A Horse for Elsie Page 7

  In short, everything was an unexplained mystery.

  A month passed. Two.

  She saw Elam in church only twice. He was never at her youth group’s events, which was what she had hoped for, without admitting it even to herself. She missed something, but didn’t know exactly what it was.

  Sometimes she felt as if she were trying to catch white feathers that were drifting down like snowflakes, only to hurl them away the minute she touched them.

  Then he showed up, knocking on the wooden frame of the screen door one evening when the cold, damp air that crept in from the northeast carried a promise of winter.

  Dressed in a black peacoat and a gray stocking cap, his hands shoved in his pockets, he stepped back when Elsie opened the door.

  “Hello, Elsie. How are you?”

  Here he was. The border to her puzzle, the rain to her drought. The sun and the moon. But that was supposed to be God, not Elam. All this zipped through her mind as she pushed open the screen door.

  “Hi. Come in, it’s too damp and cold tonight.”

  “How are you?” he repeated.

  “Fine. Good.”

  Now that you’re here, she thought. Flustered, she tucked an imaginary schtruvvel from her hairline behind her ear.

  Elam stepped into the bright, overheated kitchen, the woodstove at the far corner producing a steady glow. The old propane light in the cabinet by the recliner hissed steadily, throwing more heat.

  He greeted the family. Her father spoke at length about the weather, saying there was to be a wintry mix till morning. He’d been hoping for a solid layer of snow for Christmas. Her mother smiled, inquired about his mother. Amos told him he was four, soon, and he was getting a trike for Christmas.

  “Not the same color as my old one. Rusty-colored is my old one. My new one is red.”

  Elam laughed, then bent to pat his head.

  “You are growing, Amos. Really growing. You better tell your mother you need a bigger tricycle.”

  “Trike.”

  “Trike,” Elam agreed.

  After that exchange, Elsie was weak-kneed with the understanding of what was wrong with her. It hit her like she’d been slammed into a wall.

  She loved Elam more than anything or anyone else. He was her hero, her promised one, her meant-to-be.

  Here he was, standing in their plain, dreary kitchen with the old appliances and torn linoleum, the scuffed chairs and faded oilcloth on the table, and everything, everything became impossible. The flowers and butterflies turned black and fell off the wall, leaving large porous holes that no amount of drywall compound or paint could fix. They were poor and crippled. The only reason he stood inside that old front door was to pity them. Maybe to offer the old horse for a few hundred dollars.

  He turned to her.

  “Elsie, would you like to walk over with me to see the new horse? You haven’t seen him since he’s been in our barn.”

  She stood with her pride on one shoulder, her love on the other. She accepted without a rational thought in her head and went to comb her hair and grab a warm white scarf and her heavy coat and flew down the stairs, her eyes alight with hope.

  Hope that stuffed back the impossibility, kicked away the dead flowers, but planted new seeds and would wait for the first green shoot, the first sign of activity.

  They set off at a brisk pace, the night gray-black and impenetrable. Oh, lovely world. Lovely, lovely night filled with stardust and falling stars! Comets and asteroids, whole planets zipping and spinning along, filling the night sky with the wonder of all of life.

  Chapter Seven

  To find the horse looking so different she would not have known it was the same animal was a shock in itself, but when Elam asked her if she wanted him now, she all but fell over.

  “I can’t take him. Not after you’ve done so much for him.”

  “One thousand dollars,” he replied.

  Elsie’s eyes narrowed. “How much did you pay for him?”

  “Exactly that. One thousand dollars.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He was treading on thin ice, pride and poverty and remembered school days.

  “Would I lie to you?”

  “Well, no. I guess not.”

  “So do you want him? Saddle and bridle?”

  “I do. But … I have only ridden a horse once, maybe twice. How can I be expected to show any kind of good horsemanship? I guess, to be honest, I’m scared. How can I compete with that old man’s granddaughter?”

  Elam laughed.

  “You take this horse home, make friends with him, he’ll do anything you say. He’s sweet-tempered.”

  Elsie hung her arms over the side of the heavy wooden plank that made up part of the stall. She watched, took in every muscle, the rounded sides, the glassy coat, and, most astonishing, the well-proportioned head and neck. The filth and manure stains were gone, the legs were groomed to a sheer white, turning into a honey color, which spread to the horse’s entire body. The mane and tail were lighter in color, as if those sections had been spun and pulled into the color of homemade taffy.

  There was, however, still a droop to his eyes, as if he were still sleepy, or exhausted. The long brown lashes drooped over the deep brown eyes that seemed to glisten with tears.

  “He seems tired,” she said.

  “Go in to him,” Elam suggested.

  The horse merely lifted his head and eyed her with the same tired gaze. To touch that glossy neck was like a benediction, but when he turned his head to nuzzle the front of her coat, Elsie gave in, threw her arms around the horse’s neck, and hugged, tightly, laying the side of her face against his mane.

  “You lovely creature. I can’t believe the difference in a few months’ time.”

  Elam stood at the gate, smiling, taking in what he had accomplished.

  Elsie cleaned out the extra horse stall, swept cobwebs, washed windows, swept the old pocked concrete forebay. Malinda helped her dump the plastic half barrel that served as a watering trough and scrubbed the sides and bottom with wooden brushes and refilled it with cold, clean water. There was a rack for the saddle, a large nail for the bridle, the special feed Elam used in a fifty-pound bag that rested against the cement block wall. Minerals were in a square yellow bucket. A pickup truck delivered the best hay.

  She wrote a check to Elam Stoltzfus for the wondrous sum of one thousand dollars, a check to the feed mill for $52.00, and one for $310.00 to Ronald Sanders for hay. Which meant she had spent $1,362.00, years of work at the bakery. She had a little over $800 left, which would melt away fast, buying good horse feed. Elam walked through the snow, leading the golden horse with a fairly long rope. Elsie watched them approach from the open barn door, her heart thudding against her rib cage.

  What a striking figure he made. And the horse was unbelievable.

  She smiled, put out a hand for the rope, and introduced Gold to Fred, who became quite animated, hopping and bouncing around in his stall like a half-grown two-year-old.

  “Ach, Fred, you old geezer,” Elsie laughed.

  “Hey, he has a new friend. Nothing wrong with that.”

  Elsie saw the red ribbon braided through the mane, the bunches of greenery.

  “It’s lovely. How do you braid that through this coarse hair?”

  “Barbara did it. I have no clue.” He shrugged one shoulder. “She’ll teach you.”

  They heard the slam of a door, and were soon surrounded by a gaggle of sisters making quite a fuss about the horse, followed by Elsie’s parents and Amos.

  Her father said the horse would continue to improve, that he appreciated what Elam had done for Elsie. Anyone that loved horses the way she did should have the opportunity to own one. As always, he never complained about his own lot, never referred to the loss of his arm, turning the spotlight on Elam instead of his own misfortune.

  Elam lingered in the dimly lit forebay after her family had returned to the warmth of the house.

  “Whenever you’re
ready for riding lessons, let me know, OK?”

  “First I need to purchase something to wear under my dress.”

  “Barbara wears those stretchy things.”

  Elsie laughed. “Now how would I know what those stretchy things are? I’m new at this, you know. I’ll probably learn to ride on my own. For a while, if you don’t mind. I don’t want anyone watching, knowing I’ll be a genuine klutz.”

  “You were never a klutz at anything, Elsie.”

  The note of seriousness in his voice surprised her. He was not sincere. He couldn’t be.

  “You’re making fun of me now.”

  “Never. I’d never do that.”

  “You used to.”

  “Not intentionally. I was always amazed at your ability in sports. I can’t imagine horseback riding would be any different for you.”

  Elsie was speechless, flustered, and so painfully ill at ease hearing that compliment from the one she, well, she adored.

  She didn’t say thank you and she didn’t smile or look at him. She merely shoved a sliver of wood with the toe of her boot, as if her life depended on maneuvering the small piece into exactly the right position, her eyebrows drawn down in concentration.

  She heard his husky laugh, too close. She looked up, found his nearness alarming. She stepped back, grasped one hand with the palm of the other.

  “Elsie, you’re amazing. You’ll do well,” he said.

  “I’ll probably fall off and break my leg, or my neck. What if the horse doesn’t like me?” She was babbling now. After all, she was not amazing. She was raised on coffee soup and fried mush and cheese sandwiches and never once owned a new pair of shoes and had only nine or ten dresses instead of forty. Or fifty.

  She had nothing except a repainted secondhand bedroom set and a good job that paid her parents well. Well, and now she had a pretty amazing horse.

  But why would Elam stand there now and act as if she were actually what he’d said?

  “You don’t believe me, right?”

  She shook her head.

  She spoke so quietly he had to bend his head to hear.

  “It’s hard to believe you’re speaking the truth, when … you know, I remember what a big difference there was between us in school. And that difference has not changed.”

  Her words were so soft and quiet, he could barely hear, but he sensed how hard it was for her to say them.

  “It’s all right. We’re older now. The things that mattered so much in school aren’t important. It makes no difference to me if you live in a hut or a million-dollar home. It’s you that fascinates me.”

  “Fascinates? You mean like watching a tobacco worm chew on a leaf?”

  He laughed, a long, genuine sound of delight.

  “Do you ever look in the mirror, Elsie? And look what happened at your job. You’re a beautiful, special, talented girl, and I would love to have you for my girlfriend.”

  Even more quietly, Elsie whispered, “Oh, but it wouldn’t work.”

  “What? I didn’t hear you.”

  “Well, what I mean. Well … you can’t want me. Not to date. Not for a girlfriend. Not seriously.”

  The lantern light ebbed slowly, turning the barn even darker. The light from the snow outside formed rectangles of white against the blackness of the barn walls. The wind blew loose particles of snow across the highest places, and around corners and under doors.

  Elsie shivered. She was thoroughly miserable, after messing up every nice thing he had said. But the truth had to be spoken. Heartbreaks cost too much. They were the most expensive thing on earth, if pain could be counted in dollars.

  She couldn’t imagine her love blooming, allowing herself the freedom of loving Elam, only to have him tell her he “didn’t feel right.” Or he was confused, which would mean he was bored with her, was distracted, had found someone who intrigued him. So there you go, cast aside, forgotten, huddled like a beggar on the street with your heart slightly damaged forever.

  Hadn’t she listened to Anna Mae for hours on end? David had loved her. He had, she insisted. And then, out of thin air, his words like hatchets, he told her he didn’t feel right. His feelings for her were no longer the same. Like a balloon, the air had slowly leaked out until there was nothing left but a tired, senseless little heap of nothing. Anna Mae couldn’t take it. Her mother took her to see a doctor and she was put on an antidepressant to help her through the worst of it.

  Elsie shook her head, the decision becoming a solid thing.

  “The answer is no,” she said firmly.

  There was a space of silence. Old Fred snorted through his nose, rubbed his shoulder on the old wooden feedbox. Outside, the wind blew bits of snow against the barn, causing a scouring sound, as if the cold could clean the remaining slivers of paint off the drying boards.

  “Can you explain the reason why?” Elam asked softly.

  Elsie’s thoughts scrambled, stirred together like cake batter, pride, memories, his superiority, everything, coming apart, breaking into pieces that floated around in a restless void.

  She grasped at anything, one good reason that would not hurt him but would save her from exposing the smallness of her own world.

  He was just too much, too wealthy, too many horses, too sought after by every girl she knew, too kind and polite and assured in his own station in life.

  “I’m not good enough for you.”

  “Elsie, I …”

  “No.”

  He left after a soft “good night.” Elsie stumbled through the snow and the wind and let herself in quietly, and to bed, where she lay shivering, dry eyed.

  Every girl’s dream was to fall in love with a kind, talented, handsome young man like Elam, like a fairy tale, living happily ever after.

  But it wasn’t that easy. There were so many paths that twisted and turned, a labyrinth of feelings that always led to the same swamp of low self-worth, where she inevitably got bogged down in the mire and could see no way out.

  How could he love her? He hadn’t said he loved her, only that he wanted to be her boyfriend. Perhaps it was the horse, the ability to teach her how to ride, how to feed him, how to … well, everything. No, the match would be too uneven. Like three-fourths of a pie, her share only one fourth.

  She learned to ride, through the snow and the cold.

  By the time Christmas festivities began, she had already acquired the good posture, the sense of being one with her horse, who was well trained, never showing temper or disobedience.

  Each day his appearance improved even more as Elsie brushed his coat, pampered and fussed with the thin mane and tail, which were showing signs of new, heavy growth. She stroked his velvety neck, under the mane, where the renewed muscle was becoming heavy and rounded. A bond of the kind that is only apparent when a human being loves an animal from the heart developed between them, and Gold responded like dry leaves to a flame. He gave his all for his new master, the girl who had replaced his first love.

  The barn was the only place Elsie felt true contentment. She washed the windows with a clean rag dipped in soapy water with a dash of vinegar. She held the old porch broom to the rafters, plying it across the cement block walls and the vertical boards above it to remove cobwebs. The stalls were mucked out every day, a wheelbarrow load spread across the old barnyard, on the large garden, in the fields, anywhere there was a need for some of nature’s fertilizer.

  Her father grinned good-naturedly, joked that he would have gotten her a horse a long time ago if he’d known how much work she’d put into that old barn. Her mother shook her head, smiled, shrugged. They all knew that would not have been possible. But times had changed for the better. Two girls working at the bakery now meant their household income had gotten a serious raise. No longer did depleted supplies of ordinary necessities give Mam a lump in the throat, although she had always kept a brave face to her husband and all who knew her.

  Christmas in the Esh household was first and foremost a celebration of the birth of Jesus C
hrist. Elsie and her sisters had learned at a very young age to understand the coming of the baby Jesus, the stable and the animals, the shepherds in the fields, the coming of the Wise Men to follow the star in the east. The gifts the family exchanged were simple, the Christmas dinners at the grandparents’ the highlight of every holiday season. There, the cousins, aunts, and uncles brought joy, togetherness, a sense of belonging, the small gift of a book or a set of handkerchiefs a token of Daddy and Mommy’s love. Elsie still had most of those books, the inside covers inscribed with the same words: “To Elsie, Christmas,” followed by the year. Sometimes, there was a coloring book and a brand-new package of Crayola crayons, the yellow box still square and polished. Inside were twenty-four sharp, brand-new crayons, the greatest delight. If you colored a picture with new crayons, you could color without coming out of the heavy black lines. After the Christmas dinner, the girls spent hours coloring around the kitchen table, chattering happily, comparing colors and talents, denying the ohs and ahs of admiration from each other. They often received homemade doll clothes from their parents—little Amish dresses and black pinafore-style aprons or new flannel nightgowns for the dolls they had received years before from the thrift or consignment shops.

  They exchanged names at school for trading gifts, which was a source of angst for Elsie, knowing the gift she would give would be inferior to what she received. She dreaded the opening of those packages. Sometimes she received twice, three times as much as she had given. She knew the children were all admonished to be grateful, no matter how small the gift they received from the David Esh family, so there were never any cruel remarks, only kind appreciation. But she knew.

  When Elsie became older, there was the exchanging of names among the youth, but she had her own small stash of money and could buy her own gift, which meant accompanying a gaggle of shrieking girls to the expensive stores her mother never entered.

  This year, Mam informed Elsie it was the first Christmas ever that she felt a sense of freedom, having the girls’ market money to buy more gifts than she had ever thought possible. Her face appeared younger, unlined, uplifted, with a glow of Christmas joy. Her father’s happiness was always apparent, but now he had a spring in his step, an eagerness to hitch up old Fred and accompany his wife to the Amish stores scattered along the many roads of Lancaster County. Snow drifted lazily across the countryside, already turning the brown fields to a dusting of white, like talcum powder. The macadam roads became slick, so the cars traveled slowly. They kept Fred to the right side, on the wide shoulder of the road provided for slow-moving horses and buggies, the snow spitting against the windows, settling on Fred’s back, slowly melting from the body heat and sliding wetly down his sides, turning the hair on his haunches to dark streaks. It was a magical day for David and Mary Esh, gratitude filling their buggy with Christmas warmth that permeated every aspect of the joyous festivities.