A World Away Read online

  “What do they do?” asked Jess.

  “They probably do a lot of the same things you do,” my mother answered. “They ride in cars and go to movies. They wear blue jeans. They have parties.” She paused with a smile. “I don’t think I want to know what goes on at the parties.”

  The adults around the table smiled in a knowing way—except for the woman who had asked the question. She was watching my mother intently. I wondered how this English woman knew about rumspringa.

  I set down the coffeepot and turned back to my mother. She nodded to me before speaking again. I was beginning to think that her answer was for me, and not for the people gathered at our table.

  “So, we parents turn our heads and let our teenagers run a bit wild. And we hope that soon they will come back to us.”

  “What about Eliza?” Jess asked. “What’s she doing for her rum…for her running-wild time?”

  I waited, holding my breath, hoping that my mother’s answer would give me a clue about what was ahead for me.

  “Eliza has a job at the inn. Some of you might have seen her there serving breakfast and tidying up the rooms. Her father and I wanted her to see a little more of the world than we can show her here, so we talked to Mr. Allen about finding some work for her.” My mother and Mr. Allen nodded to each other.

  I let out the breath I had been holding. Now I had the answer I’d been waiting for these past weeks. Rumspringa wasn’t going to take me into the fancy world. It was taking me to an inn, where I’d watch English tourists watching us. I felt myself sinking, and there was only one thing I knew for certain.

  I needed to run wild.

  At the inn the next morning, Jenny, the cook, greeted me and gave me instructions as she pulled a tray of muffins out of the oven, filling the room with a warm, fruity scent. Her kapp was a bit askew, as though she had put it on in a hurry. “We’re serving breakfast in a half hour,” she said, handing me the small silver bell. I hated this part of the job. In the hallway, outside the guest rooms I rang the bell and called out, “Breakfast will be served at nine o’clock.” I heard a man grumble from behind one of the doors, “What is this, Amish boot camp?” I didn’t understand what that meant, but it didn’t sound pleasant. Back in the kitchen I could hear people assembling in the dining room and helping themselves to coffee from the big urn. The murmurs of their conversations floated into the kitchen.

  Jenny was suddenly in a hurry, and I rushed to keep up with her instructions. She showed me how to plate each breakfast with a scoop of egg soufflé, a spoonful of cut fruit, and a muffin. She would carry out two plates at a time, and I had to be ready with the next ones when she returned. I would rather have been serving the guests than standing in the kitchen getting the food ready, but Jenny was in charge, so I had to do as she told me.

  Cleaning up at the inn was easier than at home, because a machine did most of the work. On impulse, I placed the palms of my hands on the front of big dishwashing machine and felt a warm vibration against my fingertips. Jenny seemed unimpressed by the wonders of this invention, and sat at the counter, hunched over her grocery list. “I’ll be gone for about an hour,” she said. “You can dust the parlor while I’m out.”

  Pulling my hands away from the machine, I looked at my fingers, which didn’t appear to be any different after the close contact with electricity. I was turning toward the closet to find the dusting supplies when the kitchen door swung open. There stood the woman from Stranger Night, the one in the red dress who had asked about rumspringa. She wore black jeans and a T-shirt with the words “University of Illinois” across the chest. Her hair was pulled back in a silver barrette. I watched as recognition lit the woman’s face.

  “Well, hi, Eliza. I’m Rachel. Rachel Aster.” The woman held her hand out, and I felt the unusual softness of her skin. “I was wondering if I could trouble you for a pot of tea to bring up to my room. I didn’t make it down in time for breakfast.”

  Mrs. Aster perched on a stool while I filled the teakettle and set it on the stove. “I enjoyed my dinner at your house last night,” she said. “Your mom’s a great cook.” I turned the knob on the stove until the circular coils under the teapot turned a bright orange.

  “Thanks, I’ll tell her you said so.”

  “I have to admit something,” Mrs. Aster said, her voice low, as if letting me in on a secret. “I was disappointed to hear that you had a job.”

  “I beg your pardon?” I asked.

  “Last night when I asked you about your job here, I had an ulterior motive.”

  Setting the basket of tea on the counter beside a small china teapot, I turned to her. “I’m afraid I don’t understand what that means.”

  Mrs. Aster smiled and rested her elbows on the counter. “An ‘ulterior motive’ is when someone hopes to gain something by their actions. So I was hoping to gain something by asking you that question.”

  “What were you hoping to gain?”

  She let out a little laugh. “You.”

  The teakettle whistled, and I twisted the knob to shut off the burner. I turned back to her. “Me?”

  “My nanny is leaving after this week, and I’m about to hire a new one. The way you helped your mother last night made me think you could help me the same way. Then I realized that you looked familiar, so I asked you about your job. And that ended my hopes.”

  Breath that I didn’t realize I’d been holding pushed through my lips. “You want to hire a babysitter?”

  She nodded. “You see, I’m working on my master’s degree, and I need some help with the children so I can get my thesis finished. That’s the big paper I have to write. As a matter of fact, the reason I’m here right now is to get some work done away from my family. It was a gift from my husband. A week away from home to write.”

  I tried to keep my hands from trembling as I poured the hot water into the teapot and set the kettle back on the stove. But, I reminded myself, my parents would never approve of my leaving home and working for someone they didn’t know. I took a tea bag and let it bounce in the hot water.

  I set the teapot and cup on a small tray, along with some packets of sugar. Mrs. Aster’s eyes were searching mine. They were a golden color, like honey.

  “How many children do you have?” I asked.

  “Two,” she answered. “Ben is eight and Janie is five.”

  I tried to think of what to say to this woman, but I knew that I couldn’t discuss the possibility of working for her until I’d talked to my parents. Too quickly, the conversation ended and Mrs. Aster carried the tray upstairs. While I dusted, I listened again to her words in my mind. I didn’t know where she lived, but it was far enough away that she was sleeping at the inn each night instead of at her own home. This could be my chance to step away from here.

  Throughout the morning I watched the comings and goings of the guests, hoping to see Mrs. Aster again. Later, when I was cleaning the guest rooms, a familiar voice answered my knock. Mrs. Aster was propped up on a four-poster bed, a small machine with typewriter keys on her lap. Several open books were scattered on the bed, and she pushed them aside when I came in.

  “Excuse me,” I said. “I can come back later.”

  She gathered up the books and stuffed them into a canvas bag at the side of her bed and closed the lid on her typewriting machine. “You can do what you need to in here,” she said. “I’m going to go out for a while.” Watching Mrs. Aster sling the canvas bag over her shoulder, I tried to gather courage for what I wanted to say.

  I cleared my throat and took a shaky breath. “If you have a moment, I’d like to talk to you about what you said earlier. About my working for you as a nanny.”

  Mrs. Aster sat down on the edge of the bed, her bag clutched in her arms. “Are you looking for a new job?”

  “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “I live near Chicago. It’s about three hours away from here by car. How would your parents feel about your living away from home?”

  “We�
��d have to talk about it,” I said, groping for the right words. Then I remembered what my mother had told the guests last night. “They do want me to see more of the world.”

  “Well, should I go over to your house to talk with them?”

  My heart pounded. “Things are a little busy at home right now.

  Sunday is my sister’s barn raising. But I’ll talk to them over the weekend, if that’s all right.”

  “I’ll be here until Tuesday,” she said.

  I nodded as Mrs. Aster stood up and shouldered her bag. “I’ll let you know what my parents say.”

  “Wonderful!” she said. “I hope this works out. I could really use your help.”

  And I could really use yours, I thought, as I watched her go.

  Calling good-bye to Jenny, I headed toward home, the conversations with Mrs. Aster filling my head. I would have to find a way to bring up the idea of leaving. If my parents seemed open to it, then I could let them know about the job that Mrs. Aster had offered me.

  Back home, after the initial flurry of questions about my day at work, I perched myself on the stool in the kitchen and helped my mother slice vegetables for dinner.

  “I saw that English woman again, the one who knew about rumspringa,” I said. “Her name is Rachel Aster.”

  “That’s nice,” said my mother, her eyebrows lowered.

  “She’ll be at the inn until Tuesday,” I said. “She’s working on a writing project, and her husband is home taking care of the children while she works here. Can you imagine that?”

  “No, I can’t,” said my mother. “But they live in their world—”

  “I know,” I interrupted. “And we live in ours.”

  My mother looked up, startled. “That’s right.”

  “They’re fancy and we’re plain,” I added. “They’re peeking at our world, we’re not to be peeking at theirs.”

  She set down her knife. “What’s this about, Eliza?”

  I took a breath and looked right into my mother’s silvery eyes. “I’d like to live away from home for a while. And I have an idea of how I might be able to do that.”

  She picked up her knife and sliced through a zucchini with quick chopping motions, throwing the round disks into the bowl. “Leaving home is not an option.”

  I tried to keep my voice calm. “I’ve always loved hearing stories about your rumspringa, when you worked for the tailor and listened to music with his daughter and went to movies. I’d like to live that way for a while.”

  My mother wiped her hands on a dish towel. “You’re going to get to do some of those things. Soon you’ll be going to movies with your friends. And I know there’s music at your parties.” I watched as she searched for words. “And I think you glorify those stories I’ve told you. I had to go away from home because my family needed the money. It was very hard for me to be on my own in a strange place. I don’t want that for you.”

  “I want it for me.”

  “Eliza,” she said, exasperation in her voice. “You don’t know what you want.”

  Anger rushed up in me. “That’s just it. You said yourself that we make a choice after rumspringa. How can I make a choice if I’ll always be wondering what I’m missing?”

  My mother turned away and picked up the spoon to mix the vegetables we’d been cutting. I knew from the set of her chin that the conversation was over. That’s the way things were with her. She always got to decide when we were finished talking.

  “Please set the table,” she said, her voice quiet and tense.

  I was happy to leave the kitchen. As I entered the dining room I almost collided with James, who was standing near the kitchen door. He put his finger to his lips, then took hold of my arm and led me out of the room.

  “What is it, James?” I asked. “I have to set the table.”

  He led me out the front door to the porch. Curious, I sat on the porch swing, and he sat beside me. “Listen,” he said. “I heard part of your conversation with Mom.”

  I looked down and sighed. “It’s like talking to that tree,” I said, pointing to an oak spreading shade in the yard. “But I think the tree might actually be listening to me.”

  James laughed. “You’re talking to the wrong tree.”

  I turned to look at him. He had a teasing smile on his face. His straw hat cast a shadow across his brown eyes. “Go to Dad,” he said. “You’re never going to convince Mom to let you leave home, but Dad might help. He talked her into letting me go away.”

  “You’re a boy,” I said. “It was different for you.”

  “Not so different. She didn’t want me to leave either. She thought it wouldn’t look good. And I’d be too tempted out there.”

  “Were you?”

  “Jah,” he said with a smile. “I was tempted.”

  “But you came home.”

  He nodded. “I did.”

  I waited to hear if he would say more. Since he’d come back from his apprenticeship I’d been eager to hear more about his time away, but he’d kept pretty much to himself. “I came home because Dad needs me in the shop. It’s where I’ve always known I’ll be. But I’m glad I had the time away.” He paused and turned, looking out at the yard and the dusty path leading to the carpentry shop. He spoke without looking at me, his words quiet but insistent. “You need to see it for yourself,” he said. “So get Dad on your side.” He turned, and our eyes met.

  “I understand,” I whispered. “Thank you.”

  I set the table, thinking about what James had told me. It hadn’t occurred to me that my father might be the one to approach. My father sat at the head of the table for meals, and tugged my ponytail when he kissed me good night. He held the reins when we rode together in the buggy, and set out the benches when it was our turn to host Sunday services. But whenever I asked him questions, he would say, “Go ask your mother. She’ll know.” So I fell out of the habit of going to him. But if he had helped James get permission to leave home, maybe he could do the same for me.

  When the table was set, I checked the kitchen. My mother looked up from the stove and said, “You can tell your father that supper will be ready soon.” It was just the excuse I needed to have a bit of time with him in his carpentry shop. Hurrying along the path,

  I hoped that James was right. I hoped my father would understand.

  The air was dusty when I entered the shop, and I waited to let my eyes adjust, breathing in the damp smell of sawdust. The floor was cluttered with half-finished projects and piles of wood pieces in assorted sizes. In one corner, my father kept some completed pieces that he showed to customers—a bookcase with adjustable shelves, a desk with tiny cubbyholes, and a rocking chair like the one in our living room.

  My father was bent over the planing table, feeding two-by-fours into the machine. When they came out the other side, the surface of the wood was smooth and even. He looked up when he saw me and pulled the lever to stop the machine. The roaring sound of the planer died down, leaving only the drone of the hydraulic engine that powered it.

  “Is dinner ready?”

  “Just about,” I said. “Do you need any help finishing up?” When I was younger, my father used to let me stand on the other side of the planer to collect the boards as they came out, and stack them according to size.

  “No,” he said. “I’m ready to stop for the day.” He turned a switch on the wall panel, quieting the noise of the engine, and the shop fell into a comforting silence. I perched on a stool and watched as he hung up his tools and brushed the sawdust off the table with a short-handled broom. When he finished, I filled my lungs with the musty air and prepared to speak.

  “Can I talk to you for a minute?”

  My father nodded and leaned back against the planing table, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

  “Ever since my birthday, I’ve been thinking about what I want to do during my rumspringa. And I’ve decided that I’d like to get a job away from home. Maybe live at an English home and work as a babysitter.” I
waited, holding my breath.

  My father took off his hat and rumpled his dark hair, sending more sawdust into the air. I wasn’t sure, but it looked like he was trying hard not to smile.

  “Your birthday was three weeks ago, Eliza. Have you only been thinking about this for three weeks?”

  I couldn’t tell if he was being agreeable or accusatory. “No,” I said. “I’ve actually been thinking about it for a while. I’ve always wanted to see more of the world, and this seems like the time to do it.”

  “And have you spoken to your mother about this?” he asked, one eyebrow raised.

  I nodded. “She isn’t happy about the idea.”

  “I didn’t think she would be,” he said, turning his hat in his hands. “Your mother has very definite ideas about teenagers leaving home. It was hard for me to convince her to let James go away.”

  “That’s why I came to you,” I said. “I was hoping you could talk to her for me, like you did for James. Maybe you can persuade her to let me go.”

  My father settled his hat back on his head. “That’s a tall order, Eliza. You know that when your mother has her mind set, it’s hard to change it.”

  “I know,” I said, my hopes plunging. “But you’ve changed her mind before.”

  My father laughed. “I did persuade her to marry me,” he said, shaking his head. “That took a lot of work.” He smiled at me, and I felt more hopeful. “I can’t promise you anything, Eliza, but I’ll talk to her tonight.”

  “Thanks, Papa.” I threw my arms around his shoulders, swallowing back a warm feeling.

  He patted my back with his sturdy hands. “Don’t thank me yet.”

  At dinner I was awkward around my mother after our harsh words earlier, and I felt an unfamiliar kinship with my father, who I knew would be speaking on my behalf later in the night. And every time I looked at James, I could sense his connection with me; I could feel him urging me forward. Only my younger sister, Ruthie, seemed unchanged, chattering about her list of arithmetic problems and the homework that Miss Abigail was piling on her without mercy in this last week of school. I thought about how hard it would be for Ruthie if I left home, and I looked away from her.