The Witnesses

by Linda Byler

  His wife, Nancy, was small and thin. She was a hard worker, who had faithfully borne her husband nine children, so far. Nancy never blamed Aaron for the overturned lantern. She never blamed him for anything. He was the head of the house. It was her duty to respect him, and respect him she did. He did the best he could. Die guava sinn net gleich (Talents are not alike), she said.

  She kept her old farmhouse shining, scrubbed the cracked linoleum with Spic and Span, washed the old glass windows with cotton sheets and vinegar water. She washed countless loads of laundry in her old wringer washer, hung it all on her wheel line. She grew an enormous garden and canned well over a thousand quarts of vegetables and fruits each year.

  She cried when the barn burned. She held her children to her thin breast and let the tears flow. When the neighbors came to stand with Aaron and watch the jets of water from the fire trucks hit the leaping, dancing flames, which were fanned by an unhandy October wind, her tears kept flowing.

  When her mother and father came, they had to leave the horse in the neighbors’ driveway, because so many fire trucks were parked all over the driveway. Nancy stopped crying, and no one ever saw her shed another tear, as far as the barn was concerned.

  Perhaps relief that this fire wasn’t arson brought the great outpouring of love. Whatever the reason, the response was overwhelming.

  The family couldn’t handle all the food. Some of it was given to the poor people at the homeless shelter in the city of Lancaster. A man came with a white minivan and loaded canned goods and pies and cakes and noodles and potatoes into cardboard boxes and drove off with them.

  So many men showed up on the first day of the barn raising, they took turns working. The frame of the barn was up, ready for metal roofing, in approximately six hours.

  The Lancaster paper ran an article titled, “Practice Makes Perfect.” It said that with all the recent barn fires, there was a new expertise and better management at barn raisings than before, which was probably true.

  Sarah was serving coffee again. It seemed unreal to be at another barn raising, after everyone thought the whole nightmare was over. But here they were, the same black, stinking, smoking piles shoved into a field. There were piles of the same yellow lumber with that sharp odor of freshly sawed wood. The trucks came and went, the sound of iron tracks clashing and rumbling as dozers cleared the remaining debris, even as the new barn took shape.

  Hungrily, Sarah bit into a filled doughnut. She grabbed a napkin when the filling squished out each side of her mouth. The 10X sugar rained on her black sweater, creating a mess that the napkin was completely worthless to remove.

  Anna rushed over, her eyes wide. “Seriously! Did you taste these?” She held out a raisin-filled cookie, the sugary top held high by a generous mound of creamy raisin filling.

  Rose Zook—this Aaron was her uncle—came up to the two of them. She squealed and hugged them, praised their sweaters, their coverings, and ooh, where did you get that doughnut?

  Sarah enjoyed Rose’s antics as usual, hoping she’d quiet down long enough for her to ask a few questions about her own life.

  When Lee came for his coffee, Sarah smiled at him, reveling in the security of having Lee, being engaged. She caught Rose’s eye and looked away.

  They did get some time to be together, peeling potatoes, before others arrived.

  Everything was great, Rose said. Single was the way to go. She had the chance to manage the restaurant at the farmer’s market, so that was her latest thing. She was a regular career girl, she said, giggling at her own audacity.

  “So!” she said pertly. “You’re getting married, Sarah. Tell me the truth. Does it even seem real?”

  They shared feelings, just like old times, laughing, talking fast, remembering times with Lee and Matthew, the insanity of it all, Rose said.

  She didn’t know if she wanted Matthew. He was so English, so ungrounded, like a dandelion seed, just floating along with no direction.

  “But Rose, think about it. The restaurant at the farmer’s market! Perhaps Matthew just never found his calling.”

  “Yes, he did!” Rose snorted. “He’s next to God.”

  “But he’s doing better. Lots of young people, who come to the light and understand God’s love, become a bit carried away. I don’t think he’s as airheaded, or whatever you call it. Why don’t you see if Matthew could cook at the restaurant? I still think he would be okay once he found his niche.”

  “I can’t stand his smarmy ways.”

  “If he’d cook at a busy restaurant, his smarminess might disappear. You’d have the old Matthew back pretty fast.”

  Rose tilted her head to laugh, and Sarah admired the porcelain doll prettiness of her friend all over again.

  Yes, they’d make the perfect couple.

  “Why don’t you ask him?”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Rose threw a large, peeled potato into the container of cold water, splashing Sarah’s sleeve. They were joined by more women, who greeted them, but neither Rose nor Sarah had any idea who they were, so they gave up their paring knives and went back to check on the coffee.

  At home that evening, they sat around the kitchen table, reviewing the day. Dat was in a pensive mood, remembering conversations with the members of the Amish church, men raised in the same culture, the same ordnung, and way of life.

  He could only conclude that in the vast realm of God’s earth, human nature didn’t vary a whole lot. All goodness was a gift from the Father of Lights, exactly the way the Bible said.

  Dat said Ammon’s Amos’s Eli thought all the barn fires were an act of God, whether they were caused by an arsonist or a lantern. Mam’s eyebrows shot up, but she nodded, saying she could see his point.

  They discussed Nancy’s old house, the torn flooring and rattling old windows, and how nice it would be to help them remodel.

  Mam shook her head. She said, No, Nancy is happy that way. She keeps that old house spotless, makes do. The children are clean and happy as larks. That home is blessed, she said. And if Aaron is a bit of an aylent (slow one), so what? That family is happy.

  Dat nodded his agreement. Levi said he was happy, but he’d be a lot happier if he was allowed a blooney brote (bologna on bread).

  Dat looked at the clock, then raised his eyebrows at Mam.

  “What about a piece of fruit, Levi?” she asked.

  “Alright.”

  Obediently, he ate his apple, slice after slice, chewing methodically, his glasses bouncing up and down slightly, jarred by the movement of his cheeks, his bright eyes intense as he concentrated.

  Levi loved his food, easily weighing 240 pounds now. But he was having difficulty breathing. He coughed relentlessly even in the summer. He would soon turn thirty-three years old, so the family knew they would not have Levi much longer, since his heart was weakened as much as some eighty-year-olds.

  Dat’s reasoning was to let Levi enjoy the foods that made him happy. Dat would have allowed the homemade bread and the slab of homemade bologna, but Mam maintained her vigilance with Levi’s diet.

  Their sleep that night was deep and restful, relief being the comfort in their dreams. No, another arsonist was not starting fires. It had been an accident this time. And so they slept.

  About 10:30, Levi’s bed creaked loudly. He stopped, held his breath, listened. Slowly, stealthily, he rolled over, swung his legs over the edge, found the wooden step stool, and lowered his great body to the floor, shoving his feet into his slippers.

  Three steps and he was at his oak chest of drawers, pulling slowly at the drawer pulls. One hand crept inside, but he froze when a loud crackling escaped.

  Eventually he managed to ease a bag of potato chips up through the opening, carrying them carefully between one heavy thumb and forefinger. He laid them on his bed and kicked his slippers off. Pushing the potato chips aside, he crawled into bed.

  Opening the bag, he thrust a hand inside, clutched about four potato chips, and stuffed them into his mo
uth, chewing rapidly. These chips were delicious. They were a very good kind of potato chip. Because he couldn’t read, he remembered the colors on the bag—red, white, and blue.

  Humming contentedly, he lay on his side, munching the greasy, salty chips, waves of happiness accompanying the steady, unrestricted supply. Potato chips were his favorite.

  He slowed his chewing to savor them, then stopped. He heard something. It was a roaring sound, a dull, distant rumbling. He heard the leaves rustling in the maple tree, heard the wind pick up, bending the branches, and went back to eating potato chips. It was only the wind, and he was used to those sounds.

  The bag was starting to feel weightless now, and he had to put his hand farther inside to find another handful.

  Without warning, a brilliant, bluish-white light ripped through the room, followed instantly by a loud clap of thunder. Levi’s eyes flew open, and a great shout of fear tore from him. He forgot the chips, and the fact that he was not supposed to be eating them, as he squeezed his eyes shut and called for Mam.

  “Fire! Fire!” Levi shouted.

  Mam appeared almost instantly, her face white with shock.

  “Levi! Hush! Hush! What fire? There’s no fire.”

  The flashlight in her hand was trained directly on the potato chip bag. The beam moved to the crumbs and then the salt and grease on his heavy cheeks. All she said was, “You’re probably thirsty, Levi.” She said it in a dry, tightlipped way that Levi recognized very well, and he knew poached eggs and dry toast would be his breakfast.

  Dat called from the bedroom door, and Mam told him Levi was fine. She got him a drink of cold water and made him get out of bed while she cleaned it, but she didn’t say a word.

  “They should not allow flashlights,” he said. “Sie sinn aus die ordnung (They are out of the ordnung).”

  Mam’s face stayed tight, her features buttoned into place by her anger at Levi’s disobedience. But when she crawled back into bed, she began to laugh so hard the whole bed shook, and Dat rolled over and asked what in the world was wrong with her.

  She gave up and let out a long guffaw. It was ungraceful, especially coming from the normally composed Mam. Between gasps, she told Dat what Levi had said, producing the same response in him.

  As the lightning ripped across the sky and the thunder bellowed and crashed, Dat and Mam lay in bed and laughed long and hard at their erring son.

  How they loved him! How many hours of pure delight had he brought into their lives? Indeed, the shock and sadness of having a baby born with Down syndrome had been great, but in the end, he had brought them much more happiness than they had ever dared to hope.

  Dat reached for Mam’s hand, squeezed it, and said, “Goodnight, Malinda.”

  They both fell asleep with smiles on their faces, as the thunder and the lightning roared above them. The rain beat against the house, filled the spouting, and sloshed out over the edge.

  Levi burped quietly, said, “Mude bin ich (I’m tired),” and fell into a restless sleep, his stomach busily digesting all the carbohydrates, salt, and fat from the chips.

  In the morning, the whole farm looked freshly washed. The grass shone with the wetness that clung to each blade, and the chrysanthemums burst into shades of red, yellow, and gold. The pumpkins in the garden were growing an inch every day, especially boosted along by the two inches of rain the thunderstorm had brought.

  Sarah was in the milk house, banging milker parts against the stainless steel tubs, her curly hair creeping out beneath her dichly as she worked vigorously.

  The sun cast a golden shaft of light through the steam. Her heart answered the sunbeam, a gladness she could not explain suffusing her entire being.

  Thank you, God, for everything. Thank you for all You have given me. Because of You, I can feel joy again, feel Your love around me.

  She spun on her heel and plunked the heavy milker on the rack to drip dry. She pulled the plug in the sink, grabbed the broom hanging on its rack on the wall, and swept the floor of the milk house thoroughly before heading to the house for breakfast.

  She stopped to peer at the rain gauge mounted on the post by the bird feeder. Two inches. A little more. No wonder the rain had woken her.

  Well, maybe they wouldn’t be canning pumpkin after all. They’d sink to their ankles, carrying those cumbersome things out of the muddy garden. But knowing Mam’s dosage of wedding preparation adrenaline, she’d probably find a way to get them off the vine.

  Mam showed no sign of stress, however, standing by the stove flipping golden squares of cornmeal mush. The sizzling increased each time she flipped a slice, but she stood back, away from the small spits of hot vegetable oil. The kitchen smelled heavenly, the air permeated with the crisp, golden flavor of the fried mush.

  Levi sat in a kitchen chair close to the gas stove, making toast. He had learned to set a timer for three minutes, then open the bottom broiler drawer to check the slices. If the bread was not toasted to his specifications, he’d slam the drawer shut and set the timer for one more minute, before placing the toast carefully on a small plate.

  This morning, however, he was scowling, his eyes hooded, his glasses sliding far down on his nose. The timer was nowhere to be seen.

  Mam laid down the spatula, sighed, and let out a mighty, long, drawn-out yawn. She tapped her mouth with four fingers and said, “Shoo.”

  Levi sat glumly, staring at the broiler.

  Mam wiped her eyes and sniffed the air.

  “Levi, your toast.”

  Slowly, Levi pulled open the broiler drawer and glanced at Mam. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. He took up six slices of blackened toast, burning his fingers and shaking them against his knee, and silently stacked the slices on the small plate.

  Getting to his feet, he shuffled to his place at the table, his face set in stone, completely silent.

  Dat appeared at the kesslehaus door, looked at Mam, and smiled a good morning at her, before taking his place at the head of the table. Priscilla and Suzie both slouched into their chairs, yawning, rubbing their eyes. They smiled sparingly at Dat’s resounding, “Sleepyheads!”

  Levi didn’t give his usual response.

  “Two inches of rain.”

  Dat’s comment was met by a mere nod from Mam, as the silence clung to the room.

  Sarah cracked eggs onto the two-burner griddle and turned the gas heat on low. She propped a closed fist on her hip as she leaned against the counter, watching the eggs sizzle and waiting till the whites lost their gelatinous look so they could be flipped successfully.

  Mam scooped the sizzling slices of cornmeal mush onto a platter topped by two folded paper towels.

  Levi swallowed.

  Mam poured scalding hot milk into the Melmac serving dish containing saltine crackers. Then she set the fried mush platter on top to steam the stewed crackers.

  Levi watched with grief-stricken eyes, then swallowed again. He bent his head low when they put “patties down.” The family paused for a time of silent prayer, and Levi’s mouth moved as he prayed fervently.

  Dat lifted his head first, then Mam, followed by the girls. Levi was last. With a deep sigh of resignation, he folded his thick hands across his protruding stomach.

  Mam helped herself to a fried egg and passed the platter to Dat, who had served himself four slices of fried mush.

  When the platters reached Levi, he passed them on without putting anything on his plate. Sarah looked at him.

  “Aren’t you hungry?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why aren’t you eating?”

  “I’m not allowed.”

  “You’re not?”

  Priscilla stopped salting her fried egg and looked questioningly at her brother.

  He shook his head sorrowfully.

  “Why?”

  “Die Malinda iss base (angry).”

  Mam was totally caught off guard. A mouthful of hot mush came flying out as she choked and sputtered, her shoulders shaking as she la
ughed heartily.

  The crow’s feet at the corner of Dat’s eyes deepened and spread outward as he watched his wife, but he did not laugh, seeing Levi’s cheerless countenance. The girls smiled, waiting for Mam’s response.

  Wiping her eyes, then her mouth carefully, she dabbed at the tablecloth, shaking her head.

  “Tell them, Levi. Tell them what you did.”

  “Ich farich ich grick schlake (I’m afraid I’ll be spanked).”

  Dat’s eyes danced and twinkled, greenish pinwheels of merriment.

  “What? What did you do?” Suzie asked.

  “Hop chips gessa (Ate chips).”

  Dat and Mam burst into peals of laughter, remembering the night before. Their laughter was as infectious as a yawn, and the girls joined in, not understanding completely what had occurred.

  Still Levi did not smile. He admonished them all in firm tones about the boys who had mocked the prophet in the Bible. A bear came out of the woods and ate them, which set everyone into fresh gales of mirth.

  “No, Levi, we are not making fun of you. It was just funny, the way you said Mam was angry,” Dat said quietly.

  Hope was rekindled, and Levi met his father’s twinkling eyes.

  “If Malinda isn’t angry, can I have mush and eggs?”

  “Yes, Levi, you may,” Mam said, still smiling.

  Sighing happily, Levi tucked into his breakfast. He polished off a wide wedge of fresh shoofly and told Dat that he imagined this family had der saya (a blessing).

  CHAPTER 21

  THE RAIN DID NOT DETER THE PUMPKIN CANNING. Sarah took off her shoes and socks and stepped into the garden in her bare feet. The cold, clammy earth sucked at them, hindering her steps.

  Cold chills crept up her back, but she slogged on, bent over, and snapped off the first of the ripe pumpkins. They were dull golden neck pumpkins, shaped like oversized gourds in varying U shapes.

  They were heavy, slippery, splattered with bits of wet earth. Their weight caused grunts of effort, as Sarah staggered from the pumpkin patch to the sturdy cart parked at the edge of the garden.

  Mam stayed in the house to give Levi a haircut—after she had shampooed his hair. That was a job he usually did himself, but not always to Mam’s specifications.