A Horse for Elsie Page 2

  “How old are you now?” he asked.

  “Eleven.”

  “Oh, by the time you’re fourteen, you could help Aunt Lydia at market, probably. But remember, Amish children give their wages to their parents. If you make a hundred dollars, you would have only ten to put in your savings account.”

  He shifted his weight, spun his glass in a circle to stir the mint tea, then looked at her with an expectant gaze.

  Elsie’s eyes flashed her irritation.

  “If that’s the case, I’ll never have a pony. Never.”

  “Elsie, I wish you could have one. But even if ponies were free, we still couldn’t afford to feed it. We must be sensible. Lots of children don’t have ponies. I never did. Neither did your mother. We grew up to be responsible adults, I like to think.”

  He smiled at her, that happy, childlike smile that let her know she was loved and everything was right with his whole world.

  “But I want a pony.”

  “Not just a pony,” her father replied, “but a cart and a harness and a halter and a lead rope, and enough money to buy two scoops of feed and two blocks of hay. Every day.”

  “That’s right.”

  Elsie drew up her knees, pulled her skirt tightly around them, then wrapped her hands around her legs, her fingers interlaced. She watched her father’s expression, hoping to find his solid reserve crumbling, even a bit.

  “Listen. I would love to see you have a pony. But your mother is in dire need of necessities she never mentions. If there is any money left over, ever, we need a new mattress set and a lawn mower that works. They don’t require feed and hay. So for now, you’ll have to be reasonable.”

  Elsie knew what he said was true, but that didn’t take the sting away. She felt trapped. Even if she worked hard at the market or as a maud, she’d never make enough to buy a pony if she had to give so much of the money to her parents. Still, she was determined. She’d figure something out, eventually.

  Chapter Two

  Lunch at school was only fifteen minutes, and she stayed at her desk, eating whatever her mother had packed. She unwrapped her cheese sandwich and ate it quickly, mostly to hide the whole thing before anyone saw there was no ham or bologna. She never turned sideways in her seat and put her legs in the aisle to socialize like the other kids did. They didn’t have to see what she got out of her faded old Coleman lunch box, crisscrossed with scratches and scruff marks.

  “Hey.”

  Elsie didn’t turn, didn’t expect to be addressed at lunch hour.

  “Hey, Elsie.”

  She put back the sandwich, turned and raised her eyebrows.

  “You’re not on my team today, are you?”

  Now what? Elam never acted as if he cared one way or another whose team she was on. She knew he disapproved of her ball-playing abilities, so what did he care?

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, Artie here thinks you’re on his team, and he hasn’t won a game for so long, he doesn’t even know how to be a winner anymore.”

  Artie was short for Arlen, and Elsie avoided him as much as she could. He came from a wealthy family who lived in a beautiful house about half a mile away. They went to Florida every winter, taking the children for a few weeks and calling it “educational.”

  “So whose team were you on yesterday?” Elam asked.

  “Yours.”

  He turned to Artie gleefully. “I told you.”

  That was puzzling. Why would Elam think her being on his team was a good thing?

  Elsie shrugged. You could never tell what boys thought. Likely they had some sort of bet going on that she would never find out about.

  Elsie’s tattered glove was like a shot of caffeine. Pure adrenaline. And it was a perfect day for baseball—barely a breeze, the sun warm but not too warm, the air clear, tinged with the smell of autumn leaves, acorns, dirt, and dying weeds.

  She took her place on first base and watched Artie as he walked to the pitcher’s space. He had all the confidence in the world, a slight bounce in every step. Rosanne was the catcher. Why they’d put her there was beyond Elsie, seeing how hard it was for her to bend over and stop grounders, given her size. Not that Elsie would ever say that out loud.

  Samuel, a fifth-grader, was up to bat and lopped a perfect grounder to Artie, who threw the ball to Elsie. Samuel made a wild lunge for first base, but dropped his shoulders dejectedly when Elsie playfully tagged him.

  She smiled. “Nice try.”

  “Thanks.”

  Elsie made two home runs, racking up points for the team, caught fastballs on the outfield, and threw with razor precision. No one ever said much to her about her ball-playing abilities, though she got a lot of high fives on the field. The girls seemed almost embarrassed that she was so good—like maybe it wasn’t proper to be that much better than all the boys.

  Today, Elam grinned at her. “Poor Artie. Whooped ’em.”

  She smiled back, too shy to speak. She felt the blush in her face, hoped no one would see.

  At the end of each school day, Elsie always felt a sense of loss. Going home meant working for her mother at an endless round of weary jobs—getting laundry off the line, sweeping the kitchen, picking up toys, or worst of all, peeling potatoes. She hated plodding around like an ordinary housewife.

  Elsie had no plans of becoming a housewife. At twenty-one years of age she could keep the money she earned, all of it. She’d find the hardest, most challenging job she could find and work herself up to manager, maybe running her own stand at the bustling market in New Jersey that Rosanne talked about. Then she would put all of her money into a savings account until she could buy a pony. Just one perfect Shetland pony with an arched neck and shining, well-kept hooves and a shower of light-colored long hair, thick and clean that hung down the side of his neck, a portion of it down the front of his face. She would name the pony Cliff, for the tall hills and ravines of their native country.

  The cart would not be painted black, but varnished natural wood with a sheen like water. It would have a red upholstered seat with a comfortable back and red pinstripes on the wheels and along the shafts.

  Elsie’s daydreaming was what kept her going as she swept the broken linoleum with the scraggly broom, washed the dishes in soapy water, folded cloth diapers, and ironed the Sunday handkerchiefs. Never once had she taken into consideration that at twenty-one she might be too tall, too adult, to be driving a Shetland pony.

  Church services were announced to be at their house that Sunday, which meant no one would relax for two whole weeks. It always sent a thrill down her spine, though, to hear her father’s name—Levi Esh—announced in church. It was a reminder that they were an upstanding family, capable of hosting services in the garage attached to their house.

  Being Amish meant there was no church building with a steeple and pews the way countless English folks enjoyed. You took your turn about once a year, sometimes more, depending on the size of the congregation. Amish folks only went to church every other Sunday, the in-between one meant for Bible study and German lessons with the family, a day of relaxation and rest. Most people went visiting or had company, or went to a neighboring district to church.

  Amish families were sectioned into districts, from twenty to forty families in each district. If the congregation grew too large, they would decide on a boundary, dividing the church into smaller sections, which was more manageable to host services. That meant ordaining new ministers, casting lots to select men who were ordained to spread the gospel. This was a sacred thing, and one Elsie didn’t fully understand. She had overheard her parents’ conversation about how hard it was for Ben Zook, being only twenty-seven years old and so shy and humble. He took it hard when he was chosen, but his wife, Sarah, would be a great help.

  In the days leading up to church, Elsie went to school, came home, and worked. She scoured the bathroom and ironed curtains, polished floors and raked leaves. She was old enough now to notice the walls that needed a good cover of pa
int and the uneven, pockmarked cement floor. There wasn’t much she could do about those things, though, and she figured people understood. They knew her family didn’t have much money and that it wasn’t for lack of hard work or due to frivolous spending.

  She helped her mother bake dried-apple pies on the Saturday morning before church services would be held in the garage the following day. First, Mam put the dried-apple snitz in a large, sixteen-quart kettle, poured a fair amount of water into it, and set it to boil. Flavored with brown sugar, white sugar, and cinnamon, thickened with granules of minute tapioca, the pie filling was wonderful.

  Years ago, dried-apple snitz was the way church pies were made, but along the way some enterprising person had proved to have a faster method, using apple butter and applesauce, instead of peeling, slicing, and drying apples, storing them, and cooking them down. It was much easier to dump two gallons of applesauce and one of apple butter and flavor it, and it tasted about the same. But there were many apples in the old orchard, and unwilling to waste any of them, Elsie’s mother always picked them up and peeled, sliced, and dried them on an old window screen placed on a rack on the stove. They often wound up with more dried apples than jars of applesauce or apple butter, so they still made snitz the traditional way.

  Elsie brushed the tops of the crusts with beaten egg, sifted a handful of piecrust crumbs over that, then washed dishes and kept Amos away from the hot stove.

  She was secretly proud of her mother’s beautiful pies. It took away the sting of not being able to serve sliced ham or bologna, which her parents could not afford. Aunt Mamie was bringing ten dozen red beet eggs and Aunt Annie had said she’d bring a box of seasoned pretzels. The ladies from church would bring cheese spread, peanut butter, and marshmallow spread, loaf after loaf of homemade bread, and cakes and desserts.

  Her Saturday was perfect. The weather was beautiful, the air nippy enough that she needed a sweater to mow grass. The leaves were raked and burned, the flower beds cleaned out, the borders cut perfectly with the string trimmer. Windows gleamed after their washing, the siding was free of dust and fly dirt, and the floor of the garage was washed and dried, the carpet laid, and tool shelves covered with old white bedsheets.

  Her father set the benches, carrying them in from the racks built into the bench wagon, the large gray homemade enclosures on steel wheels that brought the benches, dishes, and hymnbooks to the home where services would be held. Anna Marie bounced around like a little rabbit, slapping the rows of benches as she dashed between them. Suvilla chased her up and down the long rows till Dat made them stop. It was exciting to host church services, especially for the children.

  Elsie leaned into the push mower, down at the lower end of the yard, where the grass was so thick and hard. She had reached the end of the row and turned to lean on her mower handle to catch her breath when she heard the familiar clip clip clip clip of a pony’s small, light hooves. A horse’s feet went slower, and clopped heavily, where a pony’s feet moved more quickly, creating a staccato sound.

  Just her luck. Here she was, standing beside the road, and here they came, that Elam and his strange little brother, Benny. There was no avoiding the arrogant brothers today. She contemplated diving into the undergrowth beside the yard, but figured they’d already seen her, wearing the bright red dress, black sweater, and white scarf. They couldn’t miss her.

  She leaned into the mower, without stopping to look or allowing herself the privilege of watching the pony in action.

  “Hey!”

  She heard the hello, but kept on going, not wanting to give Elam the satisfaction of her longing. She’d never have a pony, so why should he get to look down on where she stood, gazing admiringly at his beautiful Cookie?

  “Hey, stop!”

  She stopped and glared with what she hoped was an icy look. At least condescending, as in, Can’t you see I’m busy? And it doesn’t matter one tittle that you can drive that beautiful pony while I push this clunky old mower around.

  “Elsie.”

  “What?”

  “I’m getting a horse. A paint. Black and white. My dad says I’m too big for a Shetland pony. Ask your dad if you can buy Cookie.”

  For a moment her heart leaped, but just as quickly reality came crashing back. “Yeah. Well, you know.”

  “What?”

  “We couldn’t afford to keep a pony.”

  “It’s that bad?”

  Elsie shrugged. “S’what my father says.”

  “Too bad.”

  “Yeah.”

  Benny lifted his face to wipe a trail of mucus from his nose with his coat sleeve.

  Elsie swallowed. Gross. Use a handkerchief, she thought.

  “You look like a red-headed woodpecker,” Benny announced, after a second swipe at his streaming nose.

  Elam threw back his head and laughed so loudly he sounded like a blue jay. Elsie narrowed her eyes and told Benny she didn’t see how he could see at all with that hat over his eyes.

  Elam interrupted before Benny could send back another retort. “Well, if I get my horse, bring your sisters to see him. I’ll give them a ride with Cookie.”

  He lifted the reins and moved off without a backward glance.

  Elsie watched them go, the up-and-down rhythm of the cart, the pony’s hooves hitting the macadam in light, quick succession, then turned back to her mowing.

  She would. She’d take her sisters to see his new horse. He’d probably only said it because he pitied them, not because he actually thought they’d come. But why shouldn’t she? She didn’t want him feeling sorry for her. She was happy and led a good life with loving parents and sweet sisters. Well, there was always Amos, but he couldn’t really help how he acted, being only one year old. So Elam could stop pitying her, if that’s what he was doing.

  Her mother praised her efforts, said the yard looked wonderful, so green and evenly cut, and that she didn’t know what she’d do without her help.

  “You’re so capable, Elsie. Thank you.”

  Her dat’s smile was the sweetest icing on the cake, and Elsie thought no pony could ever mean more to her than her parents’ kindness.

  The following morning they all got out of bed at five o’clock and ate a hurried breakfast of oatmeal and toast. Then Elsie washed dishes while Mam did the little girls’ hair, dressed them in colorful blue dresses with black pinafore-style aprons of black capes and belt aprons, pinned their white coverings on their heads, and told them to sit quietly now, don’t go get yourselves all wrinkled and schtruvvlich.

  Elsie changed Amos’s cloth diaper, then dressed him in a little white shirt with a black vest and trousers, attached the hooks to the eyes of the vest front, and told him he looked like Dat.

  “Da. Da,” he said proudly, marching around the kitchen on short, fat legs.

  “Better get your hair done, Elsie,” Mam said, glancing at the clock.

  So Elsie went to the bathroom, got out the brush and fine-toothed comb, the plastic spritz bottle of water, and set to work. Her hair was heavy—dark brown with a reddish undertone. Mam said it was auburn, but no one else said that. Her round face was tanned, so the smattering of freckles was barely visible. In winter, when the tan faded, the freckles looked like bits of dirt someone had thrown in her face, and stuck. She hated her freckles.

  Her eyes were big and green as a dill pickle. She didn’t like her eyes, either. She looked a lot like a frog with her eyes so far apart, but there wasn’t much you could do about that.

  No one ever said anything about her looks, so she had no idea how one went about evaluating oneself. The girls her age in school didn’t really include her when they discussed dress fabric or new shoes, where their mothers shopped, or what color their bedrooms were, which was just as well. She didn’t have her own bedroom, and her mother never shopped for clothes. As far as she could tell, their clothes were all bought at yard sales or thrift shops, which was fine with her.

  She pulled on the fine-toothed comb, drew the heavy t
resses back at the desired angle, then clipped the bobby pins on each side. She gathered her hair into an elastic ponytail holder and wrapped it expertly into a bun on the back of her head. A few pumps of water, an overhead shower of hairspray, and Elsie was finished.

  She slipped the blue dress over her head and her mother brought the white cape and apron and quickly pinned them in place, muttering about her growth spurt, the apron a good two inches too short. Elsie placed the white covering on her head, and she was ready.

  Mam took a second look, a bewildering appraisal that would follow her repeatedly through her days. Mam looked as if she might cry, or laugh. She actually looked a bit hysterical.

  “You look nice, Elsie,” she said gruffly, and turned away.

  She wondered if she did look nice. She even went to the bathroom mirror to check, but she looked the same as she always had.

  Fast-stepping horses pulled freshly washed carriages up to the house, dropped off the women and girls, then moved on to the barn, where the men would unhitch and tie the horses to the wooden flatbed wagon her father had set in the barnyard. Blocks of hay were scattered along both sides, so the horses could have a snack after their bridles were removed and comfortable halters slipped over their heads.

  Elsie often thought those horses could easily drag that wagon off, a sort of mutiny, a horse rebellion, but they were all docile creatures, well trained and obedient, standing there tethered to the wagon to work till they were untied and led to the carriage, backed between the shafts, and ordered to pull the family home. But that wasn’t the only reason she loved horses. They were beautiful creatures with soft, expressive eyes that showed a good spirit, ears that flicked from front to back, and gorgeous flowing manes that rippled the way she imagined prairie grass did, or the ocean waves. “Splendid” was the perfect word to describe a horse.

  Elsie filed into church services with the bunch of single girls, quietly, seated by age, the way all Amish girls were traditionally seated. At first, she looked down at her lap, shyness washing over her like a wet shower, but later, after the singing had started, she looked up to find a whole row of ministers, single boys, and young fathers staring at her. Well, they weren’t actually staring at her, but it seemed as if they were. Some of the older girls were chewing gum, whispering, or flirting with a few of the bold rumschpringa-aged boys. Most of the girls sat decently, listening to the rising and falling of the preacher’s voice.