Mending Hearts

by Janice Kay Johnson - His Best Friend's Baby

  Miriam felt invisible for a moment. No, not that; but as if she were furniture or a crockery bowl that they all valued but took for granted. It didn’t help that David had stirred up so much inside her, not only memories.

  Suddenly, his shoulder and upper arm gently bumped hers. She turned her head to meet his eyes and saw . . . understanding. Worry. She gave him a shaky smile, his lashes veiled his eyes, and the next moment he’d returned his attention to his dinner.

  It appeared no one else at the table had noticed their silent communication. Not one of her family had been aware she might feel excluded by the talk of happy marriages, yet David had.

  Funny, she thought now, that when she first saw him, Levi had leaped instantly to mind, had been a bond between them, she’d believed. But since then . . . she’d been disconcerted a few times when something like that brief, comforting touch had jarred her with a reminder that he’d been Levi’s best friend and work partner.

  Surely natural after the passage of so many years, she told herself.

  She’d been absorbed in her thoughts too long, surfacing to find them all looking at her. Ach, even Abby, too young to notice many emotional undercurrents.

  “I let my mind wander,” she admitted. “What did I miss?”

  Her brother jabbed her in the ribs with his elbow. “Only that I’m waiting for the meat loaf to come my way.”

  Flushed, Miriam saw that David had pushed the platter toward her, considerate enough to save her from taking it from his hand. She’d be glad when he confessed and was no longer under the bann.

  She picked up the platter and passed it on to Elam without dishing up any meat loaf for herself. She wasn’t that hungry, anyway.

  As if reading her mind, Mamm frowned. “You’re hardly eating. Sick, are you?”

  It was all she could do not to roll her eyes. “Of course not! I’ve had plenty. The sauerbraten is especially good tonight.”

  Seeing David’s raised eyebrows, she looked down at her plate and had to hide a wince. Apparently she hadn’t taken more than a bite or two of anything she’d dished up, including the sauerbraten. Cheeks even warmer, she hastily shoveled some into her mouth.

  A muffled chuckle came from beside her. It was all she could do not to poke her elbow into David’s side. They weren’t such friends that behavior like that was permissible. Although . . . perhaps they were, when he wasn’t being prickly.

  “You and Abby,” he murmured. “A bird would eat more than she has.”

  “I’m saving room for Mamm’s shoofly pie,” Miriam said with dignity. “Abby, too. She has a sweet tooth, that girl.”

  He grinned. “Me, too.”

  Once they’d all finished, Elam left first, happily laden with leftovers. David had declined the offer of a ride home, insisting the walk would be good for him. Luke, Julia, and Abby followed on Elam’s heels, taking plenty of leftovers, too. Daad went out to help both his sons harness their horses. Mamm, of course, was busy filling another basket for David.

  “This is too much,” he protested. “A whole pie!”

  Mamm made a sound that might have been “Pfft,” before adding, “Nonsense. How can you get by on your own cooking? Do you even bake?”

  “Ah . . . no.”

  “Of course you don’t.” She patted him on the arm. “Miriam, go fetch a jar of applesauce. Oh, and some of the peaches we put up, too.”

  Smiling, Miriam went to the cellar as her mother asked, returning with two quart jars to add to an already full basket.

  He shook his head. “I should have brought the last basket back. I’ll do that the next time I go out.”

  “Ach, there’s no hurry! Or—Miriam, you could go with him now, bring it back.”

  David smiled and shook his head. “No, because then I’d feel obligated to turn around and walk her home. It’ll be getting dark soon, you know. And then I’d have to do it all over.”

  Deborah laughed merrily. “I thought she might enjoy a stroll. I have plenty of baskets.”

  He glanced at Miriam. “Will you come partway with me, though? I wanted to tell you what’s happened at Esther’s.”

  “Oh! I’d like that. I work this Monday, but I thought next Saturday—”

  Her mother flapped a hand at her and she went.

  The color of the sky was changing, subtly deepening. The sun dropped early behind the forested ridge behind their properties.

  Once they’d descended the back porch steps, Miriam asked, “Did Esther turn you away?”

  He shook his head. “When I knock, she doesn’t answer the door, so I go to work. As I told the next-door neighbor, I’ll keep on until she comes out swinging her broom at me.”

  Miriam laughed at the image, although it wasn’t as hard to imagine as it ought to be. Esther’s reluctance to accept help was well known among the brethren. “The Lord relieves the fatherless and widows,” she remarked with a sigh. “Mamm claims she was more accepting before Perry died.”

  “I was thinking the same,” David agreed. With his height and long legs, he’d clearly shortened his steps to match hers as they crossed the lawn toward the orchard and woodlot that lay between them and the fence that separated their properties. “She was . . . softer, more welcoming to me, for sure. Even after . . . Until Levi died, too.”

  “I reminded her once that Perry and Levi both will be waiting for her, when the time comes, their arms wide to hold her, but she said—” Appalled that she’d let her tongue run away from her, Miriam clamped her mouth shut. She could never tell anyone what Esther had said.

  David frowned. “What? What did she say?”

  Miriam shook her head. “Nothing. Nothing that matters. It’s only . . .”

  “You think she’s lost her faith. Is she angry at God for taking the people she loved?”

  “I do think she is angry. Well, you’ve talked to her.”

  “Ja.”

  “She never liked me,” Miriam blurted. “Oh, maybe when I was a kind, but once Levi and I talked about marriage, I could tell how unhappy she was.”

  David stopped walking and faced her. “You mustn’t think it was you, Miriam. She wouldn’t have been pleased with any young woman he brought home.” His jaw tightened. “She didn’t want him logging. He had a farm, she kept saying. She made it plain she didn’t trust me.” A spasm crossed his face. “She was right not to. Now, all I can do—”

  “No.” Miriam seized his free hand in both of hers. Squeezed as she held his gaze. “Levi trusted you. You know that.”

  He shook his head so hard, his hat fell to the ground. “He shouldn’t have.”

  The agony in his gray eyes made pain clench in her own chest. Not because she’d lost Levi, but for David’s sake. “Logging is dangerous. You’d been at it together for years. You can’t take the blame for what happened. You must trust in God’s will.”

  Still he stared at her, not pulling his hand away, but not showing any indication that he accepted what she was saying, either.

  Finally, a raw sound escaped him. He closed his eyes and let his head fall forward. She fought an impulse to lift a hand to his hard cheek, or stroke his disheveled brown hair as if he were a hurt boy.

  Even as compassion and a kind of tenderness worked in her, Miriam couldn’t tear her gaze from his hair. At the table, he hadn’t worn a hat, but she’d tried not to look at him, either. Now she became aware of how short his hair was, like Englischers around here mostly wore theirs. It would be a while before his could be cut in the Amish style.

  Perhaps she needed the reminder that he hadn’t yet knelt before the church, that there was the chance he wouldn’t confess. Owning Hiram’s farm didn’t mean David had to return to the Amish faith. If Levi’s death and his own sense of guilt had broken his trust in God, he wasn’t ready to take the important step of asking forgiveness from the church members. He might never be.
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  And I shouldn’t be holding hands with him, she thought with alarm. Although she suspected her touch anchored him, she forced herself to wriggle her hands free.

  He lifted his head. It was as if he’d donned a mask. “I’m sorry. You didn’t need to see that.”

  “If I can help,” she began, knowing she ought to turn away but not wanting to.

  David shook his head. “No. Coming home brings so many reminders, that’s all.” He drew a deep breath. “I asked you to walk with me partly to give myself a chance to apologize for cutting you off the other day. I was rude because I hated to remember—” Not finishing, he lifted his hand to his chest and rubbed his breastbone as though to quell a throb of pain.

  “There’s no need. You didn’t do anything wrong. Talking about Levi can’t be easy for you.”

  He did something like laugh, only there was no humor in it at all. She thought he might be hiding his expression from her by bending to pick up his hat and thrusting it back on his head.

  “If I can help with Esther . . . ,” she offered.

  “I meant to tell you.” Even hoarse, he sounded steady now. “I’m scraping the siding to prepare to paint her house a week from now, on Saturday. Mamm and Daad have been spreading the word, and I know your father and Luke need to keep the store open, but I meant to mention it to Elam in case he can help. If you have a chance . . .”

  “Ja, of course. You know everyone will want to help.”

  David nodded. “I thought so. There will be other jobs, too. The roof doesn’t look good, and the barn could use painting, too.” A faint smile lifted the corners of his mouth. “Of course, Esther may chase us away.”

  “Not if we don’t let her,” Miriam said stoutly. She shouldn’t have allowed herself to be so easily dissuaded in the past. “Mamm and I will bring food. If enough people come, perhaps the barn could be painted the same day.”

  “That might be.” He studied her for a moment, as if seeing secrets she might not even realize she was hiding, then said, “You’re a good woman, Miriam. Denke for saying what I need to hear.” He offered another smile, a little crooked, when he hoisted the basket higher. “And for fetching the applesauce and peaches. Once that pie is gone, I have more to satisfy that sweet tooth, thanks to you and your mamm.”

  She backed away, in part because she didn’t want to. Ferhoodled she was, for sure! So confused, she didn’t understand anything she felt.

  “You don’t need to worry about running out of sweets,” she assured him. “Not between my mother and yours.”

  “And you,” he said. “I tried to make myself dole out your cookies, but I couldn’t.”

  Miriam laughed. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “Good.” They looked at each other for a minute longer, his eyes searching although she had no idea what he expected to see, until he gave his head a shake, like Polly dislodging a fly, and said, “Gut’n owed, Miriam.”

  “To you, too.” Why she was speaking so softly, why he’d said good night just as softly, she didn’t know. Only that night was falling, and she felt foolish standing here when they both had chores to do.

  She’d walked only a short way, when she turned her head, but David had already disappeared. A bat darted across the deepening purple of the sky. Hearing the hoot of an owl, Miriam hurried home.

  * * *

  * * *

  Monday was the day Amos had suggested David meet with him as well as both ministers. As much as he’d accomplished today, he chafed at still not having planted hay or completed any other of his lengthy list of jobs. There wasn’t much he could do evenings, though, and nothing was more important than being accepted back into his church family. Even so, he hadn’t looked forward to being judged by two men who were relative strangers to him, but accepted the necessity.

  For the first hour, they sat at the kitchen table, drinking coffee once they’d each had a generous helping of rhubarb crumble drenched in cream, thanks to Nancy Troyer, Amos’s wife. She was a plump, cheerful woman well known to be a gossip. Nancy always meant well, so far as David understood, but it paid to remember she was a blabbermaul before you spoke too hastily within her earshot. He’d been careful on previous visits.

  When she offered to refill their coffee mugs, Amos covered his with his hand and pushed back his chair. “Denke, but I think we will sit on the front porch to talk more.”

  With a clatter of chairs scraping on the wood floor, all four men stood. This was the part David dreaded, where he must expose his mistakes, share his regrets, and hope that was enough to sway even Josiah.

  The Troyer front porch must often be used for private conversations. Seating was provided by a wooden bench and several Adirondack chairs. David let the ministers and bishop choose where they wanted to sit, and found himself, unsurprised, alone on the bench facing the three other men.

  With today the first of June, days were lengthening already, sunset not coming until seven thirty or later. As the inquisition continued, David paid little attention to the oncoming dusk. He’d known when he came over after dinner that he would be driving home in the dark.

  He’d evaluated the two ministers when he first arrived. Of course, now he’d heard them both give sermons, but hadn’t spoken with either personally, or been the object of their judgment.

  Six years ago, Ephraim was already a minister, but their second minister then had been an elderly man who had since died. As David had aged and changed in the intervening years, so had the others, if to a lesser extent.

  Ephraim was a strong man in his forties, a farmer who now had four children with his wife. The youngest had Down syndrome, David’s mamm had said. Sweet girl, she insisted, much loved. David believed that.

  The youngest of the three men, Josiah had moved here a few years ago from a much more conservative group down south in the Ozarks. He and his wife and children had apparently sought a new order district, yet according to David’s father had seemed shocked even by the fact that, within all three church districts in this northern Missouri settlement, the bishops encouraged everyone to use reflective signs as well as lights on their buggies when driving at night or anytime visibility was poor. Daad had talked about the discussion started by Josiah, and the renewed agreement that such protections were not because they didn’t trust in God, but rather for the safety of the Englisch drivers with whom the Amish shared the roads. According to Daad, Josiah had seemed disturbed, but accepted the decision.

  As David had expected, he asked the most challenging questions, Amos watchful but quiet, Ephraim stepping in now and again but less as if he doubted David’s sincerity. It was in answer to a straightforward question from Ephraim that David said, “No, I have no doubts. And I am committed to rejoining my faith.” He paused. When the others only waited, he said, “Luke Bowman and I talked one day.”

  Stroking his long beard, as he was wont to do, Amos nodded his understanding.

  “I think the decision to come home must have been harder for him. When he left, he was running toward something, instead of running away.”

  “As you were?” Josiah asked.

  “Ja.” David’s secret shame was that he still hadn’t confessed the complete truth of why he’d run away, and that he had no intention of doing so. Even in his own mind, he shied away from directly confronting what he’d done, thought, and felt, trying to fool God, who saw his deepest secrets as if his outward appearance were as clear as glass. Yet even so, David wasn’t ready to open himself so fully.

  He’d found a passage in the Bible that had come to feel like a sore tooth. The Lord had told Paul, Do not be afraid, but speak, and do not keep silent; for I am with you.

  David wanted to believe that was so, yet his fear that he was unworthy kept him from following God’s bidding.

  He had plenty of confessions that must be made, he told himself. Surely this one raw gash on his soul could be left alone for n
ow.

  “Luke found more worldly success in the Englisch world than I did, but that was not enough to keep him there. Me, I always longed for home, to be able to rely on my faith, even as I pretended I belonged among the auslanders.”

  “You know that God tells us to make no friendship with an angry man,” Josiah said without sympathy.

  David winced. “And yet I did that.” He finished the quote from Proverbs. “‘With a furious man do not go, lest you learn his ways, and set a snare for your soul.’ Ja, that’s what happened to me.”

  More mildly, Amos intervened. “You served your time the Englisch way, and I believe you truly repent.”

  “I do.” This was honest, and felt clean. “I rejoice every day, now that I’m back among the Leit.” Even if, as Luke had warned him, he’d changed in ways he still didn’t fully understand.

  “I’m glad,” Ephraim said, his kindness a balm.

  Even Josiah joined in the discussion of when he would kneel before the congregation. Forgiveness was the bedrock of the Amish faith. Of course every single member of the church would offer what he craved and rejoice because he was once more among them.

  He, Amos, and the ministers discussed Esther Schwartz’s needs and the now changed but firmly scheduled work frolic at her home, all three seeming disturbed to learn she’d been neglected. Ephraim, a farrier, wouldn’t be able to come, Josiah said he’d try, and Amos promised he and Nancy would attend. Finally, after brisk nods, they dispersed, in the way of the Leit not needing further words.

  Darkness had truly fallen now. Amos went inside, golden light falling onto the porch before he closed the door firmly behind him. Moments later three horse-drawn buggies made their way in a line down the driveway to the road, David’s at the tail end. He was able to see battery-operated lights twinkling on Josiah’s and Ephraim’s buggies. Both turned left, David right.

  He and Dexter had the road to themselves for the first twenty minutes. Even as they neared town, only a few cars passed, none speeding, the drivers signaling to indicate they’d seen him.