The Parting

by Beverly Lewis

  Nellie shrugged. “Outsiders call it Pennsylvania Dutch, but it’s not Dutch at all. It’s a folk rendering of German—not written anywhere that I know of.”

  “Not even your Bible?” one piped up.

  “Ach, that’s in either High German or English.” Nellie felt like a pincushion all of a sudden. Surely these were the most openly curious Englischers she’d ever met.

  “Would you mind if I asked about your faith?” the youngest-looking woman said.

  My what?

  Nellie felt trapped. She’d never had such a conversation, and she wished with all her heart Nan would hurry up and come running.

  “Or are your . . . uh, ways based on—”

  “Pamela, no . . . that’s not what you want to say.” A previously silent woman was talking as though Nellie weren’t standing right there.

  “Aw, don’t mind her,” the first woman said to Nellie, linking her arm through Pamela’s.

  Nellie stared past the Englischers, looking out the window. Where are you, Nan, when I need you?

  “I’m sorry,” Pamela said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, miss.”

  Nellie tried to think of something to say or do to change the subject, but nothing came. Finally she said, “Well, jah, we have our beliefs . . . our ways, passed down from generation to generation.” Nellie figured Dat might have had a more suitable answer. Or would his interest in soaking up the long sentences in the Good Book make his answers to Englischers too free?

  How soon before his fondness for Scripture reaches the wrong person’s ears? She clenched her jaw, hoping Caleb’s father might never, ever hear of it.

  “Really . . . I want to apologize.” It was the redhead again. “We didn’t mean to be rude.”

  Nellie forced a smile. “Not to worry.” She accepted the money for the muffins, thankful for a working cash register today. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she managed to say. “A written recipe, perhaps?”

  The redhead nodded, and Nellie began to write down the ingredients and instructions for her sweet bread—a coffee cake recipe from her great-grandmother.

  The women thanked her repeatedly, and then the others took turns ordering cookies and other goodies. When they’d paid and made their way back to their fancy red car, Nellie sighed with relief.

  Not much time later, she noticed Dawdi and Mammi Fisher entering the drive in their enclosed family buggy. She assumed they wanted to talk with Mamma about getting settled into the Dawdi Haus—leaving behind the farmhouse over on Plank Road, where they’d lived since Dat received this house after marrying Mamma. Nellie was looking forward to having her father’s parents closer, especially Mammi Hannah, known for her stories about their family and its doings through the years. All the Fisher women would benefit from having Mammi living under the same roof, so to speak—especially Mamma.

  But Nellie’s present concern was finding time to rescue Suzy’s diary from the woodland soil before winter’s onset. Almost two weeks had gone by since she had first made her search, and thus far no other opportunity to look had presented itself. Her responsibility to run the bakery shop and always be on hand for her customers left her with virtually no time of her own. That, coupled with the frustration of not remembering the diary’s exact location, worried her.

  Will I ever find it?

  Nellie Mae glanced up to see the crimson red car creeping back up the driveway. Pamela stepped out, returning to the shop. “I nearly forgot—do you have shoofly pie?” she asked.

  “Sure.” Nellie picked up one of the two pies remaining and showed it off as if it were one of her offspring. “We make the wet-bottom kind here,” she said.

  “Sounds perfect.” Then Pamela asked, seeming a bit shy, “Would you happen to know the ingredients offhand?”

  “I’m happy to jot them down for you.” Nellie waited for the woman to pull out a tablet from her small brown pocketbook.

  “It’s ever so easy, really,” Nellie told her after writing the recipe. “Nothing more than eggs, corn syrup, baking soda, and boiling water for the filling. Do you make quite a lot from scratch?” she asked.

  “I can hardly stay out of my kitchen.” The Englischer laughed and motioned toward the wet-bottom shoofly pie. “I’ll purchase that one, please.”

  Nellie placed it in a white box and taped the lid shut. “Anything else?”

  “That’ll do it. Thanks!”

  “Enjoy the pie,” Nellie called, happy that her supply was dwindling. She would need to get up extra early to make sure she had plenty of choices for customers tomorrow.

  So, no trip to the woods for at least another day.

  Pamela paused at the door, and Nellie had to smile. Now what?

  “Do you happen to know where we can get a buggy ride?” the woman asked.

  Nellie thought about that, fairly sure they were expecting to pay for the experience. “Can’t say I know of anyone.”

  The woman’s disappointment momentarily registered before her expression brightened again. “Well, thanks anyway. Have a nice day!”

  “Same to you!” Nellie said. Only when Pamela was on her way did Nellie allow her pent-up laughter to escape. Goodness, such a curious sort!

  When Nan had finished her indoor chores, she carried the mail out to Nellie. “Here’s a letter for you, sister,” she said. Nellie noted it was the circle letter she’d been expecting from Cousin Treva.

  “Did you get one, too?” asked Nellie, thinking a letter would further improve Nan’s frame of mind.

  Nan shook her head, eyes downcast. “I don’t ’spect to, neither.”

  “Aw, Nan . . . I’m sorry. Really, I am.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. It’s my dumm fault.”

  Nellie’s heart went out to her sister. “I’m a good listener, ain’t so?”

  “Well, maybe you are. Still, I don’t want to talk ’bout it.” Unexpectedly Nan turned and departed for the house.

  When will she ever let me in?

  Then Nellie realized Nan must’ve misunderstood, thinking she was asking about her former beau. And now I’ve peeved her. . . .

  Nellie stepped back behind the counter. Since there were no customers, she opened the envelope and pulled out the six handwritten pages.

  Dear Cousins,

  Hello from New Holland! I hope you are all doing well. We’ve been canning up a storm here, and some are already doing a lot of quilting for the wedding season.

  Something more’s happening over here, too, and not the usual goings-on. I can’t begin to explain it, but there are groups of folk getting together on no-Preaching Sundays for a sort of Sunday school. A handful of people are even having Bible studies of an evening—or so my sister says. She’s been going rather regularly. So far, the bishops don’t seem to mind. Either that or they don’t know yet.

  “Oh, but they will,” Nellie muttered to herself. It was impossible to keep something like this quiet.

  She read on, finding it interesting that a number of others were as preoccupied with the Good Book as her father.

  When she’d finished the first letter, she was reluctant to move on to the others and Cousin Treva’s. She felt as though she might be ill as she sat down to let all this sift into her mind.

  What’s it mean?

  Surely her father wasn’t caught up in this gathering storm, was he?

  She hoped not. It wasn’t for the sake of the People she felt that way—a selfish motive ruled her entirely. She must shield her deepening relationship with Caleb with every ounce she had.

  Heading out of her shop, Nellie Mae stood outside and breathed in the brisk autumn air. A scuttle of wind came up then and she shivered, wishing she’d slipped on her woolen shawl. She watched the leaves swirl at her feet and sensed an ominous feeling much like the one Dat had expressed when the corn quit growing nearly overnight.

  In the distance a long V-shaped pattern of Canada geese dotted the sky. She had always wondered what sort of coded messages they sent to each o
ther to create such precise flight formations. Did every bird know exactly where to fly in the lineup? Did the Lord God direct them from on high? If it was a divine thing, did that same Creator God care about the course of her life? And Dat’s?

  She shuddered to think what might befall their family if either Nan or Rhoda began talking about Scripture to friends or cousins, locally and otherwise. No worry of Mamma saying anything. And, of course, Nellie sure wouldn’t think of sharing about her father’s odd behavior, not even with dearest Rosanna.

  No, the brethren must never know. . . .

  CHAPTER 21

  Nellie found it excruciating to sit in the cluster of girls during Sunday night’s hayride. Surrounded by so many—Susannah Lapp and Becky Glick included—Nellie was able to catch only an occasional glance from Caleb. She pretended not to care that they were separated for the long and bumpy ride, preferring to think ahead to their time together later.

  Susannah was awful bapplich—chatty—as she eyed the bunched-up boys on their end of the hay wagon. No doubt she sought Caleb’s attention. A few minutes later, Susannah actually dared to call over her shoulder, “Ain’t that right, Caleb Yoder?” before bursting into a rainbow smile directed at him.

  Nan, too, was smiling to beat the band, which was surprising because she had been withdrawn and nearly sullen again since Friday. Nellie couldn’t begin to fathom what had put the sunshine on Nan’s face, but the clouds were surely gone tonight as she whispered with Caleb’s sister Rebekah. So caught up were they in private talk, it was impossible for Nellie to speak with her own sister.

  Taking a quick survey of the boys, Nellie wondered if Nan was over her former beau and already sweet on someone new. Knowing Nan, though, that seemed unlikely. Nan was not known to be fickle, but she hadn’t weathered well the storm of splitting up—twice it had happened already. Yet, given time, Nan would surely find another suitor in their crowd. Certainly there was no shortage of boys, and Nan had plenty of admirers among them.

  The night was nippy with a damp breeze. Some of the girls were shivering even though they sat shoulder to shoulder, while the boys were talkative and, in some cases, louder than usual.

  With Nan talking with Rebekah, and Susannah the obvious center of attention, encircled as she was by a dozen or so other girls, Nellie felt somewhat alone. Knowing it was simply for now, she rather enjoyed it, relishing the thought of her upcoming buggy ride with Caleb.

  Looking at the stars, she began to count them silently. The fainter ones at first, all across the expanse of sky, then the more brilliant ones—intense white sprinkles against the black backdrop of space.

  Quite relaxed at present, she leaned against a soft mound of hay, lost in the enormity of the sky above. She felt small and insignificant and remembered one late summertime night when she and Suzy had slipped out of the house. They’d gone into the meadow, trying to find the exact middle of the field, where they lay in the thickest patch of sweet clover. On the verge of adolescence, they began to count stars, soaking up the serenity of the night. Suzy lost count after two hundred or so, but Nellie reached four hundred, maybe because her eyesight was sharper than her sister’s.

  Sighing now, Nellie adjusted her head covering, making sure it hadn’t gone cockeyed or gotten stuck with hay. That had happened to her once before on one of her first hayrides last fall, a time when she’d had no real interest in any of the boys on board. Tonight, though, it was hard not to think of Caleb, whose furtive glances delighted her heart and made her think foolish, romantic thoughts.

  Nellie tried to keep her smile in check. What was it about Caleb—his whole face appeared to light up when he looked at her.

  She and Suzy had occasionally talked about their opinions on boys and love. Nellie remembered one particular afternoon right after the New Year, six months before Suzy died. The two of them had closed themselves away on a dismal and cold afternoon, cozy and comfortable under the old quilts piled on their bed.

  Suzy’d had a room-spinning headache, including nausea. Nellie could hardly tend the bakery shop, hating the thought of Suzy sick and all alone. Finally she’d pleaded with Mamma to let her spend some time with Suzy, promising not to catch whatever it was her sister had.

  As she’d slipped under the quilts beside Suzy, her sister had moaned, opening her eyes. “Ach, now I won’t be able to meet my friends tonight,” Suzy had whispered. “Not with this awful headache.”

  “Meet who?” Nellie had wondered if she meant a group of more progressive Amish youth.

  Suzy squeezed her eyes shut against the pain. “Oh, Nellie, I’ve gotta tell you something . . . my greatest secret.”

  Bracing herself, Nellie covered her head with the top quilt, but Suzy promptly sighed and changed her mind. “Maybe I’d better be tellin’ my diary instead.”

  “Ach,” Nellie said, emerging from the quilt covering, “I’m listening, honest I am.”

  By then, though, Suzy seemed put out. She went silent on her, a far cry from the way she usually behaved, always chattering and living to the full, pushing the light at both ends of the day.

  To think such an energetic, jovial girl had died at dusk, her lungs filling up with lake water at the moment of sunset. Had Nellie kept Suzy from boating that day, Suzy would still be alive and sitting right here beside her, leaning back in the hay, saying she’d given up on counting stars.

  Oh, Suzy . . . will I soon know your great secret? The whole truth about you?

  Breathing in the splendor of the night, Nellie thought back again to the night she’d buried the diary. Suddenly she recalled a detail she’d forgotten.

  There had been a honeysuckle bush sending out a glorious, sweet aroma nearby. Its scent had registered even as the fading sunlight had made blurry prisms of her tears.

  Pushing her hands into the straw, she sat straight up, her mouth gaping open. She might have said something right out into the cold air had she not remembered she was riding with thirty or more teenagers on the hay wagon.

  I know where I buried Suzy’s journal!

  Caleb sat in the far corner of the hay wagon, as close to the edge as he could get, dangling his legs as the road passed beneath his feet. He’d worn his older brother’s shoes, embarrassed of his own, so thin were the soles. His father had asked him to make do for yet another month, “till the snow flies,” and he’d agreed. Where Daed was concerned, he was agreeable to a fault.

  The rumble of the wagon wheels shot right into his hips, but Caleb didn’t mind. He was used to the jolts of wagons and farm equipment . . . of life in general. But now things were going to be mighty different—here he turned to cast a fleeting look at his darling. Already Nellie Mae was precisely that to him. As soon as they turned eighteen next year, he would love and cherish her till death. Then he would claim the land that was rightfully his, and his parents, who were ready to be free of the toils of farming, could move into the larger Dawdi Haus, while Mamm’s parents would move to the smaller built-on addition. He and Nellie would enjoy life together as husband and wife in the big farmhouse, smackdab in the middle of the two older generations. There he would do his best to ease her sorrow and brighten her day, and they would live and love and create their family as the Good Lord saw fit.

  Caleb twisted a piece of straw between his thumb and pointer finger, staring at it, then sliding it between his teeth. He looked out across the field, aware of the silence beyond. Somewhere out in the dimming twilight was a stillness he longed for. Here on the rowdy wagon there was no place to be alone with his girl. He yearned to have Nellie in his arms, but lest his passion get the best of him, he must refrain. His older brother had not heeded that inner warning and was forced to marry before he was ready, premature fatherhood thrust upon him. The family secret had been well kept, and it had served as a powerful warning to Caleb and his siblings. To be sure, there were honorable and less than honorable boys among them . . . even riding now on this wagon. The same thing was certain of the girls.

  Suzy Fisher came ag
ain to mind, but he dismissed her immediately. Nellie had assured him Suzy was innocent of the sins attributed to her by the rumor mill.

  Caleb removed his felt hat and ran his hand through his hair. Courtship, as he saw it, was training ground for the union of man and woman under God. Regardless of the tales of Suzy’s Rumschpringe—whatever the whole of it—he loved Nellie.

  Caleb tossed his piece of hay straight out as he’d pitched paper airplanes at classmates in the one-room schoolhouse over on Churchtown Road, where students were both English and Amish. The worldly and the set-apart learning together.

  He sighed. The reputation of his future bride and her family was utterly vital, at least to his father.

  Right or wrong, Nellie’s my girl, he thought. I’ll worry about Daed later.

  Caleb was more talkative than usual this evening, and Nellie was intrigued by his stories of horses, especially his mention of Amish selling some breeds to racetracks down in Florida. “Can ya imagine such a thing?” he asked, appearing to stifle a laugh. “You wouldn’t think of paying money to see one of those races, would ya?”

  “More sensible ways to spend money, seems to me.”

  He nodded. “Jah. Yet there are Plain folk who deal in that. Daed says it’s wrong.”

  “I s’pose mine would say the same.” As closely connected to the world of horses as Dat was, Nellie’d never heard her father speak of this. To many of the men his age, horse races meant one thing: a big waste of money. Betting and gambling were of the devil.

  They headed straight for the millstream behind the old stone millhouse, going to sit on a wrought-iron bench not too far from the creek bank. “It’s so perty here,” she said, still feeling a bit awkward at first when alone with Caleb. Even though she longed to talk and laugh with him, the initial moments together took some getting used to, particularly after the hubbub of a youth gathering. They wanted to be near each other so badly but were both trying to balance that desire with propriety.

  “Our place, jah?” He slipped his arm around her.