The Middlefield Family Collection

by Kathleen Fuller

  Leona closed her eyes. Tears squeezed out of the corners and ran down her cheeks. She prayed for those she had lost, and more fervently for those who were lost now.

  “Grossmammi?”

  Leona opened her eyes. She picked up the white handkerchief in her lap and wiped her cheeks. “Come in.”

  Her granddaughter stepped inside. A strand of brown hair curved over her forehead, just above her blue eyes. Her face was pink from the chilly air outside. Dirt smudged her cheek, probably from Rodney jumping on her when she got home. That dog was nearly five feet tall when he stood on his hindquarters.

  Leona started to rise. “I was just coming downstairs to help.”

  “Nee. I put the groceries away.” She walked over and sat on the edge of the bed. “I didn’t have to purchase too many.”

  She couldn’t purchase too many. Everybody tried to protect Leona, but she wasn’t ignorant of their finances. She watched as Emma picked at the edge of her sweater.

  “What is it?”

  Emma looked up, stilling her hands. “Dill can’t work anymore.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Emma swallowed, looked away. “Ya. Adam looked at her today.”

  “I see.” Leona leaned back in her chair. “And you agree with what he said?”

  “I didn’t want to, but he knows horses. I told him I’d call a vet.” She stood up from the bed and went to the window. “But I won’t.”

  They both knew why. Leona waited for Emma to ask her what she should do. But she should have known better. Emma always had to figure out the answers herself.

  “I’m trying not to worry.” She wiped underneath her eyes. “I’m trying to be grateful Dill isn’t dying. I’m trying to remember the blessings we have.” Her voice trembled. “But that doesn’t change anything.”

  Leona’s knees creaked as she rose from the chair. “Of course it does, Emma.”

  Emma shook her head. “There are still bills to pay. Now we need a new horse. And I won’t sell Dill, even though she’ll cost us more money.” She licked her lips. “If I did, someone would put her down.”

  “You don’t have to carry all this yourself.” She put her arm around Emma’s shoulders. “I have some money saved.”

  “But it’s not enough. It’s never enough.” She looked at Leona. “I could try to get a job working out of the haus. But Peter has been trying for months and hasn’t found anything. Whatever job I could get wouldn’t pay for what we need. And I don’t want to leave you alone.”

  Leona bristled. “Emma, I’m capable of taking care of myself. I might move slower than I used to, but that doesn’t mean I’m useless.”

  “That’s not what I’m saying.” She leaned toward Leona. “I couldn’t take it if something happened to you.”

  “Kinn.” Leona cupped Emma’s cheek, running her wrinkled thumb over her granddaughter’s smooth, fair skin. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I promise.”

  “You can’t promise me that.” Emma leaned into her grandmother’s touch. “No one can. You’re all I have. I won’t leave you here alone.”

  Leona opened her mouth to say something, but changed her mind and shut it again. She couldn’t reason with Emma, not while her grief was so raw. But her heart swelled with love for her granddaughter, for putting an old woman above herself.

  “I’m going to talk to Clara tomorrow.”

  “About . . . ?”

  “About opening the fabric shop.” Emma looked out the window. “She’s right. It’s the only thing we can do.”

  “But it’s not what you want to do.”

  Emma stepped away from Leona. “It doesn’t matter what I want, Grossmammi.” She started to leave.

  Leona couldn’t take the sadness in Emma’s voice. She had given up so much, and still had to give up more. “There’s another way.”

  Emma turned. “Selling jams and jellies? Clara won’t agree to that.”

  “Nee. I don’t mean that.” She shuffled over to Emma and looked up at her, straightening her shoulders as much as she could. “You could get married.”

  Emma’s bitter laugh pierced Leona’s ears. “To whom? No one here is interested in me. And unless you have another relative who has a son or nephew who needs a pen pal—”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about.”

  “Then who?”

  Adam. But Leona couldn’t mention him. If the two of them were to be together, God would have to make that happen, and not out of desperation or manipulative matchmaking. The stakes were much too high for that.

  Still, Leona didn’t think the Lord would mind too much if she planted a little seed in Emma’s heart.

  “There are yung menner here in Middlefield, Emma. Don’t be so quick to dismiss them.”

  “I don’t have to dismiss them.” She looked at her grandmother. “He—I mean they, dismissed me.” Emma walked to the doorway.

  “It was a thought.”

  “Ya. It was.”

  Emma left, and Leona sat back down in the rocker and clasped her hands together.

  Leona wasn’t giving up. She wasn’t against the idea of turning Ephraim’s workshop into some kind of business. But she didn’t want it to happen at the expense of either of her granddaughters’ happiness.

  Things were moving too fast. Neither of them was consulting the Lord, or trusting in Him. And if they didn’t do that, anything they attempted would fail.

  CHAPTER 11

  Emma’s hands trembled as she slid the last bobby pin onto her kapp. Today was the first Sunday service since Mammi’s death. She didn’t want to go to church. Throughout the week a few people had stopped by the house to visit, mostly to say hello and offer condolences again.

  Except for Adam. She hadn’t seen him since he’d looked at Dill’s foot two days ago. But his absence didn’t surprise her. When did Adam Otto ever think of anyone but himself?

  Emma’s shoulders ached with tension. She looked at her stubby hands—nubs where her nails had been. Grossmammi would probably tell her that she took out her worries on her fingernails, rather than taking them to God. But why should she bother, when God had taken so much from her?

  “Emma?” Her grandmother’s fragile voice traveled up the stairs. “Are you ready? The Ottos will be here any minute.”

  Norman and Carol were taking them to church today. Adam wouldn’t be coming with them. His haircut might be Amish, but the rest of him belonged to the world. The shiny truck, the beard and mustache, the baggy, too-large clothes all proved that.

  “Emma?”

  “Coming.” She padded down the stairs in her stocking feet and slipped on her shoes. Her grandmother waited by the front door with a warm black shawl wrapped around her reed-thin body. Her cane tapped on the floor as she made her way to Emma. “Such sadness in your eyes, Emma.”

  “I’m sorry.” Emma reached for her bonnet and lightweight coat.

  “Don’t be. Sunday worship will help, kinn. It will be a healing balm on your broken spirit.”

  “We shouldn’t keep the Ottos waiting.” Emma knew she sounded curt and impatient, but she was growing weary of her grandmother’s incessant platitudes.

  Norman met them at the bottom of the front porch step. He guided Grossmammi to the buggy, where Carol sat in the back. Emma followed. She heard the sound of a car door slam, saw a figure in the driver’s seat of Adam’s truck. The engine rumbled to life, and the truck pulled out of the driveway, exhaust pluming behind it as it roared down the road.

  Norman didn’t look in Adam’s direction or say a word. He waited for Emma to climb in the back, then helped her grandmother in on the other side.

  Emma knew what nobody was saying: Adam would leave again. Maybe he was on his way back to Michigan right now. If he left without saying good-bye, she wouldn’t really be surprised. She still didn’t know why he had come back to Middlefield in the first place.

  She didn’t want to know. Didn’t want to care. What she wanted was for the pain and worry to cease. Inste
ad, this morning she would sit on a hard wooden bench for three hours and pretend God loved her. Wanted the best for her.

  Hadn’t she been taught that all her life? Didn’t she tell Adam the very same things when he took off for the Yankee world? Now she had to wonder which one of them was right. He still had his parents. A truck, a job, money. Probably a girlfriend too. Plenty of women would want Adam.

  The buggy lurched forward. Emma gripped the edge of the seat in front of her.

  Carol touched Emma’s arm. “Are you all right?”

  She nodded but couldn’t speak. Carol had been one of her mother’s best friends. The reminder freshened Emma’s grief.

  Emma had lost, or was on the verge of losing, everything. And now she would be expected to be thankful to God because of it.

  “Hope you don’t mind walking to church this morning,” Peter said to Mark. “Tobias and Rachel live about a mile down the road. No sense hitching up the buggy for such a short trip.”

  “Don’t mind at all.” Mark smiled, his black felt hat low on his forehead. “Nice day for it.”

  Clara shifted Magdalena to her other arm. The baby squirmed, wanting down. They should have brought the small pull wagon. That way she could drag Magdalena behind her. But Peter refused, saying the baby would try to crawl out. Knowing he was right didn’t ease the ache in Clara’s arms as she held on to her wiggly daughter.

  Peter shifted Melvin’s hand to Mark. “Would you mind?” Mark nodded and took hold of Melvin’s hand.

  Without a word Peter retrieved Magdalena from Clara. With his long strides he was soon out ahead of her again. Junior hurried to catch up. Mark and Melvin lagged behind.

  Clara turned and saw Mark pointing out an owl hooting in a tree nearby. “Usually they come out at night, but some of them are stubborn,” he said to Melvin. “They don’t like the rules the other owls follow.”

  “I don’t like no rules either.” Melvin wiped his nose with the sleeve of his white shirt. Clara couldn’t stand it when the boys did that. Now Melvin would run around with crust on his church shirt. But she held her peace. This time.

  “There are rules for a reason,” Mark said. The black gravel scratched underneath his shoes. “Or so mei mudder told me.”

  “Your mudder was right.” Clara gave Melvin a sharp look. Before she could stop herself, her gaze drifted to Mark. He smiled. Nodded slightly. Then walked faster to catch up with Peter.

  Clara crossed her arms over her body. For the two days Mark had stayed with them, he’d been the perfect guest. He had assisted Peter with chores, played games with the children, picked up after himself. He even helped her wash the supper dishes last night. She couldn’t remember the last time Peter had done that.

  As she washed and he dried, Mark joked about Peter’s childhood and made comments about the quaintness of Middlefield. She had almost forgotten how good it felt to smile and laugh. His voice was soft, even gentle, as he told her good night.

  Then the door shut behind them as she and Peter went into their bedroom. And last night, as they had so many times recently, she and her husband slept far apart in their bed.

  Clara shook her head. Thinking about Mark while walking to church of all things! He was her husband’s cousin. She had no business enjoying Mark’s company over Peter’s.

  Even if she did.

  Clara tried to clear her head as they reached the Bylers’ house. Buggies lined up in the yard next to the white barn where the service would be held. A slight chill hung in the air, but not enough to move the service indoors. Clara took Magdalena from Peter and motioned for her sons to follow her. Soon she caught sight of Emma and her grossmammi standing near Carol Otto. Emma looked a million miles away, deep in sadness and grief.

  Everyone filed into the barn, the men on one side, women on the other. Clara sat next to Emma. Magdalena stretched out her plump arms. Emma took her, settling the chubby baby in her lap and kissing the top of her light blue bonnet.

  The service seemed twice as long today. Clara tried to focus on the hymns, on the sermon, on remembering her blessings instead of counting her worries. But she couldn’t keep from looking across the aisle toward the men. Mark sat next to Peter, on the end of the bench. His attention faced forward, never straying. She could tell that Mark, like Peter, was strong in his faith. An admirable quality.

  An unsettled feeling twisted in her stomach. She took Magdalena from Emma and drew her daughter close. She had to focus on her family. On the plan she had devised. It was the one thing she and Peter could agree on. She couldn’t think about anything else.

  Or anyone else.

  After the service, Emma waited outside the barn. She hoped the Ottos wouldn’t stay for the fellowship meal that followed worship. If they did, she would walk home. It was only a couple of miles. She would have walked to the service this morning, but her grandmother couldn’t have made the journey.

  Men gathered outside the barn, a sea of black hats, jackets, and trousers. White shirts peeked out, some men wearing suspenders, some not. She saw the women head inside Rachel Byler’s house to help prepare the meal, a simple fare of sandwiches, pickles, and homemade dessert. She knew she should help them, but her feet wouldn’t move.

  She stood at the edge of the yard, surrounded by people, yet isolated. She searched the group and saw her grandmother. Grossmammi waved a hand in the direction of their home before turning to talk to a small group of her friends. Emma breathed out. Her grandmother understood why she had to leave. She turned to go, only to smack straight into a man’s chest.

  “Ach, I’m sorry!” She took a step back, too embarrassed to look up and see who she’d run into. She moved to brush past him but felt a hand on her shoulder.

  “It’s all right.”

  She didn’t recognize the voice, and when she looked up at his face, she still didn’t know who he was. He was a couple of inches taller than she, with blue eyes. Eyes that suddenly looked a bit familiar. His square chin was clean shaven. He smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth.

  Her face reddened. “I’m sorry.”

  “You already said that.” His smile widened. “And it’s okay.” He opened his arm, gesturing to his slim body. “No harm done.”

  Emma averted her gaze. “I’m glad.” She started to leave when he spoke.

  “You don’t have to run off.” He held out his hand. “Name’s Mark King. Yours?”

  “Emma.” Her face warmed. She wasn’t used to men she didn’t know talking to her. He was quite bold.

  “Nice first name. Do you have a last one?”

  Her gaze met his. She pulled at the hem of her jacket, hesitating.

  His smile faded. “That probably sounded rude. I didn’t mean to be. It’s just I noticed you sitting next to Clara King and thought maybe you were related. I’m Peter’s cousin.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “Clara is my sister.”

  “Then we’re cousins. Very distant ones, by marriage.” His smile returned. “Peter is my third cousin.”

  “Are you from Kentucky too?”

  “Ya.”

  They stood there, and as the seconds ticked away, Emma’s face heated more. But Mark seemed perfectly comfortable with the silence, still looking at her, still smiling. Maybe he was waiting for her to say something.

  “Have you been in Middlefield long?”

  “A few days. Not long enough to get to know my way around. Or to meet many people.”

  “Clara and Peter know just about everyone.”

  “I can see that.” He poked his thumb over his shoulder. “I left Peter talking with the mann who owns this place.”

  “Tobias Byler.”

  “Ya. And your schwester took the kinner and went inside. Guess they kind of forgot about me.”

  She knew what that felt like. “I’m sure they’ll introduce you to everyone once lunch starts.”

  “Oh, it’s fine if they don’t. I get along all right on my own. I met you, didn’t I?”

  She released the hem o
f her jacket. Mark King had an easy manner, a confidence about him. She could see some resemblance between him and Peter. “Ya. I guess you did.”

  “I should probably remind my cousin I’m still here. Are you coming inside for lunch?”

  “Nee. I’m on my way home.”

  He frowned, but his eyes were still bright. “All right then. Maybe we’ll see each other soon. Being as we’re familye and all.”

  “Maybe.”

  “I would like that. Very much.”

  Mark headed toward the house, his stride as comfortable as his bearing. Just as she started to turn away, she saw him look over his shoulder. He grinned. Then he did something she’d never seen a man do, at least toward her. He put his hand over his heart, pointed at her, and walked away.

  Clara frowned as she watched Mark approach the men huddled outside the barn. Her gaze went to the end of the driveway, where Emma stood frozen in place. Even from the front porch of Rachel’s house, Clara noticed her sister’s red cheeks. And they weren’t rosy from the October air either.

  Clara had seen the gesture Mark made at Emma.

  Melvin tugged at Clara’s skirt, but she ignored him. She stared at Emma, then at Mark. He had joined Peter and Tobias and a few other men, as comfortable among them as if he’d grown up in Middlefield.

  When she looked at Emma again, her sister had started down the road in the direction of home. Clara felt another tug at her skirt. She looked down. “What do you want?”

  “I’m hungerich.”

  “You always are.” She sighed, brushing his brown bangs back from his forehead. “We’ll eat in a few minutes, ya? Can you wait that long?”

  He nodded and scampered down the porch steps to join a few other boys his age as they ran around the front yard. But she quickly lost interest in the children and looked toward Mark again.

  Surely she couldn’t be jealous. Of Mark? Of Emma? Yet his message to her had been clear. It was a romantic gesture, one that even made Clara’s stomach flutter the tiniest bit. He was interested. And he wasn’t afraid to let anyone see it.