Ella Finds Love Again (Little Valley 3) Page 20

  “Ivan,” she said, holding the door open.

  Mary and Sarah squealed together and ran into his arms as he stepped inside and squatted to receive their hugs.

  “I’m a little early,” he said, glancing up from the floor. He stood slowly with Sarah in his arms.

  “I’ve just started to get the girls’ clothes ready. I’m afraid you’ll have to wait while I finish. It shouldn’t take long.”

  “That’s fine,” he said, sitting in the rocker in the living room, little pieces of straw dropping to the floor.

  Ella finished packing the girls’ things and then said what was on her mind. “Ivan, I need to ask you something.”

  “I know. It’s about excommunication. The answer is that the bishop is going to call for it.”

  “Oh, Ivan! How can it have come to that? Is it true then what they’re saying?”

  “What are they saying?” he asked.

  “That you attended the Baptist church in Randolph? That you attended with an Englisha woman?”

  He looked to the floor and cleared his throat.

  “It’s partly true,” he said, glancing up at her face.

  Ella pulled a chair out from the kitchen table and sat down.

  “Partly?” she whispered. “And which part would that be?”

  “Ella, please,” he said, rising to his feet. “Are you going to join their side?”

  “Ivan,” she said, meeting his eyes, “it’s not about joining sides. I need to know the truth…from you. You can’t go on like this. You know what’s right and what’s wrong. You are Preacher Stutzman. Does that mean nothing to you anymore?”

  He turned to stare out the window.

  Ella glanced at Mary, but thankfully she seemed uninterested in the adult conversation.

  “Ella, I don’t know what to believe anymore.”

  “My daett says you won’t speak with the ministers about this. Is that true? Yet you speak with me, but you have not told me the entire truth either.”

  “I have not spoken with them because I have not decided yet what I’m going to do.”

  “You told me none of this the last time we spoke. I deserve to know what’s going on. Is this why you might be excommunicated?”

  “If I don’t repent of it, yah,” he said.

  “What is wrong with you?” she asked, standing to her feet, whispering. “Don’t you know you are playing right into Bishop Miller’s hands?”

  “I’m not sure that’s so,” he said. “Ella, like all of us, I’m just trying to find my way through life—the life left to me with its sorrow. Things look so different to me now than when Lois was alive. Surely you know all about that?”

  “Of course I do. But do you realize how this will affect all of us?” she asked, waving her hands toward the girls. “Don’t you care?”

  “Of course I care!” he said. “I care more than you know! Yet I can’t seem to help myself. If you want to know the truth, I didn’t plan on this. None of it. I was in Randolph the other night, and I happened to drive past the church just as they were singing a hymn. It was such a beautiful sound. I just felt like walking in and listening—so I did. I didn’t stay for long. But as I stood in the back listening, it was almost as if I heard Lois’s voice among them. You should have heard it, Ella. It was so beautiful. Now, you tell me that if you heard such beautiful music and you thought you heard Aden’s voice among them, you wouldn’t have been as moved as I was. What was I to do? What am I to do now? You tell me.”

  Ella took a deep breath. Weighing her words, she said, “You can tell the ministers just what you told me. That you heard the music; that it overcame you. That you went inside to listen to the music and then left. Everyone can understand such a temptation. We are not people with hearts of stone, Ivan. But then you should tell them you’re sorry, and you won’t return to such a place.”

  “Nee, I can’t promise to never return,” he said. “I heard Lois’s voice, and if I hear such a thing again I must go in…even if it comes from an Englisha church.”

  “And thus they will excommunicate you,” she said. “You know what this will do to us? And to the girls?”

  “I think they will still let you care for my girls. That will be enough for me.”

  “But this can’t go on forever,” she said, raising her voice and causing Mary to glance up.

  “I wish I knew the answer,” he said, standing. “I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.” He turned to his daughters. “Girls, time to go!”

  He gathered the two older girls by their hands and headed outside. Ella slipped on her coat and boots and carried baby Barbara and the suitcase out to his buggy.

  When the girls were settled, Ivan held out his hand to Ella.

  She shook her head and said nothing.

  He climbed into the buggy and said, “I will see you Monday then.”

  “Yah,” was all she could muster.

  The buggy rattled out of the snowy driveway. Ella didn’t stay to watch it leave. She turned and headed toward the basement.

  Thirty-two

  Ella awoke with a headache, stemming, no doubt, from her exasperating conversation with Ivan. How could the man have gotten himself into such a mess? Worse—he apparently had no intention of getting himself out of it. The morning chores did nothing to reduce her headache, and when Ronda appeared in her doorway, she hoped her visit would be brief.

  No sooner had she entered than Ronda said, “Who beat you up?”

  “Do I look that bad?” Ella asked, trying to laugh but the sound stuck in her throat.

  “Well, to be honest, yes,” Ronda said. “What can I do to help?”

  Ella rubbed her forehead, smiling weakly. The help she really needed, Ronda could hardly give.

  “Do you want to quilt this afternoon?” Ella asked. “We’re behind on our orders.”

  “I suppose we should, but it’s Saturday and I’ve got work to do upstairs. And don’t you dare set foot up there to help me. You’ve done enough already. Instead, why don’t you take a day off and just do nothing? You sure deserve it.”

  “I think I’d feel a little guilty,” Ella said, pulling a chair out from the kitchen table. “I don’t usually take days off.”

  “Then I’ll take all your guilt away,” Ronda said, grabbing a hand full of air between them and throwing it toward the window. “There! It’s all gone now.”

  “Oh my…” Ella leaned back in her chair in mock relief. “That feels so much better.”

  “See? And it was so easy.”

  Ella had to laugh. Ronda was the perfect friend for a day like this.

  “So take the rest of the day off then,” Ronda said. “Agreed?”

  “Agreed,” Ella replied, only half believing it.

  “Then I’m going back to my own chores.” Ronda shook her finger at Ella. “Now don’t you dare come up and offer your help. I’ve got everything under control.”

  Watching Ronda go up the basement steps, Ella considered her advice. It seemed like ages since she had taken any time off. In the old days a good book on a Saturday afternoon being read while curled up on her bed was not uncommon. That was before Aden, and love, and duties, and all the rest. Perhaps she did need a day off. That wouldn’t change anything though. Everything would still be the same with Ivan, the bishop, Robert, and Clara. But it would still be there if she worked too. Well, maybe just a bit more cleaning and then she would relax. She would forget about her troubles for a while.

  Out of curiosity, Ella opened the basement door to check on the temperature. Still chilly, but not as cold as she’d expected. She gathered up several area rugs and took them out to shake and hang on the wash line to air out while she cleaned.

  She quickly swept the basement floor and then went out to beat the rugs thoroughly before bringing them back in.

  Ronda chose just that moment to call out the kitchen window, “Stop working!” with another shake of her finger for good measure. They both laughed.

  Ella lef
t the rugs to air some more and went back inside. The kitchen clock said it was a little past three. The afternoon suddenly looked long with nothing to do on this “day off.” She needed a book to read. A good one, but from where? The ones from her youth were at her parents’ house. Perhaps Ronda might have some. Ella raced upstairs, taking two steps at a time.

  Ronda met her at the door with, “No, you may not help me!”

  “I just want to borrow a book to read,” Ella explained, catching her breath.

  “Oh, well then, come on in. The few books I have are over there,” she said, pointing to a small bookshelf by the couch.

  Ella walked over, wishing this were the public library in Randolph. At the moment she wanted something wild to read—perhaps even a love story with a happy ending. She was sure Ronda wouldn’t have such a thing. She looked over the few titles and finally said, “I’ll take this, The Pilgrim’s Progress. I haven’t read this in years.”

  “I read it not too long ago,” Ronda said. “I didn’t quite understand it all though.”

  “I don’t suppose anyone does,” Ella said. “Unless maybe Bishop Miller.”

  “Bishop Miller,” Ronda said, laughing. “Are you thinking of him again?”

  “Nee,” Ella said. “And I don’t want to either.” Turning to go, she added, “Thanks for the book. I’ll bring it back up when I’m finished.”

  “I’m not worried,” Ronda said. “Take your time.”

  Ella took the steps two at a time again. Back in the basement, she settled on the couch, taking a minute to relax by listening to the silence of the house. Only an occasional squeak came from Ronda’s soft patter of footsteps upstairs. She opened the pages of the book and was soon lost in Christian’s journey toward the narrow gate.

  When the pilgrim reached the Slough of Despond, Ella felt sympathy for the man’s travails. It was not unlike her life—lost in a swamp. But she had no evangelist to pull her out.

  Christian soon found his way through the narrow gate—a familiar point that preachers frequently stressed. The text read on, past “the way that was always straight, with no turns or byways in it.”

  She laid the book aside. Her headache was gone, and her head felt a little clearer. Perhaps she could think rationally now. How muddled had all this become? Her anger over Bishop Miller, her attempts to help Ivan, her talk with Eli. She felt tears threatening to overflow. She went over to the basement window and looked out. The snow still lay thick on the ground. Would there ever be another spring? Would her heart ever become alive again? Had she perhaps strayed down a path that was a byway? Had she, unlike Christian who usually picked the right way, chosen wrongly?

  The question was troubling. Gone was the idea of rest—a day off. She paced the floor. She should have left the book alone when she thought of it in conjunction with Bishop Miller. That should have shown her how it would affect her. Now her troubling thoughts had the best of her. Of immediate concern was her anger at Ivan. Yes, she finally admitted it. She was angry, even if she shouldn’t be. How could the man go to an Englisha church for help? And then there was her anger at Bishop Miller, at the whole situation. No doubt, she had strayed off the right path somewhere, and little good would come of anything until she found her way back.

  Yet how? Ella went back to the kitchen and set some leftover soup on to warm for supper. Dusk was falling, so she lit a kerosene lamp. What if I’m wrong about Bishop Miller? Could I possibly be? So many other people seem to think only gut of him. My parents and Ronda. And even Ivan seems to take the responsibility for his situation on himself.

  What if they were right, and she was wrong? And what if Robert really wasn’t what he professed to be—an Englisha person who had honest intentions? But that was not possible. Her knuckles got white as her fingers dug into her hands. Did she fear love? What if she really were free to love Robert—with passion, with abandon, as she had done with Aden?

  “Nee, it can’t be,” she whispered. “Love cannot come twice. There can’t be another man as good as Aden. I can’t believe it.” She wept openly at the thought, her soup forgotten. She buried her head in her hands to muffle the sobs lest Ronda hear her and come racing down to help. With great effort she brought the outburst under control. She ate her soup slowly, still struggling to hold back the tears.

  After the soup was finished, she took the kerosene lamp in hand and retrieved her journal. She sat at the kitchen table to write.

  Mr. Journal,

  I say that because I feel like addressing you in a formal way, with words we never use for our own people. Mr. Journal seems like that to me. Like a stranger that I have never spoken with, and yet you know my thoughts because I have written them down.

  I am faced with a terrible realization. Terrible in its implications, and terrible in that it cannot be true. I love a man again. For a long time I have tried to deny it because I supposed it never could come to anything. Yet the matter must be faced. I do love, and I wish I didn’t. The risk of pain is simply too much.

  Such a love was taken from me once—and probably will be again. How can it be otherwise? And then too, there is the matter of the girls. How can I live with myself if I walk away from them?

  They are connected to Ivan, as they should be—as am I now. But as he is surely cutting our relationship with his probable excommunication, so too will he be cutting my ties with the girls. There seems little chance of his repentance anytime soon, not with his actions at the Baptist church and attitude toward our leaders.

  What if he does join the Englisha? But how can he? It is simply too large a question for me. But if he does, and the girls go with him out into the world where they will be lost from our people forever, then would I be free? Yet free at what price? I shudder to think. Those three dear sweet girls lost into the great mouth of the Englisha world. I would never see them again.

  Dora would say I am like her now—thinking such dark thoughts—and perhaps I am, but my heart is very bitter about this. I’m tired of tears, and yet I can’t stop them. Nor can I walk away from what I love. Not the girls or Robert…until I know more about him. I hardly know whether to wish he has a sordid past or no past at all.

  Is there something wrong with me? Worse yet, is there something wrong with a God who creates such impossible conditions of the heart? I tremble at the question. As the dark has fallen outside my house, it makes me fear for my very soul.

  I can do little right now but cry. I so hope the straight and narrow road will become clear to me again. Somewhere I must have taken an awful turn away from the right path and there is no Evangelist to instruct me as there was for Christian.

  May the great Da Hah who made the heavens and the earth, and all that dwells in it, have mercy on my soul. I know of nothing else to ask. I am sick of love and all it has done to me. I wish that Da Hah had never made such an emotion.

  Ella took the journal and stepped outside. The night was clear, a brisk wind coming in from the north. It would soon be even colder. She held the journal open in both hands and stretched her arms heavenward.

  “See, Lord,” she whispered. “I have written my thoughts, and now do to me what You wish. I cannot tear love out of my heart, and if You do so—if You must—I will try not to complain, regardless of the pain.”

  She shivered, holding her arms aloft until they stung, her eyes on the stars. She almost expected a streak of light to fall, burning up the pages on which she had written the awful words, but nothing moved in the sky. It was as if the stars themselves held perfectly still, daring to twinkle in the face of such great human folly.

  A long moment later Ella dropped her arms, numb from cold and feeling weak. Back inside, she tucked the journal away in its hiding place and prepared for bed, though it was still early. She slipped quietly under the covers and fell into a dreamless sleep.

  Thirty-three

  Ella awoke well before dawn, but from what she wasn’t certain. The alarm clock still showed twenty minutes until it should go off. When she reached o
ver to push the button in, it hadn’t even been set. This was Sunday—an off Sunday—so that must be why she hadn’t set the alarm last night. Her headache was gone, but everything else seemed hazy and distant. Even with her body rested, the turmoil of last night had left its mark.

  She considered trying to go back to sleep, but the more she tried, the more she tossed and turned. No, more sleep was out of the question, so with her blanket wrapped around her, she found a match and kindling and lit the fire in the stove. The coals had died out, leaving only the faint glow of cinders at the bottom of the ashes.

  Ella fanned the little pile of kindling and then carefully added a larger piece of wood. The flame seemed sluggish, but then it reached out, wrapping around the edge of the new piece of wood, flaring on the barked edges. Ella watched in fascination. As the flame grew hungry, eager for more, she added another piece. The smoke wanted to come out the lid, and she waved it back inside and up the chimney. She closed the lid. A soft roar started, and she shut the damper to quiet the fire and force the heat into the room.

  She really needed some quiet time, needed to find inner peace. She considered that a walk might be good for her. Hunger stirred, but she wanted something else first. Was it too cold to go outside? A quick check out the door convinced her it wasn’t.

  She quickly dressed and put on her thickest coat and gloves, wishing she had one of Eli’s or Monroe’s stocking caps to wear. That was one of the benefits of males in the house—they could be borrowed from. Convinced no one would see her, she found a large piece of discarded quilting fabric and wrapped it around her head in a makeshift covering. It was heavier than any scarf she had and splendid for the moment—as long as she didn’t have to see how she looked in it.