Anna Schmidt - Second Chance Proposal

Greta gave a hoot of a laugh. “Admit it, Liddy. He came back because of you. So what are you going to do about it?”

“Nothing,” Lydia replied as she picked up a stack of plates and utensils and went to set the long table in the front room. From the yard she could hear the children’s laughter as they played and, after a moment, through the open window that overlooked the porch, she heard male voices drifting into where she worked. Her heart skipped a beat as she realized that one of those voices belonged to John. He was talking to her brother-in-law Luke. This is how it might have been every Sunday evening, she thought as she centered each plate precisely in front of each chair. This is the life John and I might have shared if he had not left.

She felt the sting of tears even as she felt the sting of the memory that not once had he written or tried to contact her after that day. Everyone knew that John Amman was the only boy she’d ever come close to marrying. Almost from that first day when John had caught up to her on her way home from school they had been inseparable. Once they reached their teens their families, as well as the rest of the town, simply assumed that they would wed. But late one night John had left Celery Fields to seek his fortune in the outside world. She fought unsuccessfully against the memory of that night when her entire life had changed forever. It had been raining. She had followed him to the train station hoping to talk sense into him. He had listened impatiently and then he had begged Lydia to come with him, painting her a picture of the adventures they would share, the money he would make, the material things he would buy for her.

“I don’t want such a life,” she had argued. “I just want you.”

“Then promise me you will wait,” he’d pleaded. She had known in that instant that nothing she could say would change his mind.

“I will wait for you to come to your senses, John Amman,” she had told him, tears streaming down her cheeks.

But he never had. No one had seen or heard from him—certainly not Lydia. His family had worn their shame like a hair shirt until the day they sold their farm and moved back to Pennsylvania. Lydia’s father had forbidden any mention of John in his presence. Her mother was dead. Greta was too young to understand what had happened, and Pleasant—in those days—had not been someone that either Greta or Lydia could go to for solace.

So Lydia had turned all of her attention to her teaching, pouring herself into the lives of her students and their families and quickly establishing her place in the community. Through the years there had been hints that this man or that was interested in her and would be a good provider. But when it had come to even considering a match with any other man, Lydia had refused. She had loved only one man in her life and she would not settle for less—even if that man surely had to be the most obstinate and opinionated man that God had ever set His hand to creating.

She set the rest of the plates around the table and then surrounded them with flatware and glasses, ignoring the low murmur of John’s voice and his occasional laughter as he visited with Luke. As she set the last glass in place, the crunch of bicycle tires and buggy wheels on crushed shells told her that other guests were arriving. She gave one final glance at the table to assure herself that nothing was missing and then called out to her sister, “Greta, company.” She smoothed her apron and went to greet Pleasant and her family, Levi and Hannah and their children, the bishop and his wife and John’s aunt and uncle.

In the clamor surrounding the arrival of the other guests Lydia was certain she would be able to avoid John’s presence. Once they sat down for supper she had already planned to let him find a place first and then to take a chair as far from him as possible. The very fact that she was making such elaborate plans told her that John Amman was too much on her mind.

He is here, in Celery Fields and at this party, as he will no doubt be often where you are, she scolded herself silently. Best get used to it.

And having made up her mind to face whatever she must to get through the evening Lydia squared her shoulders and went out onto the porch. She greeted the women and invited them to carry their contributions into the kitchen. Then she turned to the men. “Supper is almost ready,” she said, and forced herself to meet John’s gaze before looking at the gathering of men as a group. “We can sit down as soon as the children have washed their hands.”

Clapping her hands, she stepped off the porch and into the yard and called for the children to stop their games. When they immediately abandoned the tree swing and seesaw that Luke had built and came running, she heard Roger Hadwell chuckle.

“The children mind their teacher better than they do their parents,” he said. But then Lydia noticed a clouded expression pass over his features. “Just wish there were more of the little ones around,” he added softly as he made his way past her and into the house.

“What did he mean by that?” John asked. He and Lydia were the only adults left on the porch.

“Enrollment is down at the school and it may have to be closed,” Lydia explained. She was so relieved that his first attempt at conversing with her had nothing to do with their personal history that she was able to speak easily. She saw John’s eyes widen in surprise and concern.

“But that’s your...that’s the way you...”

“Times are hard, John. You know that perhaps better than anyone in Celery Fields. If the school building and land can be put to better purpose for the good of the community then that’s the way of it.” She herded the children into a single line and pointed to a basin and towel set up on the porch. “Wash your hands,” she instructed.

“But what about you—what’s best for you?” John persisted. He reached around her to hold open the door so the children could file into the house.

She looked at him for a long moment. “You are still too much with the outside world, John,” she said. “You have forgotten the lesson of joy.”

“Joy?”

“Jesus first, you last and others in between.” She actually ticked off each item on her fingers the same way she might if teaching one of her students the lesson. Embarrassed by her primness, she followed the last child into the house, leaving John standing on the porch.

She had not intended to engage in any true exchange of conversation with him, anything that might let him know more of her life after all this time. Her plan had been to remain polite but distant. Still, the realization that he had forgotten the old ways—the idea that community came first—was just one more bit of evidence that John Amman would struggle against the bonds that the people of Celery Fields lived by.

Why should she concern herself with his happiness? He had left her before and he would leave her again.

* * *

After Lydia moved the children into the house, John stayed on the porch staring out over the single street that ran from Luke and Greta’s house to the far end of town where the bakery and ice-cream shop sat. He found it hard to absorb how much the community had changed in eight years and yet so much was familiar and comforting about being back here. In the distance he heard a train whistle and he remembered how as a boy he had dreamed about where that train might one day take him, the adventures he might have. The adventures he and Liddy might have together. But the destinations of that train held no attraction for him now. He knew all too well what was out there.

“John?”

Greta stood on the other side of the screen door watching him with an uncertain smile. She was so very different from Lydia in both physical appearance and demeanor. Greta’s smile came readily while Lydia’s had to be coaxed. Greta’s vivacious personality drew people to her while Lydia’s reserve kept them at arm’s length.