The Judgment

by Beverly Lewis

  “Not well at all.” He shuffled into the kitchen and sat forlornly at the head of the table. “Yet she refuses to see Old Eli . . . or any doctor.” He covered his face with his big, callused hands. “Even if one of them would agree to come to the house, well, she just won’t hear of it. I don’t know what to do. It’s like she’s giving up, and I’m not ready to let her.”

  Hen moved closer and sat at her mother’s own spot at the table, absorbing his concern. They sat without speaking for a time. At last she said, “Dad, you’re right—we can’t let her waste away. It’s not right.”

  He sighed like a wounded child. “Mamm believes her days are numbered. There’s nothing I can say to make her think otherwise.”

  She’s always known her own mind.

  The back door opened just then, and Beth and Mattie Sue wandered into the kitchen. Looking sheepish, Mattie Sue asked, “Can we have a cookie . . . or two?”

  Hen said they could.

  “This is so hard on your mother,” Dad said softly, returning to the subject at hand.

  “Well, it’s hard on you, too, Dad.” She looked at him tenderly, wishing there was a way to lift the anxiety so evident on his countenance.

  Beth neared the table, still wearing her jacket and hat. “When can I go in and see your mother again?” she asked Hen. Her eyes shone with expectation.

  Hen looked to Dad for his decision.

  “ ’ Tis best to leave her be now,” he said.

  Beth just stood there. “She needs me,” she whispered.

  Hen shook her head and encouraged Beth to go back to play with Mattie Sue. She didn’t want any more stress on her distraught father. Beth’s presence in the house was becoming a complication, although Hen hadn’t voiced this to Rose. “Run along now, honey,” Hen told her. It was strange talking to a young woman as if she were Mattie’s age.

  Beth instantly looked sad, but she obediently stepped away from the table to join Mattie Sue, who’d removed her coat and hat and was setting up a game of checkers in the corner of the kitchen floor.

  Dad turned to glance at them as the girls mumbled together, then back at Hen. “Were we too harsh with her?”

  Hen didn’t think so. Sometimes it was necessary to be firm with an individual like Beth, who didn’t seem to comprehend what was being asked of her. “Not to worry, Dad. She’ll be fine.” Hen wished she could say the same about Mom, if only to cheer up her father. But she sadly feared it was the farthest thing from the truth.

  Rose stood at the Petersheims’ back door and noticed several men walking with Levi, who waved to his mother-in-law. It appeared as if the ministers had had a meeting with Bishop Aaron over near the stable. But now they were all getting into their carriages, including Levi, who climbed into his market wagon parked farther down the lane.

  Eventually Barbara returned to the house and removed her shawl, looking peaked. Rose held out the mended photograph to show it to her. “Look what I found,” she said almost reverently.

  “Well, for goodness’ sake!” Barbara motioned for Rose to sit with her at the table. She peered down her nose, inching the picture farther away as she looked at it. “I daresay I need my reading glasses . . . why, this fella looks exactly like Nick, ain’t?”

  “I thought so, too.”

  Barbara’s eyes glistened. “We just never knew what we were goin’ to uncover next with Nick.”

  Rose didn’t know what to say.

  “I wonder if my Aaron was ever aware of this photo.” Slowly, almost reluctantly, Barbara squinted at it again, her chin jutting up. “He lived a double life, Nick did.”

  “Are those his parents, do ya think?”

  “Who else could it be?”

  Rose agreed. “Jah, not only does the young fella look a lot like Nick . . . the girl’s eyes are exactly, well—”

  Barbara put the picture facedown on the table. “This must be the long-lost father who left his wife . . . and young Nick.”

  “Did you ever learn anything more about him?”

  “Nee—no.” Barbara shook her head. “Only what the social worker told us.”

  Nick himself had told Rose that his father had run off. “Sad, isn’t it, that his dad wasn’t there to see him grow up?”

  “Well, if ya think about it, God gave Nick a wonderful-gut father.” Barbara straightened the cape portion of her dress and sat taller. “But the lad wasn’t interested in bein’ the bishop’s son, that’s for certain.”

  Rose felt a flutter of sadness. “I’m sorry ’bout the unhappy years . . . when he was livin’ here.”

  “I wouldn’t say all of them were.” Barbara paused a moment. “When Nick was little—when he first came here—he seemed ’specially fond of me. I’ve never told anyone this, but when I would carry the dirty clothes down to the cellar on washday, if he was around, he’d often tell me to be careful on the stairs, or even try to carry the clothes himself, small as he was. And he called me his “Amish Mamma” . . . ’twas the sweetest thing.”

  Rose listened, taking this all in.

  “And you prob’ly don’t remember, but the autumn Nick came, we had a wonderful fourth cutting of hay—and a bumper crop of corn, too.” She sighed, a faraway look in her eye. “Seemed like a kind of blessing then, Nick’s comin’.”

  “When did all that change?” Rose ventured.

  Barbara shook her head. “He missed his mother just terribly. I’d find him in a pool of tears some mornings, and he’d just sit and sit at the kitchen table long after Christian and the bishop left for the barn. Sometimes he’d stare out the window, like he was a lost soul.”

  Rose wasn’t surprised. She, too, had known Nick to be moody and sad. Brooding about just what, no one had seemed to know.

  “Would ya like to keep the picture, Rose?” offered Barbara.

  She hesitated, surprised. “Are ya sure?”

  “This picture would hurt Aaron no end. Seems Nick’s still causin’ him trouble . . . from afar.”

  Does she know Laura Esh saw Nick in Philly?

  “Bishop loved Nick, ya know . . . like a son,” Barbara added.

  The man of God had always been so kindly toward Nick—just as he was to all of his children and grandchildren. “ ’Tis gut, jah? A child needs to soak up that sort of love . . . like the love our heavenly Father offers.” Rose paused, a catch in her throat. “ ’Specially a child nobody wants.”

  Barbara’s eyes were bright with tears. “Ach, you’re right, Rose.” And with that, she lifted herself off the bench with a groan that sounded as if she might begin to weep. “You’re ever so right,” she murmured and made her way to the sink.

  Chapter 15

  Hen paused on the steps with Mattie Sue as they approached Brandon’s front door that afternoon. The sound of his sister’s singing seeped through the door.

  Why is she so happy? Hen wondered.

  Wiggles jumped up on the back of a chair and was barking through the window. The adorable cocker spaniel seemed to smile out at them.

  “Mommy, look—Wiggles remembers us.” Mattie Sue hopped near the window, making faces at the puppy.

  “Wiggles remembers you, sweetie.”

  The house key was still linked to Hen’s key chain, but she wouldn’t think of using it after being away all these weeks. She pressed the doorbell, stepping back so Brandon—or Terry—would see Mattie Sue first when the door opened.

  The dog continued barking while Mattie egged him on from where she stood. Then the door flew open, and there stood Brandon. In seconds, Wiggles was yipping at his feet and coming to jump up on Hen.

  “Daddy—surprise!” Mattie Sue leaped straight into her father’s arms.

  Hen leaned down to pet the puppy, glad her husband was occupied with Mattie Sue’s affection. They did not make eye contact as he carried their daughter into the house. Hen said not a word as he made over Mattie, who’d insisted on wearing her Amish clothes and both bonnets—her white Kapp tucked beneath the black outer bonnet.

 
Brandon set her down to untie the loop of Mattie’s woolen shawl and removed it. Without speaking, he also took off her black bonnet to reveal the prayer covering and little bob at the nape of Mattie’s neck. He set the shawl and the bonnet on the back of the sectional and turned to open his arms to hug Mattie Sue a second time, still ignoring Hen, who’d gone to stand in the living room.

  “You’ve grown at least an inch since I saw you last.” Brandon kissed Mattie’s cheek and lifted her up once more, spinning around until she began to squeal.

  He should not be deprived of seeing her, Hen thought, moved by the tender scene.

  Soon Brandon put their daughter down and took her hand, walking with her to Mattie’s former bedroom. “It’s a nice surprise to have my little girl stop by,” he told her, and Mattie Sue chattered right back about having missed him. Almost as quickly, she stated, “There isn’t anything left to play with in my old room,” as she peered inside.

  “Well, you can play with Wiggles whenever you visit . . . and also when you come home to live here again.”

  Mattie paused, looking worried. “Can Mommy come, too?”

  Hen felt her knees go weak and looked for a place to sit, choosing the far end of the sectional. Her neck prickled; she wondered what Brandon might say.

  “Don’t worry about that, honey,” he said. “Things will be fine . . . in the end.”

  “But I really want to live on the farm with Grandpa and Grandma Kauffman . . . and George and Alfalfa, too!” Mattie Sue recited the names of her grandpa’s driving horses, the old whine returning. Hen had hoped their former power struggles had ceased with all the instruction she’d taken care to give her daughter since leaving the modern world behind. “Obedience training,” as Brandon had tauntingly dubbed it the one time he’d visited them there.

  “You’ll be very happy living here again,” Brandon said firmly. “You’ve forgotten what it’s like, that’s all.”

  “No, I don’t want to, not without Mommy.”

  “Listen, honey, let’s go to your closet and pick out something pretty to wear,” Brandon said, more sharply now. “I’ll wait for you to change your clothes.”

  “Ach, but my Amish dress and apron are perty!”

  “You heard me. Take off those clothes for make-believe—and talk English, please.”

  “Daddy . . .” Mattie Sue began crying.

  “Do what I said—change into one of your normal outfits.”

  What on earth? Brandon had always been the more lenient parent, but now he had a definite edge to his voice. Astonished, Hen rose to defend her little girl.

  Just as she did, Terry came in carrying a tea tray containing cookies and bite-size cakes. “Would you care for something?” her sister-in-law asked almost too politely. “For your sweet tooth?”

  “That’s very nice, thanks.” Hen watched as she set the tray down on the coffee table and left the room.

  Hen stood there, aware that Mattie Sue’s bedroom door had closed and Brandon was walking this way. She suddenly felt wilted. What would he say now?

  His eyes were fiery darts. “Can’t you dress her in regular clothes sometimes?” he asked.

  “She likes to match Mommy, she says.”

  He looked toward the kitchen and rubbed his chin. He paused, eyes passing between the kitchen and Hen. Then at last he said, “Uh, there’s something else. . . .”

  What more? Her shoulders tensed immediately.

  “Did you put your father up to coming to see me at the office?”

  She shook her head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “He dropped in to invite me to dinner.” Brandon gave her a sideways look. “You didn’t know?”

  “First I’ve heard it.”

  He seemed uncommonly disgruntled by this. “I told him to save his breath.”

  “Is an invitation to have a meal with my family really so troubling?”

  He shrugged off her comment and stared at her—no, looked right through her.

  “Dad’s just being hospitable, wants to get to know his son-in-law, perhaps.”

  “I disagree. He had an agenda.”

  He reached for a small lemon cake on the tray and popped it into his mouth without saying more. She didn’t know how it could be, but Brandon looked taller. Or had he lost weight? He stood so straight, even defiant in his stance, appearing to be more confident than ever . . . but also less familiar.

  For reassurance, she picked up the steaming teapot and poured some tea into her cup—one Diane Perlis had given to her for her collection. Diane’s uncalled-for remarks about Brandon yesterday flitted through Hen’s mind as she reached for her cup and saucer. With the way he was acting, Hen could hardly think of mustering up any romantic feelings. Brandon’s behavior—his carrying on about Mattie Sue’s clothing—made Hen anxious to leave. How could she possibly return home to him anytime soon? If ever.

  Glancing over his shoulder toward the hallway, Brandon shook his head. Mattie Sue was taking a long time to change her clothes. Too long for his schedule, thought Hen miserably.

  “Your dad pressed me for more time,” he finally said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m giving you two weeks to get your tail feathers home.”

  “Brandon, please.”

  So Dad did have an agenda. She wondered what else they’d discussed.

  “No, Hen, you listen to me for a change!” He came around the sectional and sat down, leaning forward as if he might pitch right off the cushion. “I’m tired of you calling the shots. Mattie Sue is my daughter as much as yours. Get that through your head.” His voice rose with each phrase. It had been years since she’d seen him this irate. The memory of his fury over Bishop Aaron’s strong words so long ago came to mind.

  She didn’t dare tell him to shush, but she worried Mattie would hear. “We aren’t going to fight this way, Brandon.”

  “No, not here—but in court, if you’re so stubborn.”

  “Well, I care about protecting Mattie from the evils of the world.”

  “Oh, you think you’re the better parent . . . is that it?”

  “I’m concerned about how she’s raised.”

  “And I’m not?”

  Truth was, he’d had plenty of chances to prove what sort of parent he was—a permissive one who didn’t give a thought to exposing his daughter to things even another secular parent might find inappropriate.

  “Is that it, Hen? You think I’m a lousy father.”

  It would not be a good idea to respond to his baiting. Hen lowered her eyes as she’d often done as a child.

  Huffing loudly, he got up and headed into the kitchen.

  I’ll just sit here and stay out of the way. After all, she had done his bidding, hadn’t she—bringing Mattie Sue to visit? On the other hand, she’d disregarded his request to drop off their daughter unaccompanied. This, she assumed, was the main reason for his anger now and his frustration earlier with Mattie Sue. How could he take it out on their daughter?

  Hen had brought along a small sewing basket and reached in to find scissors, a pincushion and needle, and the unfinished pillowcase she was embroidering, to occupy her time. Unlike when she had lived here, Hen felt surprisingly calm as she kept her fingers busy. Soon Mattie Sue inched down the hall, wearing a pair of jeans and a soft purple turtleneck sweater that looked almost too tight. Her pouting face was tear streaked, and she had her pointer finger in her mouth.

  “Honey, come sit here.” Hen patted the sofa cushion.

  “I don’t like these clothes.” Mattie buried her face in Hen’s embrace. “I want to dress like you, Mommy.”

  “I know, sweetie.” She sighed. “You were obedient, honey . . . I’m proud of you for that.”

  “I love Daddy, that’s why . . . just like when we obey God, jah?” Mattie looked up at her with big, innocent eyes.

  Hen kissed her cheek. “Bless your heart. What a dear girl you are.”

  Mattie Sue reached for a cookie on the t
ray, looking back over her shoulder to see if it was all right with Hen. Hen nodded, then looked toward the kitchen doorway. She could only wonder what Brandon and Terry were doing.

  They sat in the living room for a good five minutes while Wiggles played with Mattie Sue and barked teasingly. A few more minutes passed and there was no further sign of Brandon. Mattie had slipped to the floor and was rolling an old, empty spool back and forth to the puppy, seemingly enjoying herself.

  “Daddy doesn’t like my clothes,” Mattie told the dog.

  Wiggles wagged his tail.

  “He doesn’t like anything Amish,” Mattie said sadly. She went to retrieve her little black bonnet and put it on Wiggles’ head, but he merely shook it off, yipping at her. Then Mattie put the bonnet on the floor and hid the spool inside. Wiggles nuzzled at it with his tiny nose, curled up, and sat down on the bonnet.

  As more time passed and Brandon stonewalled, Hen began to feel trapped in the well-furnished living room. The framed floral prints on the walls had been mostly her idea, as had the colorful throw cushions and ottoman. She and Brandon had made the decisions regarding the style and fabric for the large sectional together, however. The same for the window treatments.

  Not really so long ago . . .

  She wondered if her husband might’ve gotten caught up in his work where he preferred to sit, in the breakfast nook. How tactless to ignore them. Terribly rude . . . if not punishing.

  Hen was utterly bewildered at his and Terry’s silence. And the longer she sat there, the more resentful she became.

  It would be so easy to walk right out the front door.

  Not wanting to give way to anger, as in the past, Hen carefully folded the finished pillowcase and put it back in the basket. “Why don’t you go and see what Daddy’s doing?” she suggested gently.

  Mattie Sue nodded and went to the kitchen, Wiggles scampering behind. Meanwhile, Hen drank her unsweetened tea. Even though nearly everything on the tea tray, as well as the tray itself, belonged to her, she felt she was partaking of hospitality from a stranger.