by Marta Perry
She turned, movement drawing her eye, and her breath seemed to catch in her throat. Gideon was back to work on the windmill. Even as she watched, he pulled his wagon up close to the site, which probably meant he had supplies in it.
Or maybe that his leg was still bothering him and he didn’t want to walk. If so, he shouldn’t be here at all, although he wouldn’t welcome her saying so.
They hadn’t talked in several days—not since Saturday evening, when she’d found him in the barn. She’d seen him at worship on Sunday, moving cautiously, his brother or one of his nephews always close to lend him an arm. He hadn’t come near her after the service, and she’d tried to respect his obvious wish to avoid talking with her.
He was embarrassed, she supposed, over having revealed so much of his inner feelings to her. He wasn’t a man who did that easily in any event, and especially not when it came to something bound to be so painful to both of them.
She put down the mister and tried to focus on thinning out a tray of marigolds. Without her willing it, her gaze kept straying back to Gideon. He was starting up the structure now, making her hold her breath until she saw that he was wearing a safety harness.
Mostly the Amish didn’t do that, and she’d seen enough of Gideon at work to know that it was unusual for him. Was he doing it because his leg was still paining him?
What happened on Saturday had been painful both physically and emotionally. And yet, for her at least, that encounter had been healing, too. She could see Ezra more clearly now, as if the fog of grief and guilt was lifting. She could only hope that was true for Gideon as well.
She finished the tray of seedlings before she let herself look again. And jumped to find someone staring in through the glass at her. William.
Smiling, she went to the door. “William. I didn’t see you. Will you come in and look at my greenhouse?”
He took a step forward and then paused. “I—I—maybe I shouldn’t. I mean, b-b-bother you.”
“It’s not a bother. I want to show you what I’ve been doing with the flowers.”
She held the door wide in invitation, but still William hesitated, standing a few steps away and surveying the building as if it were a skittish colt about to buck.
“William? Do you disapprove of the greenhouse so much that you won’t even come in?”
“No, no. F-f-for sure it’s not that.” Clutching his straw hat in his hands, he stepped inside, ducking his head to avoid the hanging pots of plants.
She stepped back, giving him as much space as she could in the confines of the greenhouse that was really made for one. “I thought maybe you agreed with Isaac—that I should forget this foolishness and sell the farm to Caleb.”
He didn’t respond, and she immediately regretted putting him on the spot. Hadn’t she just been telling herself that she couldn’t contribute to a family quarrel?
“I’m sorry, William. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”
He shook his head. “N-n-no, it’s okay. I’m g-glad for you, that you have the greenhouse Ezra w-wanted to give you.” His big hands tightened on the hat’s brim. “J-j-just sorry G-Gideon was the one to build it for you.”
She paused, not sure what to say to that but knowing she had to say something. “William, you’re not blaming Gideon for Ezra’s death, are you?”
“You d-d-did.”
Her throat tightened, making it difficult to speak. “I didn’t blame him. Not that. I just couldn’t seem to forgive him for living through the accident when Ezra didn’t.”
“Now you d-d-don’t f-f-feel that way.” He said it almost accusingly.
“I think I see things more clearly now.” She tried to marshal her thoughts. If only she could help William take the step that she seemed to be taking, it would be a comfort to him, she was sure. “You remember how Ezra was—always a little more daring than everyone else, always needing to go first, even to take chances.”
“You th-th-think it was his fault.” He threw the words at her.
“No, not at all. I mean that we both know what he was like. It was part of what we both loved about him, wasn’t it?”
William jerked a nod.
She was talking out of hard-won insight, and her assurance grew as she formed the words. “It was in Ezra’s nature to go first, just as it was in Gideon’s nature to move more slowly, to check things out methodically, just as Ezra wanted him to.” She found herself smiling. “Maybe that was why they were such gut friends. They each had something the other one needed.”
William was frowning, but he seemed to be listening, even understanding.
“For a long time, when I thought about that last day, I could only see Ezra falling.” Her throat tightened, but she forced herself to go on. “Now I can see him the way I know he would have been—climbing higher, enjoying it, maybe laughing at Gideon for taking his time. I can see how his eyes would sparkle when he did something daring.” She touched William’s hand. “It’s better to see him that way. It is. Don’t blame anyone else. All right?”
He jerked a reluctant nod. “Ja.” He hesitated. “But I still wish I—w-w-we were the ones helping you.”
She patted his hand, relieved at his acceptance. “Isaac wouldn’t want you to be helping me with something he doesn’t approve of. He hasn’t said anything to me yet about the windmill, but I can guess what his opinion is.”
“He says you are w-w-willful. I don’t think that.”
“Gut. I’m glad you understand.” She wouldn’t let herself dwell on what Isaac thought. “I just have to take care of the children the best I can. I wish everyone could see that.”
“I—I do.” He gripped her hand suddenly, his fingers tight on hers. “I’m on your s-s-side. Always.”
“Denke, William.” But she didn’t feel comfortable with the intense expression on his face. Better to change the subject, if she could. “In that case, come with me and see the new windmill. Once it’s finished, this farm will have plenty of its own water. Bishop Mose says that will make the farm more valuable, so that’s gut, isn’t it?”
She moved around him as she spoke, gently loosening the grip of his hand. She stepped outside, feeling as if she were stepping out of a situation that was getting increasingly uncomfortable.
William followed, ducking his head to get through the door. Funny. She always saw him as Ezra’s little brother, but he was growing into a man now, and no one in the family seemed to notice.
She led the way toward the windmill. “The children have been fascinated to see it go up so fast. Isn’t it amazing?”
“I d-d-don’t know m-much about those things.” William sounded sulky, but he followed her.
Gideon spotted them coming and began to descend more quickly than he had gone up. In contrast, William’s pace seemed to slow when he saw Gideon.
“What do you think?” She turned toward William, but he was already stepping back.
“Ser g-gut. I—I have to g-g-go.” And he strode off before Gideon could reach them.
Gideon unbuckled his safety harness, watching as William Brand strode off toward the barn. What ailed the boy? He’d always been a bit shy because of his stammer, but he seemed more distant than ever since Ezra’s death.
But Rachel was standing there, giving him a tentative smile, and he tried to return it, tried to think of something ordinary and commonplace to say that wouldn’t remind either of them of what had happened Saturday night.
“Have I scared young William off?”
Rachel glanced after the boy, a wrinkle forming between her brows. “William’s not so young.”
“I suppose not.” What was there about William to bring that worried look to her face? “I guess I always think of him as Ezra’s baby brother.”
“His family treats him like a child.” She bit off the words. “They don’t see him as he really is.”
“How do you see him, Rachel?”
And what troubled her about him? He couldn’t ask that, but he found that he was losing th
e constraint he’d expected to feel with her. After what happened Saturday, after showing her all his weaknesses, he’d thought he wouldn’t be able to talk comfortably with her.
Now, he just wanted to wipe away that anxious expression on her face.
She met his gaze, concern still filling her blue eyes. “I’m not sure. I just know that he’s turning into a man now, and no one seems to recognize that. They continue to treat him like a child, just because he doesn’t speak normally”
Rachel’s concern seemed to be catching. He looked in the direction William had gone, but he’d disappeared into the barn.
“That’s not a gut thing, to be holding someone back from growing. Ezra cared a great deal for him.” Even when they were boys, Ezra had been remarkably patient with his little brother, quick to protect him if anyone should think of teasing.
“He was a buffer between Isaac and William, I think,” Rachel said. “I’m just beginning to see that. I’d like to help William, but I don’t know what I can do.”
She probably had enough to worry about with her own situation, but he figured Rachel could no more keep from being concerned about other people than the sun could keep from rising.
“Just listen to him.” The words were out before he realized how close they came to the very subject he wanted most to avoid. But it was true. That was what Rachel did so well. “That will help him more than any advice, I’d guess.”
She nodded, but now she switched the concerned look to him. “About Saturday—”
“You were kind to listen to me, especially when I—when it—”
He was beginning to sound like William, and he understood how frustrating that must be. He couldn’t take back what he’d told her on Saturday, and maybe that was a gut thing. But he didn’t want it to stand as a barrier between them, either.
“I’m glad you told me.” Her voice went soft on the words, but there were no tears.
“It hurt you. I shouldn’t—”
She grasped his hand, silencing him. “Maybe it did hurt to talk about when Ezra died. It hurt you, too. But since we talked, it’s been better.”
She paused, shaking her head, as if frustrated in her turn at the inability of words to show what she was feeling.
“You don’t need to say anything more—”
“I want to.” She took a breath, seeming to calm herself. “Since we talked, I can see Ezra more clearly now. I’d been so busy blaming you and blaming myself for the fact that he was gone that I risked losing him twice over. I don’t know why, but talking to you about it helped me to see him clearly again. That’s what I was just saying to William. Ezra wasn’t perfect.” She stopped, as if surprised she’d said that.
“No, he wasn’t perfect.” Gideon actually managed to smile a little. “If he were here, he’d be the first one to laugh at that, for sure.”
“He would, wouldn’t he?” Her face lit with a smile in return, and she seemed to have forgotten that she was holding his hand.
“Ezra was always one for a joke, and he laughed at himself more easily than anyone.” He seemed to hear Ezra’s hearty laugh.
Rachel was right, he realized. Just saying the words gave him such a vivid picture of Ezra in his mind, and there was no sorrow with it. No sorrow—just joy in remembering Ezra as he had been.
“Ja, he did.” The smile clung to Rachel’s lips a moment longer.
Then she seemed to notice that she was still holding on to him. She let go of his hand.
“Are we friends?” There wasn’t a hint of embarrassment in her words or her expression, and he was glad of it.
“Friends,” he agreed.
“Ser gut.” She gave a quick little nod.
He glanced over her shoulder. “It looks as if your little scholars are home from school already”
“Ach, where has the time gone? I forget it when I get working in the greenhouse, that’s for sure.” She turned away. “I’ll send Becky out with a cold drink for you.”
She walked briskly across the lawn toward the children, the light breeze tossing her kapp strings and apron, and held out her arms to them.
He turned back to his toolbox, his heart lightened. Rachel had made things all right between them, and he was glad.
He was still organizing the tools he needed when Becky came trotting across the yard toward him, a thermos swinging from her hand. She stopped a few feet from him and held it out.
“Mammi sent this for you.”
“Denke, Becky.” He took it, tilting it up for a long drink of lemonade. “That tastes gut.”
She nodded. “I’ll have some with the brownies my grossmutter made for my snack.”
“That was nice of her.” He put the thermos down and began buckling on the safety harness. “She must know you like them.”
“Ja.” Her gaze was fixed on the leather straps. “You didn’t wear a harness before.”
“No, I didn’t.” He paused, and the memory of Rachel’s words made it easier to say what was in his mind. “I thought maybe you got the wrong idea about it when I didn’t wear a harness.”
Her blue eyes went round with surprise. “You’re wearing the harness now because of me?” Her voice went up in a little squeak.
“Ja.” He fastened the buckle and adjusted the straps. “Working up high can be dangerous, like climbing up high for no gut reason.”
Her gaze slid away from his, and she kicked at a clod of mud. “Mammi says I should thank you for helping me on Saturday.”
He studied what he could see of her averted face, but couldn’t make out what she was thinking. “You don’t have to thank me if you don’t feel it. It’s better to be honest with people, I think.”
“Elizabeth told on me.”
He hesitated, thinking this conversation should be between Becky and her mamm. But she had said it to him, and he owed her an honest answer or he’d be running counter to what he’d just said.
“Elizabeth is your friend, ja?”
She nodded, her lower lip coming out. It made her look like Ezra as a little boy. His bottom lip would come out like that when he was told he couldn’t do something. His grossmutter had teased him, saying that a bird would come and perch on his lip if he weren’t careful. Funny, how fresh that memory was after all this time.
“A friend has a duty to see that you’re safe.” His heart twisted. He hadn’t kept Ezra safe, had he? “She thought you were going to fall, so I think she did the right thing in getting help. Wouldn’t you have gone for help if it had been Elizabeth up on that beam?”
“Elizabeth wouldn’t climb up high. She’s scared of that.”
The words shot back at him, almost defiantly.
“It’s sensible to be scared of some things.” Father, give me the right words to say to this child. “I was scared when I climbed up after you.”
“You were?” Now her gaze met his. Now she was listening.
“Ja, sure. It’s gut to be scared, so long as it makes you careful. If I hadn’t been careful, I might not have made it all the way up to you. Then what would you have done?”
“I ... Maybe I could have got down by myself.”
He looked at her, not speaking. She needed to face the truth of this one herself.
“I guess I couldn’t have.” She pressed her lips together, as if she wanted to say more but wouldn’t let herself.
“No. You couldn’t.” What would Ezra have said to her in this situation? Gideon didn’t know. He could only offer what he felt in his heart was the right answer. “It can be gut to dare enough to try new things. But it’s foolish to risk your life doing it.”
She didn’t look convinced. Probably Ezra wouldn’t have been at her age, either.
“Your daadi was my friend from the time we were younger than you.” He hadn’t spoken of Ezra to her before, and maybe it was a mistake now, but he had to try. “I wonder what he would say if he’d been the one to climb up in the barn to get you.”
Becky stared at him for a long moment. Tears spark
led, beginning to spill over onto her cheeks. Then, without speaking, she turned and ran back to the house.
He’d hurt her, maybe. But it was worthwhile, wasn’t it, if it kept her from taking foolish chances? He wasn’t sure, and not knowing made him feel like he’d failed.
Rachel glanced into the living room once the stew she’d decided on for supper was well under way. All three children were there, instead of outside as they usually were at this time of day. She’d called them in when she realized that dark clouds were massing over the hills to the west. Rain was coming, and they were better off inside.
Joseph and Mary stacked blocks into a tower, which Mary was certain sure to knock down sometime soon. Becky sat in the rocking chair with a book, her gaze pinned to the page.
Was she actually reading? Or was she thinking about whatever it was that had brought her into the house earlier, trying not to cry?
Becky had been talking to Gideon. She’d come into the house upset. And that was all Rachel knew. Becky had shaken her head to questions, saying nothing was wrong.
But something was. And it was something Becky didn’t want to tell her. Rachel’s heart clutched. Her daughter was keeping secrets from her already. What had happened to the little one who’d leaned on her so confidingly? She’d changed in so many ways in the past year.
Rachel walked back to the kitchen, pausing automatically to check the heat under the stew. Maybe she should have asked Gideon what was wrong, but that seemed like interfering. She pressed her hands on the edge of the stove, staring at the pot without really seeing it. If something had happened that she should know about, Gideon would tell her, wouldn’t he?
A few fat raindrops patted against the windowpane, and she went to lean on the sink to peer out. Gideon, ignoring the rain, was stowing his tools with steady movements.
At least he was off the windmill tower. She was developing a dislike for seeing anyone working up high, no matter what the circumstances. She’d have to conquer that feeling before the next barn raising.