The Atonement

by Beverly Lewis

  The People had always assisted their ailing and elderly, even building Dawdi Hauses onto the main house to provide for aging relatives. But while Christian didn’t put all fancy folk in the same box, he hadn’t expected such a revelation from a Yankee. Dale’s compassionate attitude struck him as atypical. “That’s quite admirable.”

  “Well, I loved my dad—thought the world of him.” Dale bowed his head briefly. “I still do.”

  Christian fell silent, remembering his own father, no longer living.

  “Dad worked long hours at his hardware store to take care of Mom, and my sister and me, growing up.” Dale glanced away for a moment. “It was the least I could do.”

  “Nee, ’twas the best.”

  Dale studied him, light brown eyes intent.

  “I understand . . . lost my own father three years ago.” Christian was taken aback by the connection he felt with Dale. He’d rarely talked of Daed’s death to anyone.

  “I’m very sorry,” Dale offered.

  “My Daed lived a long and fruitful life. But losin’ him . . . well, it’s a grief that’s been mighty hard to shake.”

  More plainspoken sharing came from the young man. “I’ll never forget the prayer Dad offered for our family before he closed his eyes for the final time.” Dale’s voice was thick with emotion. “It made me want to step up my prayer life; he valued it so.”

  Christian listened as Dale spoke freely of his family and the fact that he’d inherited his father’s hardware store. “A fair number of Amish frequent it.”

  After the benediction, Dale stayed around, seemingly interested in continuing their conversation. “I realize this has nothing to do with the meeting here,” he said, pushing his hands into his trouser pockets. “Frankly, I’ve been curious for a few years now about how I might live more simply, less dependent on the grid. The current solar storm activity and other natural events make me realize just how easily disrupted modern life can be.”

  Christian frowned. “Really, now?”

  “I’d like to be more self-sufficient.”

  “Well, ain’t something most Englischers would consider doin’.”

  Dale laughed. “If you knew me, you’d know I’m not like most ‘Englischers,’ as you call them.”

  “I’m just sayin’ you might find it harder than you think.”

  Dale nodded thoughtfully. “No doubt.” He hunched forward as if to share a deep confidence. “I’ve always had a do-it-yourself streak and have been doing a lot of reading about this. Besides, it’s not too hard to imagine that we English could wake up one morning with no way to sustain the life we’ve become accustomed to . . . at least temporarily.”

  Christian ran his fingers through his long beard, suddenly leery. Dale sounded like some of those survivalists who spent decades preparing for the end of the world. “Not even your cell phone would work, if it came to that,” Christian told him. “But I daresay all of that rests in God’s hands.”

  “Definitely,” Dale replied. “I believe that wholeheartedly, but I don’t think it’s wrong to prepare a backup plan. I think of it as getting closer to the way the Lord may have intended for us to live.”

  Christian noted the sincerity in the young man’s reply, but he’d known a few folk who’d dabbled in the Old Ways and fell short, quickly becoming disillusioned and finding their way back to their familiar modern environment. Even so, Christian enjoyed his conversation with Dale and appreciated his respectful manner.

  They said good-bye and parted ways. An unusual fellow, Christian thought as he waited for his ride. He certainly hadn’t expected to meet anyone like Dale tonight.

  Lucy leaned on the kitchen table to read her Bible in Deitsch, the room lit by the gas lamp overhead. She was pressing onward through yet another chapter when she saw her father enter through the back entrance. He bent low to straighten the large rag rug in the mud room, talking to himself as he removed his straw hat and shoes. Recently, she’d noticed the dark circles under his gray-blue eyes.

  “Is your Mamm around?” Dat asked as Lucy rose to offer him something to drink or nibble on. After all, he’d left right after supper, where he’d merely picked at the roast beef and potatoes on his plate.

  “She’s upstairs early.” Lucy motioned toward the stairs. “But I made a snack for ya.”

  He looked surprised, his eyes softening, and she felt obliged to explain. “Mamm asked me to.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  She opened the fridge and removed the tuna and Swiss cheese sandwich with sliced dill pickles, made the way her mother had instructed. She put it on a small plate.

  “Lucy, listen.” He made his way to the counter and rested against it, his hands on his anguished face. “I did a peculiar thing tonight.”

  “Dat, you look tired.” She moved the plate nearer to him.

  He nodded. “Jah, but I can’t go up just yet. But you go on if ya want.”

  Heading for the stairs, she paused and glanced back to see him still standing there, his expression unsettling. “You all right, Dat?”

  He looked at her, opened his mouth. “I, uh, went to a class for grieving folk,” he said.

  She looked at him, stunned.

  With a frown, he fixed his gaze on her, then bowed his head for a time. “You’re long past it, ain’t ya, Lucy?”

  Her heart constricted, the old defenses kicking in. Without a word, she moved back to the kitchen, opened the cupboard, and took out a tumbler. “I’ll make ya some chocolate milk. It’s your favorite.”

  “No need to.” He started toward the fridge, waving his hand nonchalantly. “I can mix it up myself.”

  She stepped ahead of him. “Go an’ sit at the table, Dat. I’ll bring it over to ya.”

  He lingered for a moment, tugging on his chest-length graying beard. Then he made his way across the kitchen, and the wooden chair made a sharp scraping sound as he pulled it out to sit with a moan. “Denki, Lucy . . . a gut and kind daughter you are.”

  She observed her father, obviously wanting her company. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to join him.

  “If you don’t need anything more, I’m feelin’ tired,” she said softly. And with that, Lucy made her way up the stairs.

  Chapter 2

  CHRISTIAN STARED ABSENTLY at the green-and-white-checked oilcloth, still nibbling on his tuna sandwich long after Lucy had gone. Lettie and Faye had briefly wandered into the kitchen for some oatmeal cookies, offering him one. Presently, they stood over by the counter to chatter between themselves. They have each other, he’d thought many times over the years.

  He raised his arms to stretch, hoping Sarah might still be awake when he headed upstairs. She alone was his solace. Lettie and Faye were dear sisters; that was apparent. Lucy, for her part, had always seemed more bonded to Martie. Christian felt sure the twins would marry within a few years, and at one time he might have thought the same about Lucy. She’d had such a winning way about her during her early courting-age years. Back when we were close. He sighed.

  He recalled when Lucy was just four, and he had taught her to ride his brother Caleb’s pony. Her coy little smile was all it took to lift his spirits on a difficult day . . . the way she’d peek around the corner of the stable at him. “Kumm do, little Lucy!” he would call, and she’d run barefoot straight to him and leap into his arms.

  One night during her Rumschpringe, Lucy had insisted on staying with him far into the wee hours, holding the lantern when one of the cows was birthing. Always at my side, Christian remembered, before Travis Goodwin came along.

  The honey-colored wood planks shone in the light of the gas lamp. Sarah and the twins had scrubbed away the dirt that morning after breakfast, and he reminded himself yet again how blessed they all were. Lucy, as usual, had been off somewhere, probably volunteering. Neither he nor Sarah could complain, since she and the twins pulled their weight with domestic chores, making Sarah’s load less heavy. Once they marry, Sarah will want us to move next door to the Dawdi Haus
. He pondered how that might work when his mother was already settled over there. Perhaps they’d have to build another addition onto the main house like his older brother had just last year.

  Christian was glad to sit there and fold his hands at the table he’d made for sweet Sarah decades ago. The most beautiful bride ever. He remembered his first glimpse of her that long-ago November morning as she took her place on the first row of benches, there in her father’s farmhouse, a picture of loveliness and virtue in her newly made royal blue dress and sheer white apron. His bride for life, handpicked by the Lord God above.

  Christian rose from the table, drifting out to the white wraparound porch, where the hickory rockers still sat even this late in the season. Last fall, he’d created a meandering walkway through Sarah’s flower beds with large, flat fieldstones as a surprise for her while she was over in Williamsport visiting a cousin. He’d filled in the gaps with low-growing moss to make it extra nice. Well, Sarah could hardly believe it when she returned, calling it the prettiest garden path she’d ever seen.

  Smiling at the memory, he drew in the night air. The grief meeting was something he really didn’t want to think about . . . there’d been such a burden of sorrow in that room. The porch seemed to sigh under the weight of his thoughts.

  Christian looked south toward the dark fields, and in the distance, the windows of farmhouses flickered gold. Crickets pulsed in rhythmic chorus, and one of the barn toms wandered over and rubbed up against his leg, meowing loudly. “It’s nearly bedtime, Ol’ Thomas,” he said with a glance down.

  He thought of Dale Wyeth, his assigned partner for the duration of the sessions, and looked forward to seeing him again next Thursday at the group. For certain, the world would be a better place if everyone yearned for a less complicated life.

  ———

  Upstairs, Christian reached for the flashlight he and Sarah kept on a low shelf near the bed and made his way to the bureau for his pajamas. After pulling them on, he found Sarah asleep, her waist-length hair spilling over one shoulder. She had taken to putting her graying light brown locks into a thick ponytail at night, and he rather liked it.

  In the dimness, Sarah moved in her sleep. “Just now home?” she murmured.

  “Nee, was downstairs sittin’ a spell.” He moved to her bedside and perched there, reaching to stroke her soft face.

  She raised her head slightly. “Wanna light the lamp?”

  He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Just rest, love . . . we’ll talk in the mornin’.” Switching off the flashlight, he wished he felt up to telling Sarah about the surprising things he’d learned this strange yet enlightening night. Especially that grief can last for years, he thought. All the same, where does my grief fit with the group?

  Christian shook his head. “Maybe nowhere at all . . .” he whispered.

  ———

  “Gonna stay up all hours?” Lucy asked, standing in the doorway of her twin sisters’ shared room. They had been whispering and attempted to squelch their merriment the moment Lucy made her presence known.

  “We might,” Lettie giggled, her wheat-colored hair in a loose braid.

  Lettie would much rather be married than still living at home. Faye, on the other hand, seemed content to wait patiently for God to bring the right fellow around.

  “Where’d Dat take himself off to so quickly after supper?” Lettie asked from where she sat on the small loveseat, facing Faye on the edge of the bed. The moonlight poured in through the windows, the green shades still up.

  “If Dat didn’t say, then maybe it wasn’t important,” Faye suggested gently as she brushed her long blond hair. “Sometimes he looks ever so sad when he doesn’t know he’s bein’ observed,” she added.

  “Could be he still misses Dawdi.” Lucy stepped toward the window to peer out at the landscape below. The moon’s white light made everything dreamlike.

  “Say,” Lettie spoke up, “Rebekah Glick heard that Tobe and you were talkin’ out on the road.”

  Lucy sighed. “You and Tobe’s sister have too much time on your hands.”

  Lettie giggled. “Well, you two should stop pretending you don’t like each other and get hitched before you’re too old to have kids.”

  Lucy shook her head.

  “Ach!” blurted Lettie. “Surely you find him ever so likable, don’t ya? Everyone else does!”

  Lucy took a breath. The twins were staring at her, eyes wide, questioning in the girls’ usual spirited way. A moment passed before Lucy smiled, and her sisters seemed to relax.

  “Well?” Lettie asked.

  Lucy crossed her arms. “Fine. If you’re really so curious—”

  “We are!” Lettie and Faye cried nearly in unison.

  “Tobe’s a nice enough fella, but—”

  “You’re not interested,” Lettie said. “Isn’t that what you always say?”

  “But what if he’s the only one left?” Faye interjected before Lucy could answer.

  Lettie rose from the loveseat and headed for bed. “Have ya thought ’bout that, Lucy?” She pulled the quilt up to her chin.

  Lucy tried to keep her composure. “If Tobe’s the only one left, then that’s how it’ll be, I ’spect.” She moved away from the window, toward the footboard and leaned on it, looking down at her sisters there in bed.

  “Could you outen the light for us?” Lettie asked.

  “If you’re ready to sleep . . . I’ll spare ya havin’ to get up again.”

  The twins agreed they needed a good night’s rest—they were planning to get up extra early to help Dat with shearing sheep over at their closest-in-age brother’s place. James’s farm was within walking distance down Witmer Road, since Dat had parceled the last bit of land off to his youngest son.

  “You’ll be servin’ food to the homeless again tomorrow, I ’spect,” Faye said, smiling sweetly. “Like each Friday noon.”

  Lucy nodded. “I’ve come to know those poor people,” she said, going to put out the lamp. “I’ll see yous in the mornin’.”

  “I realize I grumble sometimes ’bout missin’ ya,” Faye said. “Still, I love that ya care so for others.”

  “And I love you,” Lucy said.

  “Gut Nacht,” Lettie murmured softly. “Maybe we should dress in tatters. We might see ya more often.”

  Lucy smiled as she left the room. Lettie, Lettie, she thought.

  Her sisters began talking again, and she paused in the hallway.

  “I think she does like him but won’t say,” Lettie said, revisiting the discussion about Tobe.

  “Jah,” Faye replied. “You might be right.”

  “What’s more, I think Lucy knows where Dat went tonight,” Lettie said.

  “Does it matter?” Faye replied.

  Lettie was silent for a moment. Then she said in a loud whisper, “Why does everything have to be a mystery round here?”

  Lucy didn’t need to hear more and slipped off to the end of the hallway, where she opened the door to the third floor and made her way up the steep stairs. For some years, she had enjoyed the privacy of this spacious bedroom, complete with a sunroom at one end. Mamm had seen to that when it was decided, Lucy recalled now.

  On a night like this one, with a splendid moon, she had the benefit of the silvery light spreading across the hardwood floor and the large multicolored rag rug beside the bed. Like the twins, she, too, had a loveseat made by Dat and upholstered in leaf-green by Dawdi Flaud before his passing. It was set near the hope chest under one window. And by the windowsill, five African violet plants blossomed—pinks and purples, her favorites.

  She made her way to the double bed and lay down on the green-and-yellow Bars quilt. She ran her hand over the pattern, a quilt she and Dat’s Mamm had made together. A widow for three years, Mammi Flaud lived in the connecting Dawdi Haus, something for which Lucy was grateful. Her elderly grandmother had a way of tempering nearly everything with her lighthearted and positive outlook on life.

  Like Tobe
. . .

  Despite feeling all in, Lucy rose to get her knitting—a surprise she was making for a homeless teen mother. While she finished off the final rows, she thought of Lettie and Faye in the bedroom below. Sometimes she envied their close sisterly bond. What would it be like to have a twin? Naturally, she had great affection for all three of her sisters, and she was thankful for Mamm’s kindhearted way with Lettie and Faye. Our mother knows how to manage those two . . . keep things private.

  Staring into the darkness outside, Lucy recalled the twins’ endless curiosity about Tobe, always so sure they were on to something.

  “Surely you find him ever so likable, don’t ya?” Lettie had blurted.

  Jah, Lucy thought wistfully. Ever so . . .

  Restless in the wee hours, Christian realized he’d left his papers from the grief support meeting in the hired driver’s van. Clad in his hand-sewn blue pajamas and long tan bathrobe, he rose from the bed and walked downstairs to the front room. He was amazed by how light it remained outside. The pompous grandfather clock, bequeathed to Sarah by her maternal grandmother, chimed twice, the sound so strident in the stillness that Christian recoiled as he stood at the front window.

  He contemplated the course outline, wishing he had kept it in his care. At this quiet hour, he felt the need to reread its pages.

  Moving from the window, he wandered to the kitchen, lit the lamp, and noticed Lucy’s Bible still lying on the table. He wasn’t in the habit of looking at his daughters’ personal things, but he found himself opening the Pennsylvania Dutch translation and saw what Lucy had written inside the front cover: I don’t want to do what’s wrong, really, but I seem to do it anyway. Then she’d copied the eighteenth verse of Romans chapter seven word for word: “For I know that in me (that is, in my flesh,) dwelleth no good thing: for to will is present with me; but how to perform that which is good I find not.”

  Christian closed the Bible reverently and sat on the wooden bench that ran the length of the table. “Dear, dear Lucy,” he said tenderly. “We’re both stuck in the past, but one of us denies it,” he whispered.