Читать книгу An Amish Holiday Wedding - Carrie Lighte - Страница 12
ОглавлениеFaith Yoder secured her shawl tightly around her shoulders, climbed onto the front seat of the bicycle built for two and began pedaling toward Main Street. It wasn’t quite five o’clock in the morning and her brothers hadn’t yet risen to do the milking. Her headlight cast a weak glow, barely illuminating the empty lane in front of her. The rest of Willow Creek, Pennsylvania, was still asleep and the November moon was her only companion.
Or almost her only companion. As she made a wide turn onto the primary stretch of road leading into town, she spied a lone figure lumbering beneath the streetlamp a few yards ahead of her.
“Watch out!” she warned as her downhill momentum propelled her closer.
The man lifted his head but didn’t move from her path, so she quickly swerved onto the shoulder to avoid hitting him. Her front wheel wobbled off the road and into the shallow ditch, causing her to lose her balance.
“My oier!” she shouted and jumped clear of the heavy bicycle, which clattered on its side. The cargo she’d been carrying in a crate strapped onto the backseat—two dozen eggs—smashed against the pavement. “My oier are ruined and now my cupcakes will be, too!”
“You ought to be as concerned about hitting pedestrians as you are about making cupcakes,” the man replied in Pennsilfaanisch Deitsch as he hobbled to where she was searching the ground for any unbroken eggs.
“I didn’t hit you, so you can quit that limping,” she contended and peered at him under the dim circle of light cast by the streetlamp.
Although the young man’s hair was mostly hidden by his hat, a few dark brown curls sprang from beneath the brim. He wore no beard, which meant he’d never been married. He was average height, but his shoulders seemed unusually broad beneath his wool coat. She didn’t recognize him as being from Willow Creek. Most Amish women in their district wouldn’t have argued with a stranger on a deserted road in the wee hours of the morning, but Faith Yoder wasn’t most Amish women. Having grown up with six brothers, she knew how to hold her own.
“If you’re so worried about getting hit,” she continued, “you could exercise common sense and walk on the side of the road, not in the middle of the lane.”
The man seemed at a temporary loss for words. He gave her a once-over before replying, “It seems strange you’re lecturing me on common sense, when you’re the one riding a tandem bicycle pell-mell through the pitch-dark with a basket of oier strapped to the backseat. You might consider getting a headlamp.”
“For one thing, it’s not pitch-dark—there’s a full moon out. And for another, I have a headlamp,” Faith retorted, setting her bike upright and extending the kickstand.
But noting the sickly glow waning from the light on her handlebars, she recognized she probably bore the responsibility for their near-collision. Chagrinned, she added, “It does seem I need to replace my battery. I hadn’t noticed. I travel this road so often I probably could make the trip blindfolded. My name is Faith Yoder. What’s yours?”
She couldn’t tell whether it was a smile or a grimace that flickered across the man’s face. “I’m Hunter Schwartz, Ruth Graber’s great-nephew.”
Hunter Schwartz, of course. Faith had heard Hunter was bringing his mother from their home in Parkersville, Indiana, to care for Ruth. The elderly woman had broken her ankle and severely sprained her wrist after falling from a stepladder in the little cannery she owned across the street from Faith’s bakery.
Faith should have recognized Hunter from his childhood visits. If it hadn’t been so dark, she undoubtedly would have spotted the cleft in his chin and remembered his earnest brown eyes. Coupled with a valiant personality, his boyish brawniness had caused many of the young meed to dream of being courted by him the autumn he was sixteen.
“I’m sorry,” Faith apologized. “I didn’t recognize you. It’s been a long time.”
If Faith remembered correctly, the last time he’d been in Willow Creek was the year his great-uncle died. After the funeral, Hunter stayed for several months to fix Ruth’s roof and help with other household repairs. It was during harvest season, when many of the leit, or Amish people in the district, were tending their crops, and Hunter frequently helped out on the Yoders’ farm, as well as attended singings and other social events with Faith’s brothers. The following year, he’d gotten a full-time job in Indiana working for the Englisch, who limited his holiday breaks. From then on, Ruth said it made more sense for her to visit Hunter’s family in Indiana than for them to travel to Willow Creek, and he hadn’t been back since.
“Jah, about eight years,” he answered. “I didn’t recognize you either. You’ve, er, you’ve really grown.”
She’d really grown? Faith knew what that meant, and she smoothed her skirt over her stomach. There was no denying she’d put on weight since she was a scrawny, flat-as-a-washboard tomboy, but she rather appreciated the womanly curves she once wondered if she’d ever develop. Well, she mostly appreciated them, anyway. She’d lost all but fifteen of the pounds she’d gained after Lawrence Miller broke off their courtship. Now she was down to the weight she was while she and Lawrence were courting. She didn’t consider herself fat, but she wasn’t thin by any standard. Still, she thought it was impolite for Hunter to draw attention to her size; he used to be so well mannered. But, reminding herself vanity was a sin, she shrugged off his observation.
“I suppose it was my fault I nearly ran into you. I’m grateful it’s only my oier and not your legs that are cracked,” she conceded amicably.
Hunter again looked taken aback, almost as if she’d insulted him instead of apologized. He paused before saying, “I’m sorry about your oier, too, but at least they were only intended for dessert instead of for breakfast. Most people can do without cupcakes, but not without a meal.”
Now Faith couldn’t deny feeling insulted. Who did Hunter think he was, assuming she was making the cupcakes as a mere indulgence for herself, just because she was a bit...a bit round?
“For your information, I own a bakery in town and the oier were for cupcakes I need to make for an Englisch customer,” she sputtered as she mounted her bike. “The customer’s daed is turning seventy-five and this special birthday treat is as important to their family as your breakfast apparently is to you, so I’d better be on my way to remedy the situation. Mach’s gut, Hunter. Enjoy your morning meal.”
Without another word, she sped away as quickly as she could pedal.
* * *
Hunter rubbed his jaw, watching Faith disappear into the dark. His bewilderment about her hasty departure temporarily distracted him from the pain coursing through his lower back and legs. Had his jest about her bike riding offended her? Or was it that she expected him to have known she was a business owner? If anything, he figured he should have been insulted by her remarks. Was she trying to be funny, chastising him not to limp? And what about her remark about being grateful his legs weren’t cracked? Considering his physical condition, that was nothing short of cruel.
But as he trudged back toward his aunt’s home, Hunter realized that however unnerving Faith’s comments were, she must have made them in complete ignorance. His aunt undoubtedly told the leit in Willow Creek about the accident that took his father’s life, but she wouldn’t have necessarily told them about Hunter’s ongoing recovery from his own injuries, especially since he concealed his pain from everyone, even his family members. Besides, from what Hunter recalled, Faith Yoder simply didn’t have a cruel bone in her body. She was tough, yes. Outspoken, definitely. But Hunter remembered that as a young girl, she went out of her way to demonstrate compassion and generosity, especially toward anyone who was mistreated, ill or otherwise suffering.
Granted, Faith was no longer a young girl. It had been too dark to get more than a glimpse of her, but he’d noticed the sharp angles of her girlish face had been replaced with a becoming, feminine softness. Gone was the rash of freckles splashed across her nose; her skin appeared as lustrous and unblemished as the moon. Hunter wouldn’t have believed the same scrappy girl he’d known from his youth had blossomed into the stately young woman he encountered on the road that morning if she hadn’t told him her name: Faith Yoder. Yoder—that meant she was still unmarried, although Hunter assumed she was being courted, perhaps was even betrothed.
Imagining Faith’s suitors reminded him of Justine, the woman he’d walked out with in Indiana. She was devastated when Hunter ended their relationship after his accident a little more than a year ago. It pained him to cause her heartache, but breaking up was in her best interest: Hunter wouldn’t seriously court a woman he didn’t intend to marry, and he wouldn’t marry a woman if he couldn’t be a good provider for their family. After all, the accident cost him his job at the Englisch RV factory and it had severely limited his mobility. At the time Hunter broke up with Justine, there was no telling whether he’d even be able to walk again.
Eventually, Justine accepted another man’s offer of courtship, and now she’d be getting married in two weeks. It was exactly what Hunter prayed would happen for her, but he was still relieved he wouldn’t be in Indiana to attend her wedding. While he no longer cared for Justine the way he once did, witnessing her getting married would have emphasized how much his life had changed since they were courting. Shivering, he forced thoughts of the past from his mind.
The frosty air intensified the ache clenching his lower spine. He stopped and waited for it to pass. The long van ride from Parkersville had wreaked havoc on his body. Walking into town didn’t help much, but it was better than lying in bed, waiting for the minutes to pass and the pain to subside.
“Guder mariye,” he greeted his mother when he returned, startled to see her out of bed. For years, her rheumatoid arthritis manifested itself in periods of extreme fatigue and sore, swollen joints, and ever since Hunter’s father died, her flare-ups were more frequent and intense. “You’re up early.”
“Jah, and your Ant Ruth is awake, too,” his mother replied. “I’m fixing her something to eat. She was asking after you, since she was asleep when we arrived last night. Would you keep her company while I make breakfast?”
Hunter tentatively approached the parlor where his aunt was reclining on the sofa with her leg propped on a stool. Her skin was pale and she wore a white cast on her foot, as well as a sling on her arm, but her eyes were lively.
“There he is, my favorite nephew!” she squealed.
Despite his pain, Hunter chuckled at their old joke; he was Ruth’s only nephew. After giving her a careful embrace, he asked, “How are you feeling, Ant Ruth?”
“I’m madder than a wet hen!” she exclaimed. “You probably know better than anyone how frustrating it is to be confined to bed when you’re used to being out and about.”
Hunter clenched his jaw. “That I do.”
“But it’s worth it if it means I get to see you and your mamm’s faces again,” Ruth said, her voice softening. “I wish I could see your daed’s face again, too.”
Hunter shared the same wish. The last time he’d seen his father’s face was the evening of the accident, some fifteen months ago. They were returning home from work when a truck driver lost his brakes, sideswiped their buggy and rammed into the wall of an overpass, where he perished in the fiery crash. Hunter and his father were trapped beneath their mangled, overturned buggy, unable to help him or themselves.
“Hunter, if Gott spares your life, promise you’ll take gut care of your mamm,” his father pleaded while he lay dying. After Hunter agreed, his father whispered, “Two of my greatest blessings in this lifetime were being a husband to your mamm and a daed to you. I couldn’t have asked the Lord for a better wife or suh.”
“Nor I for a better daed,” Hunter echoed before passing out. By the time he was cognizant enough to speak again, Hunter learned he was in the hospital and his father had already been buried for three days.
Remembering, Hunter shuddered and shifted in his chair. To his relief, his aunt changed the subject.
“Mmm, that smells good. What is your mamm making for breakfast?”
“Oier, I think,” Hunter guessed. Then he launched into a narrative of his roadside encounter with Faith.
“Ach!” Ruth exclaimed. “What a fiasco! You must collect oier from the henhouse and deliver them to Faith after breakfast. She’ll need them to fill her customers’ orders.”
“I’m the last person she wants to see again today,” Hunter protested.
More to the point, he didn’t want to see her again today. In fact, he didn’t wish to see—or to be seen—by anyone in Willow Creek just yet. The questions about his circumstances would come soon enough; he’d rather field them after he recovered from the tiresome journey.
“Nonsense! Take the buggy if you’d like, but it’s the right thing to do, even if Faith was at fault. She’ll be so glad to see you coming she might even treat you to one of her appenditlich cream-filled doughnuts. The trip will be worth your while.”
“Okay,” Hunter agreed. He knew better than to argue with his aunt once she’d made up her mind, but he’d made up his mind, too. He’d drop the eggs off, but he wasn’t going to hang around Faith’s bakery eating doughnuts, no matter how delicious Ruth claimed they were.
* * *
Of all days to have an egg mishap, Faith was dismayed it happened on a Saturday, the busiest day of the week and the same day she had a special order to fill. When she arrived at the bakery, she surveyed the glass display case, taking inventory.
The honey bars would stay moist through Monday. There were plenty of fresh whoopee pies and molasses cookies, but she’d have to move the cinnamon rolls to the day-old shelf. She had intended to start a few batches of her renowned cream-filled doughnuts before the bakery opened at seven, but now she wouldn’t have enough eggs. When her only employee, Pearl Hostetler, arrived, she’d ask her to whisk over to the mercantile, which didn’t open until eight thirty, to purchase more. Meanwhile, the egg shortage would put them behind schedule on all their baking for the day.
Faith sighed. First things first. She set about mixing yeast with hot water. Although she preferred baking more elaborate goodies, several of her Englisch customers depended on her for homemade bread. Every purchase counted if she was going to meet her financial goal by the first of the year, which was only a month and a half away.
That was the deadline the Englisch landlord required for the down payment on next year’s lease. In addition to the small storefront and kitchen, Faith would also rent the one-room apartment above the shop, since the current tenant was moving out. He was the third resident to leave in four years, and with each turnover, there had been a three-or four-month delay before a new resident moved in. Disgruntled by the gap in revenue, the landlord was adamant that from now on, the apartment and building space were to be a package deal. Faith either had to rent both or lose the bakery to Seth Helmuth, who wanted to set up a leather shop in the prime location downstairs and use the upstairs apartment for storage and supplies. But Faith had first dibs, and although the down payment amount was more than she had saved, she was arduously working to earn the total sum.
“Won’t you be lonely, living all by yourself?” Pearl asked when she discovered Faith would be moving into the apartment.
Living alone wasn’t something most Amish women voluntarily chose to do, and as someone who dearly missed her three children who moved out of state, Pearl couldn’t fathom why the opportunity might appeal to Faith.
“I won’t have time to be lonely,” Faith responded. “I’ll wake up and kumme right down here, where I’ll have the privilege of working with you and visiting our neighbors and serving our customers. I’ll spend the better part of Sundays and holidays with my family and with the church. The only difference is I won’t have to ride my brothers’ old hand-me-down tandem bicycle to get here each day.”
Faith’s sister-in-law Henrietta was even more dismayed about Faith’s decision.
“You can’t allow her to separate herself from the family like this,” she once told Faith’s oldest brother, Reuben.
“The Ordnung doesn’t forbid it, so neither do I,” Reuben replied. “Faith is a thoughtful person. I trust she prayed about this decision and is aware of the challenges.”
As the eldest son, Reuben became the head of the family when their daed died five years earlier, since their mamm had passed away five years before then. Reuben and Henrietta lived in the large Yoder farmhouse with their three young sons, Faith and four of her five other brothers. The fifth brother, Noah, lived with his wife, Lovina, and their children in a small adjoining daadi haus. Faith knew she’d always have a place and purpose within her family, but given how cramped their dwelling was, she couldn’t understand why Henrietta objected to her moving.
“If you live alone, you’ll appear uncooperative or proud. You’ve already got one significant reason a man wouldn’t wish to marry you—do you want to make it even more difficult to find a mate?” her sister-in-law asked her.
While Faith knew Henrietta had her best interests at heart, her words stung. The “significant reason” a man wouldn’t wish to marry her was Faith’s most intimate secret, something only family members knew. Well, only family members and Lawrence Miller. Faith felt compelled to confide in her former suitor after he asked her to marry him two years ago.
She vigorously kneaded a lump of dough as she recalled the afternoon she disclosed her secret to him. She’d been so nervous she hadn’t eaten for two days, and when she finally worked up the courage to tell him, she was uncharacteristically tearful.
“There’s a possibility I might not be able to bear kinner,” she confessed, chewing her lip to keep herself from weeping.
The color drained from Lawrence’s long, thin face as he slowly shook his head. That’s what Faith remembered most clearly—his shaking his head without saying a word.
She was too modest to explain that the year she turned seventeen, she had surgery to remove dozens of cysts from her ovaries. The cysts were benign, but the doctor warned the surgery caused scarring that could result in infertility. At the time, her relief over not having the kind of cancer that claimed her mother’s life outweighed any concern Faith had about not bearing children. She hadn’t fully appreciated the repercussions of the surgery until she and Lawrence began walking out and planning a future together.
“I know how upsetting this must be to hear,” she consoled him. “But if it turns out I can’t become, well, you know... We might consider adopting—”
She may as well have suggested flying an Englisch rocket to the moon to retrieve a child there for how preposterous Lawrence claimed her idea was. Adoption took too much time, he said, and it was too costly to adopt one child, much less the six or eight he was hoping to have.
“The doctor said there’s a possibility I won’t be able to have kinner,” Faith emphasized in between the sobs she no longer tried to stifle. “It’s only a possibility.”
“I’m sorry, Faith, but that’s not good enough for me,” he said.
She knew he meant she wasn’t good enough for him. She was damaged. Scarred. Less than a woman. She understood then that she’d probably never marry—at least, not until she was much older, or unless a widower with children of his own sought to court her. And since she wouldn’t marry, there was no sense courting, either. But Faith didn’t mind because it meant she’d never have to tell any man her secret ever again. The rejection and the shame of disclosing her condition were more than she could bear a second time.
She clapped the flour from her hands as if to banish the memory of Lawrence from her mind. Regardless of what Henrietta or anyone else said, she didn’t need a mate to take care of her. With God’s grace, she’d take care of herself just fine. As for living alone, she was looking forward to it.
For the moment, she had six dozen lemon cupcakes with lemon buttercream frosting to prepare for the Englischer who’d pick them up at eleven o’clock. She started mixing the ingredients, using every egg that wasn’t required for the egg wash for the bread. She’d have to forgo making doughnuts until later, but her customers would just have to settle for something else.
We don’t always get what we want, she thought as she mixed the batter into a smooth, creamy texture. But we can make the most of the options we have.
Which was exactly what she intended to do herself. No matter what anyone thought about her decision to live alone, Faith was determined not to lose the bakery. A few cracked eggs or critical remarks weren’t going to keep her from accomplishing her goal. Nor was a future without a husband going to keep her from being happy.
* * *
During breakfast, Hunter’s aunt asked if he’d assist her with a significant undertaking.
“Of course I’ll help you, Ant Ruth. That’s why I’m here. I’m happy to make house repairs and tend to the yard and stable. Do you need me to take you to your doctor’s appointments, as well?”
“Jah, I have appointments coming up soon. But what I really need you to do is oversee my shop. It’s been closed for the past week, and Thanksgiving and Grischtdaag are just around the bend. They’re my busiest seasons.”
Hunter took a large bite of biscuit so his mouth was too full to respond. His uncle owned a furniture restoration business, with his main workshop at home and a smaller storefront in town. After he died, Ruth converted the space in town into a cannery, where she sold jams, relishes, fruits and chow chow. Hunter knew nothing about canning, and he didn’t particularly care to learn.
As if reading his mind, Ruth explained, “You wouldn’t be expected to do the canning. I’ve put up plenty of jars for now, and harvest season is over. If the shelves run low, your mamm has agreed to help with the canning, although she’ll have to use store-bought produce for the ingredients, which is what I sometimes do in the winter.”
“You want me to serve customers?” Hunter questioned. “I wouldn’t be able to distinguish pickled beets from raspberry preserves!”
“Neh. My employee, Ivy Sutter, waits on customers. She knows everything there is to know about the products. But she has a special way of learning, so when she’s ringing up purchases, she needs supervision—and protection. She’s such an innocent maedel. Our regular customers are fine people, Englisch and Amish alike, but I’m concerned some of the tourists might take advantage or make demands.”
Hunter set down his fork. He was familiar with his aunt’s compassion for anyone who struggled with a difference of ability or who didn’t fit in as well as others did. But Ruth was gifted; she had a way with people. He didn’t. At least, he didn’t anymore. Most days, his pain was so intense it took all of his resolve not to snarl at his own mother. How would he tolerate demanding customers or keep his patience with a girl who had learning difficulties?
“You wouldn’t just be supervising Ivy. You’d also restock the shelves and keep the books. Of course, I’d pay you fairly,” Ruth concluded.
“He wouldn’t think of accepting payment, would you, Hunter?” his mother, Iris, interjected.
Hunter’s ears felt inflamed. He knew it was a sin to be prideful, but his aunt’s offer of a salary wounded his ego—primarily because he was in such desperate need of an income. It had been so long since he’d had full-time employment, he forgot what it felt like to receive an honest day’s wage. Since his accident, he’d taken as many odd jobs as he could get, but they were few and far in between. The leit in his district helped with a significant portion of his hospital bills, but his rehabilitation was ongoing. In fact, he’d prematurely quit physical therapy because he knew they could no longer afford the sessions and pay for his mother’s medical costs. He didn’t want to keep imposing on the church, especially since others’ needs seemed greater than his own.
Most humiliating of all, right before they left for Willow Creek, he’d received a notice from the bank stating they were on the brink of losing the house if they were delinquent with another mortgage payment. To the Amish, making a payment late was considered almost akin to stealing, since it denied the payee their fair due on time. While the payments were very small, Hunter still had difficulty scraping together enough to cover the mortgage. He shielded his mother from their financial woes, but he was so overwhelmed he was tempted to accept a lawyer’s offer to sue the trucking company that employed the driver who hit them. Thankfully, the temptation left him almost as soon as it struck: it was unthinkable for the Amish to engage in a lawsuit for financial gain.
Swallowing the last of his coffee, Hunter decided although he might not be able to provide for a wife and he was floundering in caring for his mother, the least he could do was manage his aunt’s shop without accepting a cent for it. He’d always had an interest in bookkeeping; perhaps the experience would afford him new skills he could use in Indiana.
“We’re family and we’re here to help, Ant Ruth,” he finally stated. “Provided there’s absolutely no more talk of payment, I’ll be glad to oversee your cannery.”
Yet as he hitched his horse to the post in town, he was anything but glad. Rather, his legs were so sore and stiff they felt like two planks nailed to his hips. He tottered down Main Street with a basket of eggs, hoping he didn’t appear as conspicuous as he felt.
Stopping beneath the simply carved sign that read Yoder’s Bakery, Hunter noticed a smaller cardboard sign propped in the window. “Early morning delivery person URGENTLY needed. November 27‒December 24. Willow Creek to Piney Hill. Inquire within,” it said. He wondered how “early” was early. Could he make the deliveries and still return to Willow Creek in time to open the cannery? Would Faith even consider him for the job, given their interaction that morning?
Hunter squinted through the spotless glass window. The bakery contained five or six small tables with chairs. Beyond the cozy dining space was a pastry case and behind that Faith was stacking bread on a shelf. Hunter noticed what had been too dim to see earlier: the fiery red hair of her youth had faded to a richer, subdued shade of auburn.
“Do you see something in there you think you’d like?” a woman behind him asked. “Everything we make is excellent.”
Embarrassed, Hunter turned and stuttered, “You—you work there?”
“I do. My name is Pearl Hostetler. But wait—aren’t you Hunter, Ruth’s nephew?” the tall, thin, silver-haired woman asked.
“I am,” he answered sheepishly. “It’s gut to see you again.”
“It’s wunderbaar to see you, Hunter,” Pearl said, placing her hand on his arm. “Ruth told me about your daed. I was very sorry to hear what happened.”
“Denki.” He coughed, surprised by the emotion Pearl’s sincere sympathy elicited. He extended the basket of eggs. “I brought these for Faith. Hers broke this morning when she was cycling into town. Also, I’m... I’m interested in hearing more about the delivery job.”
Hunter hoped Pearl would simply receive the basket and provide him details about the job, but she pushed the door open and announced, “Look who’s here, Faith. Hunter brought you oier and he wants to be your deliveryman, as well!”
Noticing Faith’s eyes narrow, Hunter didn’t wish to appear too eager. He clarified, “I’d like to hear more about the job, that is.”
“It’s pretty straightforward,” Faith replied, brushing her hands against her apron. “I need someone unfailingly dependable to deliver my baked goods to an Englisch booth at the Piney Hill Festival between seven and seven thirty every morning, Monday through Saturday. The festival begins in less than two weeks, on the day after Thanksgiving, and runs until the day before Grischtdaag. The delivery person would have to commit for the duration of the festival in order to make it worth my while to rent booth space.”
Mentally calculating the distance between the bakery and Piney Hill, Hunter was certain he could complete the deliveries, return the horse and buggy to his aunt’s home and walk to town with a good fifteen minutes to spare before the cannery opened at nine o’clock. And when Pearl blurted out the sum he’d earn for each delivery, Hunter was confident the arrangement was an answer to his prayers.
Looking Faith in the eye, he said, “Beginning Monday, I’ll be managing Ruth’s shop from nine until five o’clock, but I’d be available in the early morning to make deliveries for the duration of the festival.”
Faith nodded slowly. “Jah, I’d appreciate that. The job is yours,” she confirmed. She paused as a mischievous grin crossed her face. “But I do hope you’re more careful about where you steer than you are about where you walk. My sales are very important to me.”
“Your sales will be fine, provided you bake better than you bike,” Hunter retorted, giving her an equally rascally smirk before setting the eggs on a table and exiting the store.
As he stepped into the brightening day, he realized Ruth was right: the trip had been worth his while. Being a part-time deliveryman for Faith Yoder might not have been his first choice for employment, but it was a steady, paying job, and that was all that mattered to him.
