Clara hesitated. She needed to choose her words carefully. Peter hadn’t consulted with her, but she hadn’t made her thoughts known either. “Maybe we could move in with them.” Clara turned and looked out the buggy window at the shadowy outlines of Amish houses.
“Why would we do that?”
“It’s more practical. Their haus is larger than our cramped one.”
“I thought you loved our house.” He shifted in the seat but kept his gaze straight ahead. “At least that’s what you said when I built it.”
Five years and three children ago. “We need to be realistic, Peter. Our haus is full. We don’t have room for anyone else.”
“It wouldn’t take long to add a room in the back.”
“How would we do that? We don’t have any extra money for building supplies. Do you expect mei grossmudder to pay for the addition?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how can you build it?”
“Why are you always worried about money?” His tone turned sharp.
“Someone has to.”
“Worrying about it doesn’t help.”
Clara knew what he would say next. God will provide. The same thing Emma said. But Peter was out of work, and she had yet to see any sign of God’s generosity. “What about mei grossvadder’s haus? Is it supposed to stand empty until it falls down from rot?”
He shifted again. “I hadn’t thought that far.”
Clara didn’t respond. She didn’t have the strength to argue with her husband tonight. He turned into the driveway and pulled the buggy up to the front of the house. She climbed out and left him to put the buggy in the barn and settle the horse down for the night.
Before she reached the kitchen, Clara knew that Julia had been baking again. There was no mistaking the sweet, fruity scent of fresh cherry pie. She entered the kitchen to see her neighbor standing in front of the sink.
Julia shut off the tap and turned around. “Your kinner were perfect tonight.” She wiped her hands on a kitchen towel and laid it on the counter. “The buwe even helped me bake. I won’t tell Peter, though.”
Clara didn’t care whether Peter knew. She was more concerned with Julia using the pie filling she’d canned a few weeks ago. She had been saving the ingredients to make cherry strudel to take to church. Now she would have to come up with something else. Julia might have meant well, but it wasn’t in Clara’s budget to buy more dessert ingredients.
“I hope you don’t mind,” Julia said, gesturing to the pie on the counter. “We made two of them. The kinner and I ate the other one.”
Clara looked at Julia’s rotund figure. She could guess who had eaten the majority of the first pie. But at least she had something to take to church. She managed a brief smile. “I appreciate you watching the kinner while we were gone.”
“Anytime you need me to watch them for you, I’m glad to do it. My own are grown, so I have time on my hands. At least until they start giving me grandchildren.” She laughed, her wide face breaking into a thick-lipped grin. “Hopefully that will be soon.”
Peter entered the room, scratching his beard. He said hello to Julia and inhaled deeply. His eyes danced with anticipation. “Smells like your famous cherry pie in here.”
“Peter, you’re too nice.” Julia’s chubby cheeks blushed. She looked to Clara again. “I didn’t get a chance to tell you, but I’m sorry about your mudder. She was a sweet fraa.”
Clara moved away from Julia. She wiped a spot of flour off the table with her fingers. “Ya, she was.”
“You two must be tired.” Julia reached for the bonnet hanging on a peg beside the back door. “The kinner are asleep upstairs.”
“We should do the same.” Peter walked over to the counter. “As soon as I have a piece of your appeditlich pie.”
Clara cleared her throat. “Don’t you think you’ve eaten enough today?”
Peter shot a glance at her, his expression stern. But she saw the questions in his eyes as well.
Julia grabbed her shawl and threw it over her shoulders. “Well, then. I’ll be on my way.” She dashed out the door.
Clara removed her bonnet and placed it on an empty peg. Peter didn’t say anything, merely hung his black hat next to hers. He left the room, ignoring the pie.
Clara unpinned her shawl and placed it next to her bonnet. She spent the next few minutes wrapping the pie in foil, crimping the edges to make a tight seal. She hid the pie in the back of the pantry. Maybe Peter wouldn’t think to look there.
When she came into the bedroom, she saw Peter’s sleeping form huddled under the quilt. She let out a small sigh of relief. With silent movements she undressed, left her kapp on the dresser, and slipped into her nightgown. She sat down on her side of the bed. The springs let out a soft creak. When Peter moved, she froze.
“I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t embarrass me like that again.”
“I’m sorry.” She kept her back to him.
“We need to talk.”
“I thought you were tired.”
“How can I sleep when you’re upset?” He sat up and moved behind her.
“I’m not upset. It’s been a long day.” The image of her mother’s burial made tears burn in her eyes. She refused to let them fall. If Peter saw her crying, he would never leave her alone.
He touched her shoulder. It took everything she had not to shrug off his hand. “If you don’t want your schwester and grossmammi to move in, then they don’t have to. Emma didn’t seem thrilled with the idea when I brought it up.”
Clara had noticed. If Peter had bothered to tell her his plan, she could have told him it wouldn’t work. Emma didn’t want to live with Clara any more than Clara wanted her here.
“So they should stay in their own haus.” Peter scooted closer to her, his breath low in her ear. “We should still think about adding a room here, though. Or two.” He wrapped his arms around her waist. “In case God blesses us with more kinner.”
Clara closed her eyes. She felt trapped enough with three. But Peter never stopped talking about having a large family. He never stopped trying to make it happen, even when Clara didn’t want to. But she couldn’t bring herself to give in to him. Not tonight.
He pressed a kiss to her shoulder. She cringed. To her surprise he pulled away. “Gut nacht, Clara.”
Relieved, she slipped beneath the covers but still couldn’t bring herself to look at him.
“I love you, Clara.”
She forced the words out. “I love you too.” But even to her own ears, they sounded false and hollow.
After Norman left, Emma sat outside for a few moments longer. She shivered in the evening chill. When she couldn’t stand the cold any longer, she went inside. But not before glancing at Adam’s house. Did he know Mammi had died? If he did, would he even care? She had no idea. Her childhood friend, the man she grew up with and fell in love with, was a stranger to her.
She climbed the stairs to the bedroom, careful not to disturb her grandmother in the room down the hall. Emma sat on the edge of the bed and pulled the bobby pins out of her hair. A few strands of hair came with them. She undid her bun but didn’t bother to brush out the tangled mass.
For a while she tossed restlessly. She pulled the covers up to her chin. Kicked them off again. Punched at the pillow. Willed sleep to come.
Maybe a glass of milk would help her sleep. Or maybe she’d forget about sleep altogether. As she approached the kitchen, a faint light glowed from the doorway. She entered the room and saw her grandmother seated at the table. A candle flickered a few inches away. The old woman turned, her thin lips forming a half smile.
“Couldn’t sleep either?”
Emma shook her head. Instead of going to the ice chest for milk, she sat down. “I thought you were already in bed.”
“I was. Fell asleep, even.” She sighed, placing one gnarled hand on the table. “But the Lord woke me up. Said I needed to pray. So that’s what I’m doing.”
“In the kit
chen?”
“Well, I was a little hungry too.”
Emma noticed the empty saucer to her grandmother’s left. A fork rested on the small dish, which still held crumbs from whatever dessert Grossmammi had eaten. One thing they had plenty of right now was food. Family and friends from church had brought over enough casseroles, pickles, salads, breads, and desserts to keep them fed for the next week. She placed her hands on the table, tried to suppress a sigh.
Her grandmother reached for her hand. “You’re troubled, ya? Maybe you should do some praying too.”
Emma pressed her lips together but didn’t say anything. How could she admit to her grossmammi that she hadn’t prayed in days?
“Take comfort, kinn. Your mammi isn’t suffering anymore.”
“I am thankful for that.”
“And you did the best you could for her. She died here, just as she wanted. You made that possible.”
Her grandmother didn’t need to know the real reason her mother wanted to die at home. About the doctor and hospital bills. The cost of her medication. Expenses they didn’t have the money to cover.
“I know Clara would have helped out more, if she could. In the end I think your mammi made a wise choice. It wouldn’t have been gut for the yung kinner to see their grossmammi so sick.” The old woman released Emma’s hand. “At least she got to spend a little time with them before the cancer took hold. They’ll have gut memories of her.”
“They will.” Emma glanced down at the oak table her father had made the year after she was born. It had a few scratches but was still sturdy and beautiful. Her fingers caressed the smooth, glossy wood.
“Emma.”
After a pause, she looked at her grandmother.
“Is something else bothering you?” Grossmammi’s gray eyes blinked behind plain silver-rimmed glasses.
Emma didn’t know where to start, so she said nothing. She would keep her worries about money and her thoughts about Adam to herself. “Nee. I’m fine. Just worn out from today.”
Her grandmother pursed her lips together. Emma couldn’t blame Grossmammi for doubting her. She didn’t exactly sound convincing.
“All right then. I’m going back to bed.” Her grandmother pushed back from the table and picked up the wooden cane leaning against the edge. As she shuffled past Emma, she paused and put her hand on her shoulder. “Remember, kinn. Whatever is bothering you, take it to the Lord. He’ll bring you the comfort you need.”
Emma heard her grandmother’s slippers slide against the wood floor as she made her way up the stairs. How easy her grandmother made it sound. As if all Emma had to do was say a few prayers and everything would be all right again.
But she could pray for hours and her mother would still be dead. So would her father. And Adam would still be hundreds of miles away, if not thousands by now.
He had made his decision clear. She hadn’t heard a word from him since he left. And she didn’t care anymore.
Only that wasn’t true. She cared.
Far too much, she cared.
CHAPTER 4
The next morning Emma was already dressed and outside before the sun rose. Her body ached with weariness. But chores didn’t disappear because she couldn’t sleep. There were animals to feed. Eggs to collect. Breakfast to make.
She held a kerosene lantern in one hand and a basket in the other. Her feet traveled the worn path through the grass to the barn. Tommy dashed in front of her, followed by Shelby. They both disappeared into the barn, awaiting their morning meal.
The scent of manure in the barn nearly overpowered her. Peter had cleaned it two weeks ago, but it was long past time to remove the manure again and replenish the straw. She didn’t want to ask him for help again. Or appeal to Norman. She’d do it herself.
She heard her horse, Dill, whinny in her stall. The chestnut mare snorted as Emma hung the lantern on a hook on the wall. Hazy light filled the barn, enough to see that Dill was limping when she made her way over to the feed trough.
A knot formed in Emma’s stomach. Was it the leg or the foot? She knelt down beside the mare and lifted the horse’s hoof, but couldn’t see anything lodged there. She’d have to call for a vet. She couldn’t allow Dill to become lame. She rose and patted the horse’s flank. “We’ll get your leg taken care of.” Another bill.
The words echoed in her head: God will provide. Well, maybe if she just prayed harder, God would rain money from the sky. She felt a twist of guilt at the sarcastic thought.
Emma moved from the stall to the laying boxes on the other side of the barn. When she thrust her hand beneath one of the brown birds, all six chickens panicked and flew away. Emma filled the egg basket and tossed a couple of handfuls of chicken feed on the barn floor.
A few grains landed on Tommy’s back; he didn’t seem to notice. He crouched by his dish, meowing. Shelby sat by her bowl on the other side. Emma filled their food bowls with kibble.
Both cats pounced on the crunchy bits of food. Their purrs filled the barn as faint, rose-hued sunlight sifted through the slats.
The mutts, Rodney and Archie, must have crept out of the barn in the night. They often went out exploring the woods behind the house. Molly was probably still under the porch, where she stayed most of the time. She filled all their food bowls, extinguished the lantern, and left the barn.
Dawn cast an ethereal light over the familiar landscape. As she turned to go to the house, Emma stopped to look at the large, dilapidated shed that had been her grandfather’s workshop over forty years ago. After his retirement the building had been used for storage, and had been pretty much ignored since her father’s death.
Emma thought it would make a perfect dog kennel, but it would take a lot of work and money to turn it into one. For years she had held a secret desire to establish an animal rescue center—a dream she’d never told anyone except Adam. He had shown little enthusiasm. But then again, he’d never owned any pets; his father had forbidden them. The only animals Norman Otto spent money on were the ones that would pay him back after a trip to the slaughterhouse.
Emma had always been attached to the animals. Most people here figured that when an animal died, it was simply part of the ebb and flow of life. But Emma mourned each one of them. She treated her dogs and cats and horse like family—even the chickens held a special place in her affection. She would love to spend her time rescuing neglected and abused animals. But no one in Middlefield would understand it.
Her eyes drifted from the shed to the house itself. The soft light of morning illuminated the lines and planes of the house, outlining the gables in gold and shadowing the porch in silver. She could almost see it as it once had been—a sturdy, beautiful farmhouse built for a large family, situated on five acres of prime property.
At one time her grandparents’ house had been in pristine condition, and Emma’s parents had made sure it stayed that way. But then her father died, and her mother was diagnosed with cancer, and Emma had all she could do to care for her mother and grandmother and keep herself from falling apart. The last three years had taken a heavy toll on the house, the shop, even the land.
Emma longed to bring the place back, to restore everything to the way it used to be.
The house. The property.
Her life.
Clara and Peter ate their breakfast in silence, speaking only to discipline the children, who were full of their usual endless energy. She picked up Magdalena from her high chair and wiped the strawberry jelly off her pink cheeks.
“Junior, Melvin.”
Both boys looked up at their father. “Ya, Daed?”
“Could you gather the eggs for me?”
Junior nodded and retrieved his hat from the peg by the door. He picked up the egg basket and looked back at his father. “Are you coming?”
“Nee. I’m taking your mammi to your Aenti Emma’s today.”
“Can’t she walk there?”
“Ya, but I want to give her a ride. Now, enough questions.” He tapped Jun
ior on the brim of his hat. “Geh, do what I asked you to do.”
The two young boys scrambled out of the house, fighting to see who could get to the chicken coop first. Their boyish screaming grated on Clara’s nerves.
Peter wiped his mouth and beard with the napkin. “Will you be ready to leave in a few minutes?”
“Ya. After I wash the dishes, change the boppli, sweep the floors, find something to cook for supper tonight, and get properly dressed.”
“So five minutes, then?”
Clara looked at him, not amused by the teasing grin on his face. His good-natured smile disappeared. “Anything I can do to help?”
Get a job.
“Nee. I’ll get it all done. You should check on the buwe and make sure they’re not having a fight with the raw eggs.”
He snatched his hat off the peg and went outside. The door slammed behind him. Clara didn’t turn around.
Her ire grew as she finished her chores, and reached its limit when she looked at the sparse pantry. How could she make so few ingredients last all week? She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, dislodging her kapp. For the past year she had tried to be supportive of her husband. She struggled to understand the economy—how no one was hiring construction workers right now. The building boom hadn’t slowed down just in Middlefield, but all the way to Cleveland and beyond.
What she didn’t understand was why Peter wouldn’t do anything else. Why he wouldn’t at least check the want ads in the paper. Or tell other people in the community that he needed work.
God will provide, he said. Sounded a lot like a holy handout to Clara. What her dim-witted husband didn’t understand was that God helps those who help themselves, not the ones who sit around and wait for good fortune to happen.
Guilt assaulted her, but the feeling didn’t last long. What did she have to feel guilty about? If she were a man, she’d be able to find work. Maybe even start her own business.
Start my own business . . .
The Middlefield Family Collection Page 3