The Judgment

by Beverly Lewis

  Annie talked in cryptic tones about the home birth and the fact that the midwife, over the years, had helped to deliver “forty sets of twins, as of now.” She looked up tenderly at the wee babe in Rebekah’s arms from her spot in the willow rocker.

  “It’s going to be a challenge to keep these two bundled up and warm this winter,” Rebekah said.

  “Seems the cold’s already settled in to stay,” Annie added.

  Some time later, Rebekah handed Baby One to Rose, then excused herself to her room, just a few feet away.

  “Rebekah didn’t sleep much last night,” Annie explained, folding her hands. She chuckled. “None of us did, really.”

  Hen couldn’t imagine having twins of any age. But with two newborn babes, the next six to eight weeks would be very demanding, mother’s helper or not. “Rebekah’s young, so let her take care of the babies as much as possible,” Hen suggested.

  “Well, we certainly don’t want to tire you out further,” said Rose, handing Baby One back to Annie, who smiled down into the wee face and kissed the baby’s forehead.

  “Do we have to go already?” Mattie Sue whined to Hen.

  “You heard Aunt Rosie—we just dropped by for a short visit.”

  “But, Mommy . . .” Mattie Sue whimpered.

  “Honey, please,” Hen whispered. “We’ll visit Annie and her babies another time.”

  Mattie began to sob as if her heart might break. This baffled Hen, but Rose hurried over and consoled her niece, leaning down to kiss her cheek and take her hand before leading her out to the back porch.

  “I’m real sorry,” Hen told Annie. “She’s just not herself here lately.” That was all she felt she should say. She couldn’t help but wonder if Mattie’s sorrowful response to their leaving was a way of acting out because of their separation from Brandon. Did her daughter feel so terribly displaced?

  Hen felt a pang of guilt as her heart ached for Mattie Sue. Adjusting the receiving blanket, she placed Baby Two in the wooden cradle with the soft pink bedding. The other matching cradle, lined in white eyelet, was set right next to it, a small white and yellow afghan folded neatly at the bottom.

  “You and your husband are doubly blessed, Annie,” she said, gazing at the look-alike baby in Annie’s arms.

  “Denki for stopping by . . . and for the nice goodies, too.”

  “We’ll be seeing you again.” Hen suddenly realized Beth must have gone out to catch up with Rose and Mattie Sue. “Good-bye!”

  “God be with ya, Hen.”

  Quite unexpectedly, tears sprang to Hen’s eyes, and she made her way toward the wide porch. She felt the warm drops against her cheek as she opened the back door. Standing there on the dormant lawn, she wept for Mattie Sue . . . and for herself. She wept, too, for the babies she would never bear. If Brandon pushed through with his divorce, she would follow the way of the People and remain single the rest of her life, never to love again or to marry . . . or to bear more children.

  To think I could lose my only child to a court ruling!

  All the way home, Rose thought how peculiar it was of Silas to drop by Masts’ and visit Rebekah. What more did they have to talk about, following Cousin Esther’s wedding? It was both strange and annoying, but Rose refused to jump to conclusions.

  When she opened the kitchen door back at the house, Rose heard Mamm moaning and held her breath, worried her mother was suffering the lingering effects of yesterday’s scare.

  Barbara peeked out of the first-floor bedroom. “Rosie, kumme schnell—come quick!”

  “What is it?” Rose’s heart was in her throat. “Has Mamm taken another bad turn?”

  Barbara waited till Rose was near, then lowered her voice. “I fear Emma’s sinking into despair. She says the bones in her spine feel like they’re grinding against each other. Her back is worse than ever,” Barbara explained.

  “Does Dat know?”

  “He’s been checking on her every hour.” Barbara wiped her own eyes. “Such a gut man . . . your father.”

  “ ’Tis true,” Rose agreed. “Ach, I never should’ve gone to see the twins.”

  “No . . . no, I fear you’re shackled by your mother’s infirmities, Rose Ann.” Barbara’s eyes were soft with sympathy. “Your grandmother Sylvia was here and is returning in a few minutes, she said.”

  “Oh?”

  “Jah. She’s bringing over cold packs from her icebox.”

  Rose heard Mammi Sylvia coming in the back door just then and she touched Barbara’s arm gently, thanking her. “You needn’t stay any longer. It was so nice of you to help out.”

  “How are Annie’s babies?”

  “Adorable,” Rose said. “And Annie looked awful tired, as you’d expect. But, oh, such perty babies she has! You’ll have to go over and see them soon.”

  “I surely will.” Barbara leaned out from the doorway, as if looking to see where Rose’s grandmother was keeping herself. “Would ya have a minute to walk back to the house with me?”

  “Why, sure. Just let me look in on my mother first.” Rose sensed Barbara had something important to share. Swiftly, she turned and went to Mamm’s bedside. Her mother’s eyes opened partway, and Rose whispered, “I’m awful sorry I ever gave you that pill.”

  “Rosie . . . no, no . . . ain’t your fault. I was in rough shape even before that, dear.”

  “I pray you’ll recover soon.”

  Mamm nodded slightly, then seemed to drift back to sleep.

  “Rest now,” Rose said as Mammi Sylvia entered, looking tired herself and carrying the cold packs. Rose told her she was going to walk with Barbara next door. “But I’ll return right quick.”

  “Ach, you take your time,” Mammi Sylvia said.

  She feels sorry for me. Such pity was simply not warranted and Rose felt embarrassed.

  She headed outside with the bishop’s wife, aware of the bright sky. A brittle crispness hung in the air, like a prelude to the first snow of the season. Thoughts of Silas and Rebekah threatened to intrude, but she pushed them out of her mind.

  “Won’t be long till Christmas,” Rose said. Then, catching herself, she said she was sorry, this being the first without Christian. “I just wasn’t thinkin’.”

  “Oh, but you were . . . about celebrating the Lord’s birthday.” Barbara looked at her, smiling pleasantly. “Don’t ever think you can’t enjoy Christmas because of what happened to our son.”

  Doesn’t she think of Nick as theirs, too? Rose felt so heavyhearted for the bishop and his wife. “It’ll be very difficult, I’m sure.”

  “Jah, ’specially for Verna, who was always so fond of her brother,” replied Barbara.

  Rose waited for a mention of Nick, but no such remark came just then. She wondered if her father had heard anything more about the brethren’s determination to question Nick. Or to locate him.

  Barbara picked up her pace, and they walked through the pastureland between Rose’s father’s land and the bishop’s. This stretch had always been a fun place to explore, especially when Rose and Nick were children. She and Hen had romped here, too, dodging cow pies and the brambles near the wooded area, north of the grazing land.

  “After Christian died, I couldn’t bring myself to go through his clothing and personal things. Same with Nick.”

  “What did Nick leave behind?”

  “Mainly his Amish clothes, I ’spect, since they’re still hanging on their pegs. But I really don’t know.” Barbara placed her hand on her bosom. “You see, I closed off both their rooms . . . just left things be.” She stopped walking and reached for Rose’s hand. “I know how fond you were of Nick and thought, just maybe, you should be the one to take a look at what’s left in there.”

  Surprised at this, Rose suddenly felt unsure. Just how much did Barbara know of Nick and Rose’s devoted companionship? Rose felt the need to guard the years with Nick, out of loyalty to her friend. “It was kind of you to think of me,” she replied, her heart in her throat. “I’m willing to help howev
er I can.”

  “Well, come along, then. I’ll show you his room.”

  Rose followed obediently, quite curious.

  Chapter 14

  Solomon knew from past experience that once an Amishperson owned a car—a temptation for many youth during Rumschpringe—it was mighty hard to abandon the lure of speed and return to horse and buggy.

  As he split wood that midmorning, he couldn’t help thinking Hen’s car parked on his property might soon become a bur in his flesh. Especially when she still occasionally drove it, like earlier today, taking along Rose Ann and Mattie Sue and Beth, too. The bishop was likely to ask her to sell the car and give the money to the church’s charity fund here before too long. That is, if she continued to dig in her heels and stayed put. Her stubbornness on this latter point weighed heavily on all of their minds . . . especially Solomon’s. The extra time Brandon had given Hen to get herself back to him would pass all too quickly, he knew.

  The whole thing was complicated. His wayward daughter had come home and he’d scarcely had a chance to kill the fatted calf. Secretly Sol wanted to revel in the fact that his prodigal had returned.

  If only she hadn’t succumbed to worldly drift as a youth. He picked up his ax to split more wood. And as he worked, he considered his visit to Brandon yesterday. My son-in-law, of all people. It was still hard, even after seeing him several times since Hen’s coming home, to feel much of anything but pity for Hen’s husband. The man was rattled and on edge. His lips poured forth evidence of his impatience and irritation. Solomon almost wished he hadn’t made the trip to Quarryville.

  Such futility . . .

  He wouldn’t think of voicing these things, though. Truth was, Brandon needed someone to come alongside him, put a big, burly arm around his suited shoulders, and guide him along on his life journey.

  But who?

  It was hard to watch such a bright young man choose to go his own way . . . making the gathering of riches an imperative. Not caring whom he stepped on or hollered at as he worked so hard to get where he was bent on going.

  Pausing to pull out his old pocket watch, Solomon saw that it was time to check on Emma again. With her growing weakness and her pain taking its terrible toll, he wondered if she would even make it to Christmas.

  Shivering with dread, he quickened his pace toward the house. Will I greet the New Year as a widower?

  Rose and Barbara stood just on the threshold of Nick’s bedroom. Is she nervous about what might be found? Rose wondered, feeling awkward about stepping foot into her dear friend’s private space.

  They looked around. The bed was still made and the dresser cleared of everything but a man’s hairbrush and a homespun doily Barbara had no doubt crocheted.

  “I’ll go and get some boxes for any giveaways,” Barbara said, leaving the room just that quick.

  Rose went to stand at the window. She looked west toward her father’s house and realized Nick had had a clear view of her own distant windows from this vantage point. She was glad she’d never told anyone how close they’d been through the years. Not even Hen knew about the sunny afternoon they’d spent in the ravine by the creek. Try as she might, she could not erase Nick’s startling words from her mind: “I know you better than anyone. . . . I loved ya first. . . .”

  Turning, she stared at the wooden pegs mounted to the wall, where Nick’s dark work shirts still hung, and his black Sunday trousers, vest, and frock coat. “You had it so gut here, growin’ up under the bishop’s roof,” she whispered. “Did ya ever stop to think that, Nick?”

  And now you might be homeless, she thought sadly.

  Sighing, she remembered the first week Nick had lived here. Mammi Sylvia had declared right off that he was but “a scamp of a lad.” Christian had muttered a derogatory remark about his smelling like the devil, even saying he wondered why his father had picked such a runt to help with farm chores. Rose had caught Christian mocking Nick to his sister Verna in the barnyard as Rose came through the meadow on her way to the milk house to get some fresh cream. But she’d always heard from Dat and Mamm that the bishop had chosen Nick precisely because he was the most needy of all the available foster children.

  Even then, Christian thought little of Nick. . . .

  Staring at the large braided rug near the bed, she heard Barbara’s footsteps and turned to face the door.

  “Here we are.” Barbara was carrying two large boxes. “This should do it.”

  They began with the drawers filled with his pajamas. Barbara emptied the drawer of underwear and socks. At one point, Barbara sniffled loudly, tears welling up. Rose knew it was best not to comment about it, lest the bishop’s wife struggle even more.

  How would Nick feel if he knew I was doing this?

  After only a few minutes, they were nearly finished. Rose turned to look at Nick’s Sunday clothes on the wooden pegs. She was about to ask if Barbara had someone in mind for those when Levi, the Petersheims’ oldest son-in-law, called up the stairs to Barbara. He was saying something about a neighboring bishop having just stopped by.

  Promptly, Barbara excused herself. “I’ll be right back, dear,” she said.

  Barbara’s footsteps were hurried on the stairs, and there was the sound of several more male voices in the kitchen below. Rose began to work on the bed, removing the quilts, blanket, and sheets from the mattress. Taking off the cotton mattress pad, she raised the box spring and spotted something drop to the floor beneath.

  Rose got down on her hands and knees and stretched to reach for what looked to be a snapshot. She held it up to the light—it was indeed a photograph, torn down the middle, the ragged line falling between a young man and woman. Discoloration indicated the rip had been taped back up some time ago.

  Rose suddenly felt shy, as if trespassing on Nick’s personal belongings. Yet she peered into the faces of a dark-headed teenage boy holding hands with a blond girl. Glory be, the boy’s resemblance to Nick at age sixteen or seventeen was downright uncanny. She held the picture closer to make sure it wasn’t him.

  Then, turning the picture over, she searched the back for an indication of who this couple might be—but found nothing.

  Flipping back to the front, she studied the attractive girl, whose eyes were very much like Nick’s. Could it be his mother . . . and father, before they married?

  The room seemed to close in on her in that moment. She was so taken by the old picture that her hand trembled as she crept into the hallway and listened for Barbara and Levi and the others, but she heard only silence and assumed they’d gone outdoors.

  Why would Nick leave this behind?

  Surely, Rose assumed, he’d forgotten to take it along. In his haste.

  The minute Rose returned from Petersheims’, Hen planned to take Mattie Sue to see Brandon, despite her protestations yesterday. She should’ve done it before now, but knowing how busy her husband was, she’d put it off. Plus, she had hoped to have him visit them here, just as she’d suggested the day of her packing and leaving. But now she felt bad about keeping Mattie from her daddy. For as long as she could remember, from their first date until now, Hen had felt guilty for some reason when it came to Brandon. Only the reasons had changed.

  Before Hen left, though, she wanted to finish cleaning the little Dawdi Haus, as well as prepare food for the Lord’s Day tomorrow. Since her grandmother and mother adhered to the Old Ways of not cooking on Sunday, Hen did the same while living here. No boisterous play, sewing, cooking, or cleaning . . .

  She finished redding up Mattie Sue’s bedroom, then dusted her own room. While rearranging several things on the dresser, her eyes caught the pretty ring holder. How glad she was to have it here, where it could be useful, instead of stuck in a drawer at the house. Since returning to Amish country, she’d stopped wearing her birthstone ring, a brilliant red garnet. Brandon had surprised her with the gift the second year of their marriage, on her twenty-third birthday. Touching the red ring and ring holder now, Hen sighed, then turned to gather
up the colorful handmade rag rugs, taking them downstairs to beat on the white porch banister outside.

  She noticed several gray buggies parked diagonally at the bishop’s and wondered if his sons-in-law had dropped by. But then she saw a circle of men all in black—unquestionably the ministerial brethren.

  What’s happening?

  She hoped no one had been hurt, or worse still. Christian’s death had shaken her in many ways, but she hadn’t grasped until recently just how angry she was at Nick Franco—such a troublemaker. To think he’d caused his own brother’s death!

  Hen returned indoors. It was wrong to harbor such resentment, yet she had never understood why she’d had such difficulty with Nick. Was it because he reminded her of her own rebellion, late in her teen years? Or was it that she viewed Rose Ann as the flip side of herself—pure and innocent—and had always worried Nick’s friendship with her sister might somehow taint Rose?

  Inside, Hen ran the wet mop over the wooden plank floor both up and downstairs, wanting to do a quick yet thorough job. The small space she and Mattie Sue lived in now was but half the size of Brandon’s and her home. Will I ever live there again? The thought crept up on her.

  But it wasn’t the loss of that home she feared most. Hen worried that their love had faded, more rapidly than she’d thought possible. Brandon had not pursued her the way she’d expected, although at least in part because of his strong aversion to the Plain community.

  And here I’ve grown reattached to it. . . .

  She rinsed out the mop and hung it up to dry, then went to the main house to see if Rose had returned yet from Barbara’s, where Mammi Sylvia had indicated she’d gone for a short visit. The men in their black wide-brimmed hats, trousers, and coats lingered near the barn, and now it was obvious Bishop Aaron was the focus of their attention.

  As Hen stepped into her mother’s kitchen, Dad closed the door to his and Mom’s bedroom behind him, his face pasty white. “Dad . . . is she—?”