The Atonement

by Beverly Lewis

  Leaning his head into his hands, he wondered what to do about next Thursday’s meeting at the community church. Should he return?

  He considered asking Lucy along, wondering how she might respond. It was probably out of the question, since she wasn’t the same daughter to him—altogether unlike the youngster with adoration shining from her eyes, proud of her big, strong Dat.

  She’s lost faith in me, he thought. Besides that, somehow or other, Lucy had managed to free herself from the heartache. Either that or she’d shoved the pain away, where it couldn’t gnaw at her heart.

  Like I’ve tried to do . . .

  Chapter 3

  ON THE RIDE INTO TOWN the next morning, Lucy considered the verse she’d read earlier in her devotional book. Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.

  She stared out the window, clutching the large bag filled with items she’d gathered over the past week and her finished knit surprise as her driver pulled into the parking lot for the local Salvation Army. Ken Rohrer, Laurita Robinson, and Jan Scott—regular English volunteers—were already loading up the soup truck for the noontime run. The vehicle was on its last legs, she’d been told, with a shaky transmission, and Ken liked to joke that it resembled a silver Winnebago. During the winter, the heater barely kept their hands warm enough to serve food through the opening in the side, and in the deep of summer, the air conditioning frequently went out, leaving them with only two small rotating fans as defense against the pounding sun. Inside, with hot food in close quarters, Lucy and the other servers perspired until their clothes were damp, but no one complained.

  Today, however, the weather was ideal, and Lucy paid her driver, reminding him when to pick her up that afternoon. She rushed over to the food truck to see what was left to be done. From inside, Laurita called, “Roast beef today!”

  Smiling, Lucy climbed the back steps of the truck, placed her sack with two scarves and a warm blanket inside, and then perused the shelves and drawers, taking note. They were short on sugar packets, plastic forks, and napkins, and they needed another large serving spoon.

  “Ken’s getting the coffee,” Laurita said, rushing out. “I’ll check on the donations.”

  “Gut, I’ll get the rest,” Lucy replied, hoping there was enough sugar this time.

  Once the truck was ready to go, Lucy settled in with Laurita and Jan on the side seats while Ken drove across town to the designated vacant lot where typically up to a hundred hungry and homeless folk would be waiting.

  I hope there are no fistfights today, thought Lucy, sighing. The last run, she’d actually abandoned her serving station, rushing out with Ken and another guy to get between two angry and clearly intoxicated men. Fortunately they were able to get them calmed down without anyone having to call 9-1-1.

  As they rode to the site, Lucy thought of Kiana and her little boy, Van, with whom she’d become acquainted early last spring. During her pregnancy, the slight, dark-eyed teenager had been kicked out of the house by her widower father after refusing to tell her boyfriend, who’d later found out anyway and wanted nothing to do with the baby once he was born. The poor girl had gone from one friend’s house to another until her options had dried up. She’d been forced to choose the only viable alternative for herself and little Van—a homeless shelter.

  Kiana had shared her heartbreaking story early on in the friendship with Lucy, who could scarcely wait to see the young mother and her two-and-a-half-year-old boy each week.

  But a couple of weeks had passed, and Kiana and Van hadn’t come to the Friday meal. Where can they be? Lucy wondered as the food truck pulled into the parking lot. The people began to form a line, but Kiana and Van were nowhere in sight.

  Lifting her long dress a bit, Lucy got out of the truck to open the back door, where Jan passed the folding table down to her, followed by the coffee and water canisters, cups and condiments, and trash can. Once the drinks were set up next to the truck, Lucy opened the side serving window.

  While Ken, Laurita, and Jan passed food down to the line, Lucy handled the drinks outside, her favorite duty. Most of the women who volunteered preferred to serve food. It seemed safer, more protected and insulated somewhat from the pain and suffering, but Lucy jumped at the opportunity to mingle with people, many of whom she’d come to know by first name.

  “Lucy, my Amish angel,” Old Chip said with a toothless grin as he meandered up to the refreshment table, holding his plate. “Roast beef? How do we rate?”

  Lucy smiled and poured his coffee the way he liked it, handing him several packets of powdered cream. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she said, glad he was one of the first in line.

  Wearing ragged jeans and an oil-stained long-sleeved shirt, Chip laughed. “What’s for eats tomorrow?”

  “Maybe your favorite—mystery meat loaf.”

  Once a high-level engineer, Chip had fallen into alcoholism and as a result lost his wife, family, and home. Now living on the streets and suffering the early signs of dementia, Chip grimaced good-naturedly at Lucy’s remark. He gingerly carried his plate and coffee as he made his way to the curb, where he sat with a dozen or more other men.

  “Have ya seen Kiana and her son?” Lucy asked the man next in line. Stout “Stan the Man,” as he called himself, was cradling his plate with its generous helping of mashed potatoes and gravy.

  “I’m not sure I know who you mean,” Stan said as he grabbed the coffee Lucy offered.

  “You know, straight brown hair, loud neon shirts, a little boy ’bout so big.” Lucy indicated Van’s height with her free hand.

  Stan smiled with recognition. “Can’t say I’ve seen them. Not in a while anyway. Any Kool-Aid today?”

  She shook her head. “We rarely have it,” she told him, deciding not to pursue her question with the others waiting. She kept an eye out for Kiana, hoping she’d still come. At one point during a lull before folk started returning for seconds, Lucy wandered over to catch a glimpse of the end of the line. But Kiana just wasn’t there.

  Maybe it was a good sign—Lucy certainly hoped so. Lucy had fretted, as well, back in June when Kiana hadn’t shown up. But the following Friday, Kiana had returned and made a point of explaining that someone from a church near their shelter had come with a bus to take them, along with others in need, to a potluck meal in the church annex. “It was wonderful,” Kiana had told her, eyes sparkling. “Like a Thanksgiving feast.”

  Lucy couldn’t blame her. Sometimes the soup kitchen meals were tasty, like today; other times they were hardly edible. It largely depended on donations, and the time and materials available to the cooks for food preparation. Nothing like the meals Mamm makes!

  Lucy considered Kiana’s circumstances yet again and wondered how a father could put his daughter out on the street.

  She noticed Ken just beyond the food table, gesturing to Lucy’s right. Turning, she gazed across the lot and spotted Kiana in her long black skirt, her little boy in her arms. Lucy’s heart leaped up.

  They’re here!

  Kiana and Van joined the very back of the line, and Lucy filled a number of cups ahead of time with cold water and coffee, hoping it would be enough to last a few minutes while she went to greet the young woman with dark hair and expressive eyes.

  “Hey, Lucy.” Kiana grinned when she saw her.

  “I’ve been wonderin’ if yous would come.”

  Van smiled up at her, his blue shirt stained with food, perhaps, and there were holes along the hemline of his little gray hoodie.

  Lucy patted his head, and he giggled, leaning closer to his mother.

  “It’s gonna get cold soon, so I brought you a few things,” Lucy said. “Don’t leave before I get my sack to you, all right?”

  Later, after Lucy returned to her post to pour more cups of coffee, she watched Kiana sit on the ground to eat, talking occasionally to her son. What must her life be like, living this way . . . not knowing what her future ho
lds?

  When it was time for mother and son to head back to the shelter, Lucy brought her sack from the truck and gave it to Kiana. Little Van hurried over and got another bowl of applesauce and one more chocolate chip cookie.

  Peering eagerly inside, Kiana pulled out two small blankets and woolen scarves. Last of all, there were two pairs of knitted mittens—one for an adult and the other for a small child. “Did you make these?” she asked, eyes wide.

  Lucy shrugged. “Didn’t take long, really.”

  Kiana paused, studying Lucy. “You’re so nice to us.”

  “I worry ’bout ya,” Lucy said with a glance back at the other workers. “And I understand your situation better than ya know.”

  Tears filled Kiana’s eyes. “Thank you,” she whispered and gripped the bag, her son clinging to her skirt. Her fingernails were long, some split and dirty.

  “Will I see ya here next Friday?”

  Kiana nodded and blinked away more tears.

  With a lump in her throat, Lucy went back to take her place once again. Yet all the while, her eyes followed Kiana and Van as they plodded across the wide grassy lot.

  How do they survive?

  She began to pray silently. O Lord, please keep them safe, along with all the others . . . the middle-aged man who calls himself Spider, and young Kat, who reminds Spider to wear his old sweater—remember her, God? And help stooped-over Nannie Rose, and Mort and Allen, and Dean and his sister Dawn.

  Lucy felt at a loss to recall each of their names. Besides, the familiar sense of futility was returning, suffocating her words. That same horrid feeling that had taken away all hope after she’d pleaded with God, night after night . . . with nothing to show for it. Absolutely nothing.

  But Lucy wasn’t the type to give up or give in. Not even when it felt like her heavenly Father had quit on her, even if praying felt like talking to a closed barn door. No, the Almighty surely couldn’t ignore everyone she prayed for, could He? And if God answered only one of her countless prayers for those who suffered, it would be worthwhile to continue.

  “Even if heaven’s silent,” she whispered, “I won’t quit knockin’.”

  Chapter 4

  MARTHA FLAUD ZOOK—mostly known as Martie—sat with her little ones on the sunny side of the front porch Tuesday morning. She enjoyed a chance for a breather in one of the old brown wicker chairs she’d found at a yard sale over on Hobson Road. Of all things, she’d spotted a similar wicker table recently at an estate sale. She was still tickled about the purchases and the large rag rug she’d made for the outdoor room. The rug’s cheery variegated colors stretched across much of the area where she presently sat watching chickadees fly back and forth between the two maple trees across the well-kept lawn. Earlier, she’d sprinkled dry porridge oats on the ground for the sparrows while awaiting Lucy’s arrival. Due to her husband’s appointment with the feed salesman, they’d had an extra-early breakfast.

  Her older son, Jesse, pushed a toy pickup truck along the railing, puffing out his lips as he made accelerating sounds. The blue toy was something he’d seen and pleaded for at Country Crafters in the Bird-in-Hand Farmers Market last Saturday, though she’d encouraged him to choose a toy horse and buggy instead. Startled now by the boisterous screech of Jesse’s imaginary brakes, the miniature birds flew far away.

  Jesse was now trying to balance the toy so it wouldn’t fall on his eighteen-month-old brother, Josh, who was toddling near. Martie smiled, delighting in the pretty morning while she wrote in her small lined notepad, jotting down ideas for her weekly column for The Budget. Martie enjoyed working as an Amish scribe for the well-known Plain publication, sharing bits of community news and happenings. She also relished reading other Amish newspapers, such as The Diary and Plain Interests, the latter being the source of the recipe she’d snatched up for an applesauce made with her favorite blend of McIntosh and Summer Rambo apples.

  As she often did, Martie had decided to begin the week’s column with a statement about the weather. We’ve had cooler nights lately and were recently blessed with a steady soaker for a good half day. For those who planted late fall crops, the gardens still are not quite done, but canning season is coming to an end at last, she wrote.

  Continuing, Martie included news of her ninety-four-year-old Mennonite neighbor’s recent passing, a woman well-known to the Amish in East Lampeter. Anna Esbenshade’s funeral was scheduled for this coming Saturday morning, and many Plain folk would be present. Martie also added tidbits about recent travels, such as her older cousin and husband’s trip to Altamont, Tennessee, where they’d spent two days with their son and family, getting a peek at their newest grandson. “They surely wish the new baby and his family lived closer to Lancaster County,” she whispered to herself.

  My aunt Edna Lapp attended a circle letter gathering in Indiana for a day of food, fun, and fellowship—timed perfectly to mark all the writers’ September birthdays.

  Of course there have been other goings-on nearer home. Last Saturday, Mimi Yoder invited the young people over to play volleyball. Since Mimi had just turned sixty-five the day before, she was given a sunshine box with cards and handmade presents from the womenfolk in the neighborhood that same evening.

  Martie put down her pen and looked up to see who was coming this way. It was Eppie Stoltzfus driving her gray family buggy at a good clip, slowing as she waved. Eighty-five-year-old Eppie was clad in black, and Martie wondered what her persistent neighbor had on her mind today. And where on earth was she going all dressed up?

  Typically Eppie would have stopped by to share the latest gossip, but today her carriage kept going, much to Martie’s relief. She was determined not to write the tittle-tattle the woman seemed so anxious to share. “Such interesting reading for The Budget, ya know?” Eppie would say, brown eyes alight. Her most recent visit had to do with a letter from an elderly aunt in upstate New York whose Amish grandson had admitted to attending meetings at the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. “Think of that!” Eppie had said, talking a blue streak about it yesterday when she’d dropped by with a loaf of zucchini bread . . . and to feed Martie all of this business. Martie, however, didn’t think this type of secondhand news was right for any column, so she’d stayed mum, knowing that would not stop Eppie from trying again.

  “Vroom!” Jesse hollered, getting too rambunctious with his truck. His thick blond bangs flew about as he carried on.

  “Now, son.” Martie shook a finger at him.

  Jesse made his truck explode with noise all the louder.

  Little Josh startled, and Martie reached for him. He was chubby and sturdy for his age, but he teetered forward into her arms, his lower lip quivering.

  “Kumm here to Mamma,” she soothed.

  Ray had briefly questioned Jesse’s peculiar choice of toy at breakfast that morning, where Jesse had set the cherished truck on the bench next to him while he ate his scrambled eggs and toast. Martie had brushed it off as something harmless. She’d wanted to please her son by purchasing it, yet she was walking a thin line with her husband as a result. “Oh, Ray, he’s not even three,” she reasoned. “Surely he’ll tire of it soon.”

  To her relief, Ray had agreed—the toy was very small, after all. Martha did wonder where Jesse had come up with the idea of having a truck to play with, considering they were Old Order Amish. There certainly weren’t any motorized vehicles on their farm.

  “Wie geht’s, Schweschder?” Lucy came bounding up the dirt lane to the side steps and onto the porch. She wore a pretty green dress and matching apron, her light brown hair done up neatly in a bun at the base of her neck. Her blue-green eyes sparkled as she went to hug Jesse, but she frowned at the sight of his truck. “Ach, where’d this come from?”

  Martie waved off the question. “Well, you’re right on time, ain’t ya?”

  “Would’ve been here sooner, but Eppie Stoltzfus spotted me walkin’—wanted to give me a lift, like usual. But I preferred to walk. Naturally, she wanted me to te
ll you somethin’.”

  Martie groaned.

  “She wants to know why you didn’t use her story ’bout that terrible saw . . . the one she says must’ve had it in for two different Amish carpenters.”

  Shaking her head, Martie asked, “Which one was this?” Eppie has so many stories. . . .

  “A couple months ago, her neighbor got his hand caught in a saw, and then his own son did the same thing a few hours later on the selfsame day.”

  “I must’ve blocked it out of my memory.” Martie grimaced. “Doubt the readers want the gory details Eppie’s so eager to share.”

  “She has the most hair-raisin’ gossip, ain’t?”

  Martie had to laugh.

  Lucy was nodding. “I tried to steer the conversation to something else, like you do around Eppie. But she seemed real determined to tell me this directly. ‘It’s never too late to add it, even though it’s after the fact,’ she told me.”

  Martie glanced at Jesse, who’d perked up as if listening, but just as quickly he returned to playing with his truck.

  Leaning over, Lucy kissed Josh’s warm, plump cheek. “Just wanted you to know why I wasn’t here sooner. Oh, and I need to run over to market later and pick up a few things for Mamm.”

  “You’ll walk clear to Bird-in-Hand?” Martie lifted Josh onto her lap, and he leaned against her bosom, tugging on her apron bodice.

  “Oh, I’ll get a lift from someone, I ’spect, sooner or later.”

  “With Eppie, maybe?”

  They laughed once more, till Martie noticed Lucy staring at the bright blue truck again.

  “Ain’t nothin’ to worry ’bout,” Martie said softly, nodding toward the truck as she turned Josh around to face his Aendi.

  Lucy tousled Jesse’s hair. “You’re growin’ ever so fast!”

  Martie moved Josh onto her knee. “It’s been awful hard to wean this one,” she muttered. “He’s such a Mamma’s boy.”