It had been a special treat to have Mattie come to her house, but Jennie was so weak that the visit had worn her out. She closed her eyes and slept.
Chapter 8
It was quiet in the house, with Willa in her room and Tim over at the Fishers’. Jennie sat at the kitchen table, turning the pages of the supermarket’s weekly circular with one hand and jotting notes on a pad with the other. On Sunday nights she planned her food shopping for the week, coordinating specials and coupons. It would have been nice, she thought, if Shep ever sat there with her, doing his weekly review of his business expenditures. They could have had companionship, even if they didn’t speak. Yet he preferred to do his work alone in the living room. He might as well be in another country, she mused.
The phone rang, and Jennie got up. Willa rarely bothered to answer a landline, assuming that if anyone wanted to speak to her, they would call her cell phone.
“Hello?”
Tim’s voice was frantic. “Mom, you gotta come! It’s Abraham.”
She was instantly alert. “Abraham? What’s the matter?”
“He’s—Mom—he’s dead!”
She caught her breath. “No, Tim, no, he can’t—”
“He is, I swear. He collapsed. Right here in the kitchen. It was awful! I saw it!”
For a moment she couldn’t speak. “Is Mattie there now?”
“Everybody’s here. Can you come?”
“On my way.”
She hung up and rushed into the living room. “Shep, I don’t believe it.”
He was sitting on the sofa and looked up from the papers in his lap.
“Abraham died. Tim just called. I’m going over there.”
“What? He died?” He got up, shock on his face. “I’m coming, too. What happened?”
“I don’t know.” She grabbed her jacket from the hall coat closet and called out to her daughter, deciding it would be best to say nothing just yet about what had happened. “Willa, we’re going to the Fishers’ for a bit. Will you be okay?”
“Sure,” came the muffled reply.
Jennie and Shep raced to his truck and sped off to the farm. She repeated what Tim had said on the phone, but it didn’t explain much. They pulled up to the farm to see two horses and buggies tied up in front of the barn. When Shep yanked open the kitchen door, they were met by the sight of Mattie sitting in a chair, the room quiet and dim. Becky, Aaron, and Moses, the three youngest Fisher children, sat at her feet, their heads buried in her lap. Several Amish women moved about in the kitchen, making coffee or tea, and preparing food. No one said a word. The room was illuminated by only a few lanterns, and the darkness added weight to the silent sorrow.
Jennie froze. Perhaps she didn’t belong here at such a time. Maybe only other Amish were wanted or would know what to do. Mattie turned reddened eyes toward her and nodded.
“Oh, Mattie,” Jennie whispered, coming forward. “Then it’s true? Abraham—”
“Yes.” Her voice was barely audible.
Peter came into the room, his face ashen, one arm around his eight-year-old brother, Joshua, who appeared more bewildered than anything else, the other around ten-year-old Emma, her face tearstained. Tim was right behind them, and his eyes flashed gratitude at the sight of his parents.
“What can I do?” Jennie whispered to her son. “What do they need?”
He shrugged. “There’s a doctor on the way. It’s too late, but they have to get one here, I guess. They think it was a heart attack.”
“Where is … Abraham?” Shep asked his son.
“One of the bedrooms, I think.”
Jennie winced and went over to Mattie. “Please tell me what to do for you.”
The other woman’s expression was stoic but exhausted. “Do not worry about me. There are many people to care for us now. In three days, you will come when we have the burial, please. Yes?”
“Of course. I’m here if you need anything.”
Jennie reached out to lay her hand over Mattie’s for a moment, then turned and motioned to Shep and Tim. The three of them left the house together.
“I can’t believe this, I can’t,” Jennie burst out when they got to the truck.
“He just kinda crumpled up, but you could tell he was in pain,” Tim said. “It looked like slow motion, you know?”
“Poor Abraham.” Shep’s lips were set in a grim line.
“Were the children around?”
“Just Peter and me. We were talking to him. Well, Peter was. About wheatgrass or something.”
“What happens now?” Shep wanted to know.
“Peter said he goes to the funeral place, and I guess they fix him up. Then they keep him at home, and they’ll have a funeral in a few days.”
“I’m so sorry you had to see that,” Jennie told her son. “It must have been upsetting.”
“Well, duhh.”
Jennie began to turn around in her seat, angered by his rudeness, but Shep caught her eye and made a conciliatory face to tell her to let it pass. He was right, she realized. Tim was no doubt frightened, and it was logical that he would lash out.
The next day Jennie saw numerous buggies parked outside the Fisher house whenever she drove or walked by. She dropped off a stew and a dozen muffins, but as she’d expected, the kitchen was virtually overflowing with food provided by the Amish neighbors. As Mattie had selflessly provided for Jennie when she had needed support, her neighbors were doing the same for Mattie.
It made Jennie sad to contemplate how few people would be there for her own family in the event of a crisis. Human connection, she thought, was the most important thing, and it was missing even within her household. Especially within it. They weren’t there for one another. That night, when she and the children sat down to eat, she served a few of their favorite foods and tried to foster some conversation. It didn’t take more than five minutes for them to start fighting, and the meal ended with Tim grabbing his food and silverware and stomping off to his room to get away from his sister. She quickly finished, then got up wordlessly and left the room. Another wonderful evening, Jennie thought as she scraped the leftovers into the garbage.
Two days later, Shep closed the bike shop, and he and Jennie went to the funeral. In front of the Fisher house, buggies lined the street in both directions. The simple wooden coffin was in the living room, and Mattie and the children sat next to it. Hundreds of people had come, and they filed through to see Abraham, dressed in white, his head and chest revealed by two open hinged pieces on the coffin. Mattie sat with great dignity as friends and family came past. Jennie was amazed at the quiet among such an enormous group, murmuring softly if they spoke at all. When it was time for the service, she followed the women, who seated themselves on benches separate from the men. There was no eulogy, no testimonies about Abraham’s life; it was more of a church service than what she’d expected.
An enclosed carriage brought the coffin to the cemetery, followed by a stately procession of horses and buggies. As they walked from their car, Jennie and Shep noted the plain tombstones in the cemetery, marked only with a name, the dates of birth and death, and the person’s age in years, months, and days. They couldn’t see Mattie or the children, who stood at the center of a sea of Amish relatives and visitors. At one point, Jennie caught a glimpse of Peter, pale and with an expression she could only interpret as panicked.
There was no singing, just a hymn read as the coffin was lowered into the ground and covered with dirt. Jennie cried softly for the loss of this kind man and the hardship it would cause Mattie and her children. When the burial was complete, everyone was directed to say the Lord’s Prayer in silence. Then it was over. Some of the guests returned home, while others went to the Fishers’.
“Simple and spare, like Abraham himself,” Shep murmured as they got back into their car.
“Peaceful,” Jennie replied. “It was beautiful, although they probably wouldn’t like that description. But to me, it was.”
“The way these peop
le live is so …” Shep trailed off.
“I know.”
He smiled at the way she understood without his having to explain, then turned the key in the ignition. Oh, my sweet husband, she thought as she watched him, in so much emotional pain and so far away from me. She reached out to touch his face. He looked at her in surprise, then gently took her hand and turned it over to kiss the palm.
Over the next weeks, it was obvious to Jennie that Shep was mourning the loss of his friend. He was more withdrawn than usual, and sadness was evident in his eyes. In the early mornings, he went over to help with the morning milking. On weekends, he went back, assisting the other Amish men who were there to keep the farm operating as usual. When she tried to discuss how Shep felt about losing Abraham, though, she got little response. Jennie tried to visit Mattie often, but invariably found the house crowded with family members or friends. Mattie was always glad to see Jennie, although they didn’t have any time alone. Jennie tried to gauge how her friend was holding up. She appeared tired and a bit thinner, but nothing in her expression gave away what she was going through. With the children, she remained decisive and in charge. Jennie envisioned eight baby birds, all needing food and care from their mother. And she was always right there for them.
On one visit, Mattie did find a moment to explain to Jennie that Abraham’s brother and his family would be staying with them, at least through the fall. Efraim Fisher had his own carpentry business, but he and his wife would come to help Peter with the farm until they all decided on a long-term plan. Everyone understood that Peter would take over the farm, but he couldn’t manage it alone, and they would have to plan for the future.
“That’s wonderful,” Jennie said when she heard the news. “And Abraham’s brother is able to leave his own business?”
Mattie nodded. “His eldest son and daughter-in-law will manage. Efraim has another grown son who will come also and will bring his wife and children. They are actually about to move, so they have agreed to stop here for a while before they go on. It will be very good for all of us. Many more hands. And best, I think, for Peter. The spring and summer are so busy on the farm.”
Jennie considered the disruption this other family would be undergoing. She could only marvel at the loyalty and selflessness of people willing to be uprooted that way.
Then, startling her, the image of her sister, Hope, flashed across her mind. It had been years since she had allowed herself to think of the sister who had chosen never to see her again. Yes, she had sent money that had been a lifeline for Jennie back when she lived at home with their mother. What she remembered most clearly, though, was Hope’s cruelty in disappearing without a word, making sure she couldn’t be found. Jennie had pushed that hurt as far away as she could, but she had never been able to get rid of it.
It dawned on her that somehow, without realizing it, she had come to view a family as people tied together by blood rather than love. After her father had left, her mother, her sister, and she had been such a family. She thought of the bonds between her husband and his brother, Michael, once so strong, getting weaker every year. Now she and Shep and the children were starting to feel like the same kind of unit: bound by obligation, no one willing to open up or ask anyone else to help with their dreams or even their needs.
The Amish might not spend a lot of time talking about what they needed, but they didn’t have to; they acted—to assist, to protect, to support one another. She had seen it every time she came by. It was in the way they all carried out an unending list of chores without complaint, or how the children took care of one another, whether an older sister helped a younger one put on her shoes, or several of them sat, examining flowers and bugs outside in the sunshine, talking about what they were seeing. It was also in the way they gathered every other Sunday to worship in someone’s home, committed to their faith, their community, their families. She knew from the Fishers’ modesty that they did not brag about what they did or draw attention to themselves in any way. They just did what needed doing and seemed all the stronger for it.
From their doing came strength. Jennie knew there was a lesson in there for her, but she wasn’t sure what it was.
Chapter 9
The raspberry preserves from a local farm had become a favorite of Shep’s. Jennie decided to buy two jars, since she didn’t get to the marketplace that often. An elderly Amish woman took her money with a solemn expression, but Jennie wished her a good day and was gratified to receive a small smile in return. She settled the jars into her net shopping bag, thinking she might as well pick up some dried green peas while she was here.
When she got to the end of the aisle and turned the corner, she stopped in surprise. There was a booth she had seen many times before. She had bought a few of their freshly baked pies and breads in the past. What surprised her was that the person behind the counter today was Mattie.
Waiting until her friend finished taking care of a customer, Jennie approached. Mattie’s face brightened when she saw who it was.
“Wow, this is a new development,” Jennie said. “I had no idea you were working here.”
“I started last week. It is really the booth of my aunt and uncle. They went to Ohio for a few months to visit my aunt’s family, so I am running the booth for them.”
“Do you bake all this?” Jennie gestured to the array of pies, breads, coffee cakes, and her own favorite, sticky buns.
“Oh, no. The family does the baking. I pick it up in the morning and bring it. Then I work here to sell it.”
A woman behind Jennie tapped her shoulder in annoyance. “Are you going to talk much longer? I’d like to buy something.”
Taken aback by the woman’s rudeness, Jennie wondered if she might actually be taking up too much time. Perhaps the slower pace of life here had slowed her down as well. That didn’t seem like such a bad thing, she thought. Not wanting to ruin Mattie’s chance to make a sale, she apologized and backed away with a wave.
“We can visit later,” Mattie called to her before turning to the customer with her usual sweet smile.
Jennie resolved to take Scout on a walk to the farm that afternoon. She hadn’t had a good visit with the Fishers in far too long. Ever since Abraham had died three months ago, the house had been busy with Amish friends, family members, and visiting relatives who had traveled from all over to get there. Plus, there were the members of Abraham’s family who had moved in, which turned an already busy house into what felt to Jennie like a small hotel. Fortunately, there was plenty of room for everyone, due to the two additions that had been built over the years to house different generations. It was common among the Amish to live that way, Mattie had explained, grandparents and even great-grandparents residing with younger generations, yet having independence and privacy with their own kitchens and living facilities. Abraham’s parents had both lived on the farm until their deaths a few years back, but their rooms had remained empty since then.
Well, the space was being put to good use, Jennie reflected. Having met the people who had come to stay with Mattie, she had been struck by how quickly they’d settled into a routine. Abraham’s brother Efraim and his wife, Barbara, seemed to know at once what needed doing. They took care of things with little discussion and few questions. Jennie found them reserved with her but always kind. They had brought their grown son, Red, and his wife, Ellen, whose young children were as sunny-natured as Mattie’s. She supposed Barbara and Ellen were watching all the children so Mattie could take this job. She could imagine them effortlessly handling such a big brood. It was barely spring, but Jennie had already seen these women working hard in the garden, and the men were out in the fields all day. Everyone there was incredibly busy.
Unlike her.
She walked to her car, thinking about how useless she was beginning to feel. Nothing further could be accomplished in her house without spending more money, which wasn’t an option. The children were settled into their school routines, complaining at every turn and bickering with e
ach other. Willa was still hiding out in her room, Tim was still fighting with his father. Shep continued to work long hours, although his business was picking up slightly as the warmer weather moved in, at least enough for them to get by if they watched every penny. Yet he kept his thoughts to himself and drank enough beer to get him through the nights, enough to make him numb to his own unhappiness. She knew that if he was on his way to becoming an alcoholic, he would drink more over time, not less. No one, she had to admit, was any happier than they had been before. They were merely treading water. Her contribution to fixing this mess was—what? she asked herself. Nothing. She seemed to have become paralyzed, uncertain what it was that her family needed to bring them together in some way.
Then there was Mattie. She had lost her husband and been left with a farm and eight children. Yet she didn’t wallow in her sadness; she barely showed the emotional pain Jennie knew she was in. Occasionally, she would look off, sometimes lose track of what they had been discussing. In those moments, Jennie knew she was thinking of Abraham. Still, she refused to give in to her grief. Every day she got up and forged ahead. I need that kind of steel spine, Jennie thought.
When she arrived home, she found Willa had returned from school and was standing in front of the open refrigerator, mulling over what to choose for a snack. Scout was dozing under the kitchen table.
“How are you, honey?” Jennie asked Willa, setting down her bag on the counter. “Can I fix you something?” She pulled out her purchases and held them up. “Some dried peas with jelly, perhaps?”
“Very funny, Mom, thanks,” Willa answered, taking an apple from the vegetable bin. She bit into it. “Ew, mushy. I hate that.”
An Amish Gift Page 8