The Atonement

by Beverly Lewis

  “Oh, an hour or so. I promised Martie I’d give her a hand with some baking.”

  “For after Preachin’ service tomorrow?”

  Lucy nodded. “Can’t believe Martie offered to bring most of the snitz pies for the shared meal.”

  “Bless her heart.” Mammi smiled, looking the picture of health in her pretty maroon-colored dress and black apron. “Martie’s one ambitious woman.”

  Lucy recalled how, years back, Tobe Glick had helped his mother carry in dozens of snitz pies for a gathering of all the courting-age teens in the district. It was the night Lucy had agreed to go walking with him. They’d laughed and talked away the evening—a gut time for certain.

  Life was so simple then. . . .

  Shrugging off the memory, Lucy went to the walk-in pantry adjacent to the kitchen to get the leaves for her grandmother’s table. After adding those, she began to spread out the material. Together, she and Mammi smoothed and folded and made tidy stacks according to style, color, and pattern. It was a delight doing this, and Lucy wished now she hadn’t said she’d be at Martie’s quite so early.

  While they sorted, Mammi talked of the upcoming canning bee, then remarked that she was in the process of making a list of her dozens of grandchildren and greats, as well as their birthdays.

  “Maybe you should sort them by personality or looks, instead of just age,” Lucy suggested, laughing softly. “Or you could keep a worksheet like Dat has out in the barn—his breeding records for the livestock, ya know.”

  “Well, now!” Mammi’s face turned red.

  “Ach, I didn’t mean it like it sounded.” Lucy felt worse than embarrassed. “I just meant you could use an easy way to keep track of everyone.”

  “I’m not sure I’ve tallied up how many there are. ’Least, not lately.”

  “Well, I’m sure we could count them together—after all, they’re my cousins, ya know.”

  Her grandmother nodded. “Meanwhile, I best be comin’ up with a plan for all this fabric.”

  “Maybe you could make quilted potholders for each of the girls on your birthday list.”

  “I like that idea. Or for their hope chests, ain’t?” Mammi clapped her frail hands. “What ’bout yours, Lucy—is there anything ya might need yet?”

  “Not that I can think of,” Lucy replied, relieved when Mammi let the topic drop.

  Bidding Mammi good-bye, she headed to Martie’s.

  Lucy arrived at Ray and Martie’s ten minutes later than planned that Saturday morning, since Mammi Flaud had talked her into staying a little longer. Typically, Lucy preferred to be prompt for work, if not early.

  Quickly, she washed her hands in the gleaming white sink. Then she measured out the necessary ingredients to make a generous amount of pie dough, eventually rolling it out at one end of the long counter while Martie worked on the opposite side.

  Meanwhile, young Jesse sat under the table playing, jabbering softly while Josh napped in a Pack ’n Play in the corner, arms flung wide.

  “I heard Dat had an English visitor yesterday,” Martie said, resting her hands on the rolling pin.

  Lucy was surprised Martie knew. Her own recollection of Dat’s conversation with the young man rose up in her mind as vividly as some of Mammi Flaud’s floral fabrics. “How’d ya hear?”

  “Ray learned it from James.”

  “Well, it seemed rather strange” was all Lucy wanted to say.

  “Jah, James said as much. And we’ll just leave it right there,” Martie said, waving a hand toward the stove. “By the way, I already soaked the dried apples overnight and cooked them on low heat to make our work go faster.”

  Lucy thanked her, glad that part of the chore was already done. And once the pie dough was ready to be pressed into the greased pie plates, she measured the sugar, salt, and cinnamon to mix with the apples in a large bowl, then added the lemon juice. “Remember when Mammi Flaud made all her meals on that old black cookstove?”

  Martie grimaced. “I can’t imagine cookin’ and bakin’ thataway.”

  “I’ll never forget the day she gave in and got her gas-powered range and oven,” Lucy added. “She declared they had a special place in her heart.”

  Nodding, Martie set the oven just as Jesse crawled out from under the table, still clinging to his truck. He asked for some pots and pans to play with.

  “He likes to pretend he’s drumming,” Martie said, kissing his forehead.

  “Like in a band?”

  “Goodness knows how he came up with that.”

  This boy could be a handful, Lucy thought, but she didn’t say a word. Instead, she asked her sister, “How many pots and pans?”

  “Three’s plenty.” Martie motioned for Jesse to go and sit with his noisemakers in the far corner of the kitchen.

  “Here, you’ll need this, too.” Lucy gave him a long, sturdy wooden spoon.

  Jesse was still holding the truck as he tried unsuccessfully to pick up one of the pans. Lucy helped him out of the way and took time to arrange the pots and pans just so. Giving Lucy a determined look, he began to pound away.

  After a moment, he stopped beating and asked for a second wooden spoon. “Ich welle der Leffel. . . .”

  Lucy headed over to see if Martie had another wooden spoon, but her sister wagged her head. “Where does it end with this child?”

  “He seems to know what he wants, jah?” Something Mamm always said about me, Lucy thought with a flash of recognition.

  She and Martie laughed together, and Lucy was glad to spend the day with her closest sister.

  On the way home that afternoon, Lucy could hear their Amish neighbors not far from her father’s farm calling back and forth as they drove their heifers from one grazing area to another. Lucy enjoyed the pleasant sound, as well as that of the babbling brook that flowed along the roadside and down to Abe and Anna Mary Riehl’s dairy farm. Lucy recalled wading barefoot in it when she and her sisters were younger. She sighed with the sweet memory, glad to be nearly home after helping Martie with the pies and a bit of other cooking for the better part of the day.

  When Lucy rounded the bend and the familiar front yard came into view, she saw the red pickup parked in the driveway and stopped short. Dat’s friend is back.

  As before, she took the opposite route around the house, toward the back door, and was startled when she nearly bumped into the tall, blond Englischer. “Ach, goodness!” she burst out.

  The man reached out to steady her, but she stepped backward, wanting nothing to do with him. “Are you all right, miss? I didn’t see you coming.”

  “I’m fine,” she said, embarrassed, and would have hurried on her way, but he was intent on speaking.

  “You must be Christian’s daughter.”

  She stiffened and turned slowly, reluctant to confirm his assumption.

  “If you don’t mind, I’d like to introduce myself.” He pushed his hair away from his forehead with long, tanned fingers. “I’m Dale . . . Dale Wyeth.” He smiled, eyeing her curiously. “You look a lot like your mother.”

  He’s met Mamm?

  “Did my father invite you back?”

  Despite the obvious rudeness of her question, Dale smiled. “He offered to show me your uncle’s woodworking shop—especially the diesel generator.”

  “Oh.” She wondered if Uncle Caleb was expecting them.

  “I was just headed back to my truck now for my cell phone—wanted to take pictures for my own reference, nothing more. Of course I’ll be careful not to get your father or uncle in any of them.”

  “That’s gut, but have ya considered that having a vehicle parked in our lane ain’t the best thing?” she asked. “A poor witness to anyone ridin’ by.”

  His face turned pink. “I never thought of that.”

  “Nee.” An outsider wouldn’t, she wanted to say.

  Why didn’t he just skedaddle, or was Dale up to more than what he’d indicated?

  “I meant no harm,” he replied, his voice quieter now
.

  No harm? Past experience had taught her otherwise.

  “I should get goin’.” Without waiting for a good-bye, she abruptly turned and left him standing there.

  Making the turn past her grandmother’s kitchen window, she saw Mammi Flaud standing at her sink, a look of bewilderment on her face. Lucy backtracked to the Dawdi Haus and up the porch steps.

  “I couldn’t help seeing what happened,” Mammi said, wiping her brow with the back of her hand.

  “That fella nearly knocked me over.” Lucy fanned her face with the hem of her apron.

  Mammi gave her a discerning look. “You’re all worked up.”

  “Am I?”

  Mammi poured a glass of water and brought it over to her. “Sit yourself down and take a long drink before you say another word.”

  “But Mamm’s expectin’ me to gather eggs,” Lucy countered.

  “I daresay those eggs can wait.” Her grandmother took a seat across the table. “I’m curious. Do ya think you might’ve been a bit inconsiderate with that nice young man?”

  “He’s nice, is he?” Lucy leaned forward. “Have you met him, then?”

  “I took coffee to him and your father both, out in the barn.”

  Lucy shook her head and sighed. Was no one else bothered by this man’s presence?

  Mammi reached to touch the back of Lucy’s hand. “You’re angry, ain’t so?”

  “S’pose I shouldn’t be, jah? After all, why do I care if Dat wants to be hospitable to a stranger?” Lucy lifted the glass to her lips and drank half the water right down.

  Mammi’s eyes grew soft. “But I witnessed your reaction, my dear, and it wasn’t a’tall like ya.” Mammi shook her head.

  Lucy had no words in her. Mammi was right; she had been harsh to a man who’d done her no wrong.

  Mammi folded her hands on the table. “As I understand it, the young fella just wants to learn how to take things back a notch. Wants to raise some produce . . . maybe get some goats.”

  She swallowed the lump in her throat. Mammi was undoubtedly right—there was nothing wrong with what Dat was doing, and Dale’s intentions were surely innocent enough. Eventually, she’d have to find a way to apologize.

  The special pink candy dish centered on the table caught her eye, and the sight reminded her of her childhood— in the past, the sweets in this same carnival glass bowl had often soothed her and her siblings. Mammi liked to bring it out whenever someone needed a good cry. “Just let the tears fall,” she would say, her face shining with sympathy. “Some sugar always helps.”

  Looking out the window, Lucy watched her father motion across the backyard to the stranger. She shivered, and in spite of her best intentions, she felt unsettled again—was Dat really so oblivious to the pain this dredged up for her? Why was this outsider acceptable to him?

  In the hen house a while later, Lucy used a bit of sandpaper to gently scrape away pieces of straw stuck to the gathered eggs. She’d learned the helpful trick from her mother years ago, and the routine task seemed oddly comforting now.

  Carefully, Lucy carried the egg basket out of the hen house and overheard her father and the Englischer talking just on the other side of the stable.

  “Your daughter reminds me of someone I once knew,” the young man was saying.

  “That’s hard to imagine,” Dat said. “Lucy’s one of a kind.”

  Dale chuckled. “I’m afraid I caught her off guard. I imagine she’s very private—and unaccustomed to outsiders roaming about. I apologize for upsetting her.”

  “Aw . . . I should’ve known better,” Dat replied. “It’s my fault.”

  Not wanting to hear more, she made a beeline to the house. Why’s Dat discussing me with a stranger?

  She entered the kitchen and set the basket on the counter near her mother. “Plenty of eggs,” she announced.

  Mamm stared at her. “Well, for pity’s sake, Lucy. Your face is all flushed.”

  “I just need to wash up,” Lucy said, unwilling to bring any of this up with her mother. The emotions were too close to the surface.

  “Well, there’s a sink handy right here.”

  Lucy shook her head. “I’ll head upstairs for a bit.” She picked up her skirt and darted up the staircase, down the long hallway, and up the far flight of stairs to her room, closing the door firmly behind her.

  Taking a few breaths, Lucy went to her desk, where she opened her journal, read the previous entry, then wrote, Dat’s Englischer showed up again today.

  She wrote for a few more minutes, giving herself time to calm. Then, feeling somewhat sheepish, she recalled what Mammi had said about that “nice young man.”

  Rising, she went to the window and looked down. The red pickup was gone.

  Chapter 11

  FOLLOWING PREACHING SERVICE the next day, Martie kept busy cutting pieces of her snitz pies and distributing them around the tables set up for the shared meal. She’d noticed Lucy out on the back porch, hanging back a bit with Lettie, a cluster of courting-age women nearby. Faye, however, was farther from the house, smiling and talking with Rose Anna Yoder. It seemed a bit odd, since Rose Anna was married and typically visited with the other married women.

  “Need a helpin’ hand?” Mammi Flaud asked, looking nice in her navy blue dress and black apron.

  Martie thanked her. “I think we’re ready for the table blessing once the elders and their wives are seated.”

  Her grandmother squeezed her arm, a twinkle in her eyes. “Come over sometime, and bring your boys, too, won’t ya?”

  “All right,” she agreed, then whispered, “I have something to tell ya.”

  Mammi’s eyes lit up. “Another little one on the way, maybe?”

  Martie ran her thumb and pointer finger along her lips to seal them, then said they’d talk later. “This week, I promise.”

  ———

  Lucy felt cornered when Lettie pushed the note into her hands as they waited to go in to eat.

  “You think I’m pullin’ your leg, don’t ya?” Lettie said, eyes bright. “Tobe Glick really did give me this for you.”

  Lucy stared at the folded piece of paper from a lined notebook, its edges rumpled. She stuffed it into her dress pocket. “Don’t get any ideas.”

  Lettie’s eyes danced. “Furthest thing from my mind!”

  Lucy gave her a mock stink eye, and Lettie giggled.

  With a wave to Rose Anna, Faye returned to them on the porch.

  “I’m not the one with ideas, I daresay!” Lettie grinned and exchanged glances with her twin.

  Faye caught on. “Watch yourself, Lettie —it’s the Lord’s Day.”

  Lettie’s eyes twinkled. “Tobe’s up to something; you mark my words.”

  “Ach, you two.” Lucy left them standing there, not far from a whole batch of their girl cousins, as well as Rebekah Glick, all of them twittering and whispering.

  Lucy patted the note through her dress as she strolled through the backyard.

  What could Tobe want? she wondered, his note burning a hole in her pocket.

  ———

  Christian folded his arms at the table, lingering where he’d sat for the common meal. He suddenly felt put upon, what with Deacon Edward Miller having singled him out. The deacon had taken a seat across from Christian, a deep frown on his ruddy face.

  “What is it, Ed?” asked Christian, wondering why he was so sober.

  Deacon Ed leaned forward, his voice low. “Something’s come to the bishop’s and my attention,” he began, then glanced about them and motioned Christian toward the door with a bob of his head. “Let’s go outdoors.”

  Christian wolfed down another bite of the delicious pie, wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, and rose to follow. Now what?

  Outside, they meandered back toward the stable, where several road horses were quenching their thirst at a large galvanized tub full of water.

  “I’ll just say it right out—there are at least three families talkin’ of pull
ing up stakes and movin’ out west,” Deacon said, grimacing. “Is this something you and Sarah might be thinkin’ of doing, too?”

  “Hadn’t heard anything till now,” Christian said, instantly curious. “Are these established farmers?”

  “Jah, every one of ’em . . . which is what’s most surprising.”

  Christian didn’t know what to make of this. “Are they lookin’ for land for their courting-age youth, maybe?”

  “Seems so.”

  “Might be time to pay some visits . . . knock on doors,” Christian suggested.

  “Well, I’ve been askin’ around here today, and so far only a few have gotten wind of it.”

  “Interesting.” Christian said he’d keep his eyes and ears open. “So is this hush-hush?”

  “Nee—it’s all right to tell Sarah.” Ed headed back to the farmhouse, leaving Christian to scratch his head.

  After the third and final seating for the meal, the one for teenagers and older youth, Lucy stayed around to help Martie and the other designated women clean up the dishes, drying them and packing them away carefully into boxes, getting them ready for the men to carry out to the bench wagon at dawn tomorrow.

  Martie went out of her way to include Lucy in conversations with the married women there in the kitchen, and Lucy loved her all the more for it. Since their childhood, this sister had had a way of making Lucy feel comfortable enough to share her dearest thoughts . . . and some of her deepest heartaches. Martie listened not only with her ears but also with her heart, and most of the time, Lucy could tell Martie anything without her jumping to conclusions.

  When the kitchen was put back in order, Martie offered for Ray to give Lucy a lift home, but Lucy politely declined. “I’d like to walk, if ya don’t mind.”

  “Oh, we mind terribly,” Martie joked. “Nee . . . do what you need to.”

  One buggy after another passed by as Lucy walked the long stretch back to her father’s house. Folk kept waving and calling thoughtfully, offering to take her in theirs. Her brother Ammon and his wife, Sylvia, and their six children, the four young boys squeezed into the back of the carriage, fondly called her name in chorus. Fourteen-year-old Cora and twelve-year-old Emma Sue waved excitedly, their Kapp strings floating in the breeze, and Cora even pleaded for her to come over for a visit later.