The Parting

by Beverly Lewis

  She nodded, glad to lean her head on his shoulder.

  Caleb talked of the weather, wondering if there would be any much-needed rain before winter’s snows. Then he brought up the hog-butchering frolic the Saturday afternoon after next at his uncle’s house. “’Tis over near Cains, a little south of here. Several families are donating meat to the ministerial brethren. I’m goin’ to help hang the large hams and shoulders. Are you goin’?”

  She sat up straighter. “Um . . . s’pose I could.”

  “What, Nellie? You don’t like watchin’ the slaughtering?”

  She cringed. “It’s the smell I can’t abide.”

  He chuckled, “Well, some of my brothers will cut out the intestines and wash them so that you can stuff ’em and make sausage.” He was clearly amused.

  “I wouldn’t mind helpin’ grind meat, maybe. But better get someone else to stuff the sausage.”

  He laughed softly. “I don’t know too many Plain folk who are squeamish ’bout that.”

  She had to laugh, too. “Guess I’m better suited to workin’ with flours and spices and such.” She looked at him; even by the dim light of the moon, his eyes seemed to twinkle.

  “Mind if we walk a bit?”

  She agreed and he reached for her hand as they strolled through the black trees along the creek bank, their feet making soft padding sounds on the soil.

  Hours later, after Caleb’s fond “Gut Nacht!” at the end of her lane, Nellie felt almost too tired to put one foot in front of the other—they’d walked and talked that much. But deep within, where Mamma said the soul of a person resided, she was skipping with delight. Caleb had been ever so thoughtful again, making it known he wanted her by his side for all the upcoming youth get-togethers. She had herself a true beau.

  One who will never break my heart. Not like Nan’s.

  She thought again of Nan and how happy she had been tonight. Was it because of Rebekah’s friendship? Between Rebekah and Rhoda, Nan had her share of confidantes. Nellie wished her older sisters might sometimes include her, in spite of the age difference. Now that Rosanna was preparing for a baby—twins!—Nellie felt even more alone. Of course, she had Caleb, but it was a completely different sort of sharing than one did with a sister or a girlfriend.

  Noticing a light in her parents’ bedroom, she was stunned to think her father was still up reading. With that in mind, she crept all the way back around the barn, lest she cause a racket and send her father outside.

  There, just inside and hanging on the high hook, Nellie Mae spotted Dat’s lantern, essential for her late-night task. Tomorrow’s duties would start in a few hours, with all the extra baking required after their Lord’s Day and the washing to be hung out on the line.

  No time to waste . . .

  CHAPTER 22

  Reuben had started writing the letter to the bishop more times than he cared to count, the crumpled-up pages of lined paper lying like popcorn balls on the bedroom floor. Remarkably, Betsy had slept through it, dear wife that she was.

  I’m putting my family in jeopardy, he thought. We’ll be lumped in with those wanting tractors!

  Going to the window, Reuben stretched his arms. Was he doing the right thing by writing to the weary man of God? Word had it his brother had fallen ill out in Iowa. What kind of man am I, putting this on him, too?

  Certainly in the eyes of the Lord he was doing right by requesting the Bible studies. Pleasing God was Reuben’s focus now. He would gladly give all he had to follow Him.

  My aging parents are coming to live in a house with their soon-to-be shunned son. He swallowed hard, blinking back the tears that threatened his sight. How had Cousin Jonathan and his family survived thus far? His sons, all farmers, held as firmly as their father to their newfound belief. Yet Jonathan’s parents and grandparents were strongly opposed, as staunch in tradition as most older relatives were expected to be. Still, when a man chose to wholly follow the Lord, as Jonathan had, the family often followed close behind. Reuben had seen this before among the People.

  He had much to ponder. Going out in the hallway to pace the floor from one end of the long corridor and back, he could hear daughter Rhoda snoring softly as he moved past her room. Nellie Mae, on the other hand, didn’t seem to have returned from the evening’s event. Evidently she was still with a beau.

  He smiled, recalling his own courtship of dear Betsy. Like a sunrise, she’d appeared in his life. He still remembered the pleasure of seeing her eyes light up for him that first time.

  I’m a blessed man, Lord. And I ask you this night for yet another blessing. . . .

  Without intending to cause a ruckus, Reuben planned to sit down with his father and lay out what he’d learned about salvation by grace. After nearly a lifetime of believing you worked your way to heaven, Reuben now knew the Bible’s position on the matter. Naturally there would be plenty of room for the Plain way of doing things, so well ingrained now, but Betsy and the girls, at least, must accept the whole of the gospel, too. He prayed it would be soon.

  What his Daed might say would make no difference to Reuben’s path, but his father would have a choice to make: His parents could reside here in the Dawdi Haus as expected, or they might prefer to live with one of Reuben’s other siblings who would remain in this church district, after the dust settled.

  What will my sons choose to follow? What of their wives and children?

  He thought again of young Emma, so much like their Suzy at that age. Would she grow up to know the Savior? Would any of his precious grandchildren?

  These questions occupied his mind, taunting Reuben as he wore out the rug.

  It was pointless to try to sleep after nearly an hour of staring at the window in his room, watching for the first hint of dawn. Any rest eluded Caleb. So he rose, dressed, and went on foot a ways, traveling a mile or so east. He had to walk off his pent-up energy, though he would be dog-tired at first light. Time to put his interest in Nellie Mae into some logical perspective. Yet how could he hope to accomplish that by walking to her house and standing out in the trees along the road? Caleb looked up at the many windows under the eaves, wondering which one belonged to her. In order to shine his flashlight on the right window, he must know . . . should the day come to ask Nellie Mae to marry him.

  He knew there were young people in other church districts farther north who practiced bed courtship—Bundel. Here it was frowned upon, although he’d heard enough stories to know some of the older folk had practiced bundling—grandparents and the like. Some of them were now the same outspoken elders who were trying to hold the line against tractors and other worldly pressures.

  What was acceptable for an engaged couple was a visit to the girl’s bedroom, where, in most cases, she had a small couch in the far corner. He’d never seen a girl’s room, except his sisters’ at home. Most likely, Nellie’s was especially neat, just as she was. It would smell mighty nice, too, no doubt.

  Nellie had confided in him earlier tonight that she and Suzy had shared nearly everything as sisters, including their room. This revelation had him even more curious than before. That and another offhand comment from one of Susannah Lapp’s friends.

  He hoped Nellie Mae was quite certain about her sister’s behavior. Suzy was even mentioned in passing among the local boys.

  Truth be told, Caleb was attracted to Reuben Fisher’s third daughter like a parched man to cold spring water. Not only was he fond of Nellie, he wanted to shorten the time between their dates. He wished the seasons would fly, too, bringing next year’s baptismal Sunday around right quick—and, not long after that, his and Nellie’s wedding day, Lord willing. He could envision Nellie baking her delicious pastries in his own mother’s kitchen, greeting him with her endearing smile, and holding their little ones someday, too.

  I’ll write her a letter, Caleb decided, knowing his father would advise him to slow down—and right quick.

  The tree stump made an ideal lampstand. Lowering the heavy lantern onto it, Nellie was
glad for the wide swath of light the oil lamp provided. The right honeysuckle bush had been relatively easy to locate, thanks to the ancient stump next to it. The pyramid-shaped sweetgum tree, its leaves showing traces of the purple-red it soon would be, was the other familiar landmark.

  As she dug, Nellie thought of Caleb, wondering what he would think of her up here doing man’s work. He might be impressed at her strength, though she was not even half as strong as any of her five brothers. Course, he’d be mighty curious ’bout what I’m up to.

  She kept reliving their date. How would she possibly wait another whole week before laying eyes on him? She wondered if it would be too forward to write a note—make a little card for him, maybe. Yet if she let herself express the things she was eager to say, she might embarrass herself.

  No, best not to pick up a pen at all.

  Nellie’s shovel bumped into the dirt-caked plastic she’d wrapped around the diary. Quickly she leaned down to retrieve it from its earthy hiding place. Gently brushing away the soil, she unwrapped the book and wiped it with the hem of her apron.

  She clung to the journal, relieved to see it remained in good condition. “Suzy . . . oh, dear sister. What people are saying ’bout you.”

  A sudden fear welled up as she contemplated what might be revealed within these pages. Suzy had recorded her honest thoughts, surely never thinking someone other than herself would be reading them, even someone who loved her dearly. Nellie was the sole protector of Suzy’s intimate reflections . . . of her dreams. Perhaps of her sins, too. Here between the hard covers of her sister’s journal was the disclosure of what had pulled a good Amish girl toward the world.

  Dare I read it?

  Still gripping the diary, Nellie reached for the lantern, suddenly aware of the dancing shadows, the way the light, adequate for digging, now played insufficiently against the darkness . . . the predawn gloom. She lowered her hand and shivered as uncontrollably as she had at hearing that Suzy’s life had been snuffed out. Hugging the diary, she felt grateful for its recovery and somehow closer to her dead sister. Then, making a pouch from her apron, she carefully tied the book into the fabric. Reaching again for the lantern, Nellie Mae slung the shovel over her shoulder before picking her way through the woods, the fatigue of having been up all night—and the weight of what she might soon discover—creeping into her bones.

  The attic extended the entire length of the house. Given that Betsy hadn’t mounted the creaky steps in months, she decided to organize a bit, her other morning work caught up for a while.

  Time to chase away some dust bunnies.

  Reuben was out training his new colts, giving them commands on the track behind the barn, and the girls were working in the bakery shop or, as was the case with Rhoda, for their English neighbors. So Betsy headed to the attic to redd up, hoping to locate several older quilts that might prove useful with Reuben’s parents coming to live there. Of course, her mother-in-law, Hannah, would bring a good many quilts of her own, but with the cold of winter on its way, one could never have too many.

  Mammi Fisher’s multicolored antique quilts were of exceptional quality, especially the sixteen-patch quilt, with its bold reds, purples, and deep blues, handed down from the 1880s on the Fisher side—Reuben’s grandmother’s handiwork. Suzy had once spent several days with Mammi Hannah taking in the stories behind the quilts, the quilting frolics, and the womenfolk who had gathered to make them.

  Betsy had not forgotten the bright-eyed wonder on Suzy’s face upon returning home. “I saw me some wonderful-gut stitchin’, Mamma!”

  Suzy . . . my little quilter.

  She gave in to her tears, there on the narrow attic steps. She leaned her head on the wooden railing, sobbing. More recently she had not allowed herself to be overtaken with grief, although her husband likely thought otherwise. Why else would he continue to be so worried as to steer her clear of the bakery shop, where she might break down at hearing condolences offered by loyal customers? More than likely that was why Reuben had put the nix on her helping Nellie.

  Drying her eyes with her apron, Betsy made her way to the landing and into the large attic room. She laid down her feather duster and surveyed the place. Over in the far corner, she spotted the old family trunk and lifted the lid wide. She peered into the depths of her collection of heirloom quilts, astonished to see an envelope with To Mamma printed on it in Suzy’s hand.

  “My, my, what’s this?” She reached for the envelope, and for a moment she merely held it. “For goodness’ sakes,” she whispered, choking down more tears.

  Looking on the back, she saw that her youngest had written, Just another little note from me to you. Love, Suzy.

  “Was she planning to give this to me and forgot where she hid it?” Betsy said into the dim light.

  It made no sense . . . unless Suzy had placed yet another note somewhere—something she’d enjoyed doing. Still, why would Suzy leave it in the quilt collection, as though hoping Betsy might find it?

  She couldn’t bring herself to open it, and she set the envelope aside while selecting two large quilts for winter, deciding she would ask Reuben to take them downstairs later. She then began straightening stacked boxes, making sure the lids were fastened tight. Several old chests needed dusting and she took care of that right quick, also tackling the cobwebs near the dormer windows.

  When she was satisfied things were more orderly, she returned to the quilt trunk. Eyeing Suzy’s note, she stood there, overwhelmed at this unexpected gesture of love. She felt a strange chill, as if she might be coming down with something. One of Suzy’s favorite places to play as a child, besides outdoors, had been this very spot high in the house. Betsy sighed, remembering the way her youngest had liked to hide here with a book or some needlework. Or her diary.

  Even as young as five, Suzy could be found up here chattering to her faceless dolls, all of them lined up on a trunk or chest, making each speak by changing the sound of her own voice.

  Betsy stared at the envelope, lip quivering now, thinking of all the evenings sixteen-year-old Suzy had left the supper table ever so quick. Why’d you go and run off like that? I scarcely ever knew where you were.

  She thought of Rhoda, who went off now quite as often herself. Same thing seemed to be happening with her, only Betsy knew where she was most of the time—at least she thought so.

  “Ach, go on, open it,” Betsy told herself. She needed a dose of courage this minute, despite yearning to hear Suzy’s voice in the words she’d written.

  When did she pen this?

  Betsy reached for the envelope and opened it.

  Dear Mamma,

  Look under the bottom quilt in this trunk to find a surprise . . . an early birthday present.

  Lots of love,

  Suzy

  Betsy smiled. “What’s she got under there?” she muttered, leaning down to lift one quilt out after another. She smelled it even before she’d spotted the small purple pillow, its seams handsewn with tiny, even stitches. Betsy realized it was one of Suzy’s special sachet pillows filled with lavender, marjoram, and crushed cloves. Suzy had named her clever creation a “headache pillow,” something she had kindly made for several sisters-in-law during their pregnancies.

  And also this one, for me. . . .

  Kneeling before the wooden trunk, Betsy pressed her nose into the face-sized pillow and wept. Suzy was always doing such thoughtful things. Our little darling.

  After a time, Betsy rose and began to replace each handmade quilt, mindful to keep them wrapped in heavy tissue paper for protection. Then, closing the lid, she sat down, staring first at the lovely pillow, and then at the note.

  A verse she’d secretly memorized came to mind. For God sent not his Son into the world to condemn the world; but that the world through him might be saved.

  The meaning was ever so clear—the Lord would not have condemned Suzy to hell if she had belonged to Him.

  If . . .

  Sitting there, she recalled other verses
Reuben had requested that she read, verses he himself was committing to memory. She had carefully done so, often many times over. She was deeply sad—sorry even—about the way she’d lived so long in the dark, thinking the hard work she did for her family and community might give her a better chance of heaven someday.

  I could only hope before . . . now I can know.

  “But, oh, dear Suzy. . . .” She sighed, wishing the Lord God had brought this spiritual light to her Reuben before that dreadful June day. She was torn, not knowing what to think about all of it—or much of anything she’d been taught.

  Bowing her head, Betsy prayed, “O Lord, I want to be counted as your child.” She pressed Suzy’s note against her heart. “Take my sins far from me. I want to follow your Son, Jesus, no matter what it means for Reuben and me. Or for our family.”

  Just please let me see Suzy again . . . someday.

  CHAPTER 23

  From the moment Rosanna arrived at Maryann Fisher’s house, she felt on edge. Both the Fisher toddlers were crying—wailing, really—and dishes were piled high in the sink. She didn’t know why she was so naerfich today. She assumed it had started with Cousin Kate’s visit Thursday—all the talk of the twins and Kate’s seeming reticence. It had permeated Rosanna’s dreams since. Didn’t every mother long for twins? Elias was excited about the possibility of sons. Of course, there was the unspoken concern, for him, that Kate’s babies might turn out to be daughters. Every Amishman wanted boys, and as many as possible, but Rosanna secretly longed for a little girl.

  Now that she was here, she reached for sniffling Katie, attempting to soothe her cries, swabbing the runny nose with her own embroidered hankie, making sure she did not wipe the child’s tender nose on the side with stitching. “There, there, honey-girl,” she whispered, rubbing the curve of her lower back and feeling the small spine.

  One day I’ll do the same to quiet my own children. . . .

  “You’re so good to help,” Maryann said from across the table, balancing even smaller Becky on her right knee, jiggling her up and down as she rolled out dough for three pie crusts. “As soon as I get these pies in the oven, I’ll sit and chat.”