line on its nose to keep it from entering. “There now, Bess,” he said, “next time’s for you.”

“Cows never listen,” Rebecca said, standing at John’s elbow. “You have to give direction.”

She turned to reach for the milker on the overhead line and then stepped back, moving away from the cow. The switch of its tail almost caught her in the face.

“Missed,” she muttered under her breath. “Try harder next time.”

John had to chuckle. “It’s not on purpose, is it?”

“Maniacal things. Cow brains,” she retorted. “You never know sometimes.”

He laughed, the sound vibrating in the enclosed milking parlor. She turned toward it. There weren’t too many times she’d heard him laugh out loud, and each time her reaction had been the same. It was as a man’s laugh should be—delightful, serious, and yet merry to the soul.

Her smile warmed his heart when he saw it.

“Ah,” he cleared his throat, “how long does it take to milk?”

Her smile deepened. He was trying to change the subject, and she now knew why. It was because he cared for her, deeply cared for her. She let the thought linger as he was looking the other way, seeming to be watching the milkers doing their jobs.

“We should be done by a quarter after six,” she told him, with her smile still lingering. “Supper’s right after that. Mother makes a wonderful supper.”

“I suppose she does,” he allowed. “Passed the training on to you?”

She grinned. “Of course.”

U
nder the hiss of a gas lantern, the family gathered in the dining room for the evening meal. Another lantern hung in the kitchen and one more was glowing in the living room. Except for the rooms here and there with kerosene lamps burning, the house was dark.

“Thanks for helping us tonight,” Lester told John from across the table.

“It was nothing,” John assured him, both because that was the proper thing to say and because of his interest in Rebecca. “I just shoveled a little feed,” he added. “Not enough to work up much of a sweat.”

“Well, it’s Sunday,” Lester allowed. “Where’s Mother? I’m hungry.”

“Coming,” Rebecca told him.

Mattie appeared in the kitchen doorway carrying a bowl of steaming gravy. She set the bowl carefully on the table and warned, “Don’t touch it just yet. It’s hot. Let me dip it out.”

“The best gravy cools slowly,” Lester said with a wink. “Come sit down, Mother. We can have prayer. The younger ones just have to be careful.”

“We already know that,” eleven-year-old Matthew offered, feeling like he was being included in the instructions. “Mother usually serves things hot.”

“We weren’t talking about you,” Lester assured him. “Supper food tastes best when it’s hot. Now can we have prayer?”

“The Amish way,” Mattie pronounced, “fresh out of the oven.”
Getting a word in yet before taking her seat beside Lester, she folded her hands and waited.

Lester took the signal, let his eyes move over all of them, and without saying anything, he bowed his head. They followed. Leading out in a prayer he knew by memory, he prayed in High German and concluded, “
Im Namen des Vaters, des Sohns, und des Heiligen Geistes.
Amen.”

Not a head rose until Lester finished, and even then a brief hush hung over the room. Silence seemed to be in order.

None of the younger children understood the High German, but they knew it was used for spiritual occasions. It was God’s language. The words carried a weight all their own. It was the sound used on important occasions—for church services, weddings, for Sunday morning songs, and for funerals. Whether the High German words were pronounced slowly by an elderly minister or rapidly by a younger speaker, it meant for them that the work of God was near.

Matthew first broke the reverent silence. “I saw Phillip Mast today and talked with him in the barn after church.” His young face alight with pleasure. “He’s big now.”

“You’re big too,” Lester said teasingly. “Remember, you’re too old for children’s instructions.”

“Well, I guess,” Matthew muttered in response, suddenly not sure whether he wanted to be big or not.

“He means the Mast family who was visiting today,” Rebecca said, as she leaned in John’s direction, bringing him into the loop. “He and Phillip were good friends in school.”

John said nothing, noting only that there was no fear in her eyes when she mentioned the load of visitors who had accompanied the Byler family.
That look of fear in her eye couldn’t have been from them,
he thought.

“So how is business up at the Miller hill?” Lester asked in John’s direction.

“Same as always,” John said. “Tourists still are tourists. I suppose it will be like that for awhile at least. Most of the business comes out
of Cincinnati. That’s not affected much, no matter what the economy does.”

“I suppose so,” Lester allowed. “Too bad cows don’t attract tourists.”