The Parting

by Beverly Lewis

  “Oh, I don’t mean to take up your time,” Rosanna said quickly. “I’m simply here for a bootie pattern, if you have one.”

  “You must be knittin’ some for your cousin Kate’s wee ones, jah?”

  Rosanna nodded, feeling peculiar not telling Maryann the full reason for why she wanted the patterns.

  Nellie’s sister-in-law’s face was a rosy pink now, and perspiration was evident on her forehead. Her disheveled light brown hair looked as if it needed a good washing. Even a solid brushing would help.

  Will I look this schtruwwlich as a mamma? Rosanna wondered, recalling how admiring her husband was of her. She would not want to dampen Elias’s enthusiasm, so to speak. It would take some doing, but she hoped to remain attractive for her darling even with twin babies to care for.

  Maryann placed the dough in three pie plates and pinched the sides all around. She glanced up at Rosanna, her countenance serious. “I’m worried ’bout our bishop,” she said softly. “Imagine the good man being so sick so far away and all.”

  “He’s still under the weather?”

  “Jah, word is he’s too ill to travel.”

  Rosanna noticed the angst in Maryann’s eyes. “I hadn’t realized ’twas that serious.”

  “So I’m told . . . but I don’t know much. Only what Ephram says.”

  Rosanna was not very fond of Nellie Mae’s staid big brother. “How’d he hear?”

  Maryann frowned. “Well, I really shouldn’t say.”

  Rosanna nodded without prodding further. She understood that tone and look.

  Maryann put Becky down to play with her sister and some empty spools for thread. She slid the pies into the belly of the cookstove. “Now, then, you’re here for some bootie patterns?”

  “Jah.” But as Maryann hurried out of the room, leaving her with Becky and Katie, Rosanna suddenly felt concerned. She had an irresistible desire to ask the Lord God to help their bishop, older man that he was. Some of Elias’s friends in another church had made such prayers, and she thought it a wonderful-good idea to beseech the Lord for protection and care. And, in this case, for the bishop’s healing.

  So she bowed her head and prayed silently, trusting their heavenly Father to hear and answer. When she was done, the little girls were still sitting near her feet, babbling and laughing, draping the strung-together spools on each other’s arms.

  Rosanna daydreamed, wondering what her life might be like in two short months. As a mother, she was ever so sure she would be praying daily for her children, just as she had for the bishop. Even if secretly.

  Slipping the loop of the rope over the colt’s sleek neck, Reuben led it around the training track. Glancing up, he noticed that one of the martin birdhouses high on a post near the back of the house was listing to one side. He’d have to fix that before spring.

  As a boy Reuben had helped his father build many a martin birdhouse; the six-sided “apartment style” was the most popular among their family and neighbors. They’d given them away as gifts, although Reuben knew some Amish who built them for profit nowadays. His father had also placed several such birdhouses strategically around this very house to keep unwanted insects at bay. The whole family had watched the male martins with their blue-black feathers—gleaming almost purple in full sunlight—arrive in the spring, followed later by the gray, pale-bellied females.

  Reuben’s favorite thing as a curious child was to watch all the tiny beaks poke out of the many holes on the birdhouses he’d helped make. What fun it was to see the new hatchlings eventually fly away.

  Once, he and his father had banded a new bird to calculate its lifespan. They’d observed the same bird return for seven consecutive years, which his father had thought might be something of a record. Since that time, Reuben had read of purple martins living to be even nine or ten years old.

  Nine or ten years old . . . about the age Suzy was when she helped me build several birdhouses. “Course, that was before she decided she liked boys better than birds,” he said ruefully.

  Reuben clucked to the colt and watched as it picked up its gait, the memory of working beside his daughter giving him pause. It had been too long since he’d shared the tradition of making birdhouses with a child. He’d tinkered with the idea of making an extra-large birdhouse with his grandson Benny, James’s oldest. Perhaps after the harvest and the wedding season there would be time.

  An ambitious project for a six-year-old, but doable with some help.

  If his parents decided to go ahead with moving back to their original home place, he might just include his aging father in the birdhouse-making task. And if James joined them to help saw or sand or paint, there would be four generations of Fishers working side by side.

  Coming full circle.

  Leading the colt around the track a final time, Reuben contemplated the coming Lord’s Day, which might be the last peaceful one they’d have around here. Preacher Manny had informed him last night that Bishop Joseph was seriously ill and that Reuben should refrain from writing to ask permission to hold Bible studies until their leader was better. Reuben felt stricken at the news, because he’d already sent the request to the bishop, inviting him and others of the ministerial brethren to join with Manny and himself. Reuben had figured there was no reason to exclude anyone, even though he doubted they would participate. On the contrary, they’d be appalled to think one of the preachers was involved, as well as Reuben, a member in good standing.

  “The timing is in God’s hands,” Manny had said, taking the news of Reuben’s letter well.

  Manny must think my request could worsen my brother’s health, Reuben thought now. How sick is Joseph?

  He stared at the side of the barn a stone’s throw from the training track, noticing a few places where the sun had beaten hard on the west side. He would see to it that either Ephram or one of the twins got it painted and right quick. It wouldn’t do to go into winter with any of the siding peeling, what with the harsh weather the almanac forecasted. While they were at it, one of his sons could right the birdhouse, too. He wasn’t quite as spry as he used to be on a ladder.

  It came to him that his sons might not be as ready to help as in the past once they heard of their father’s newfound belief. This great salvation has the power to unite or divide us all. . . .

  Reuben began to pray as he led the colt, asking the Lord to protect his close-knit family. “Bring all of them safely within the fold of your grace.” He sighed, mopping his brow with his hand. “And may we not lose another one for eternity, O God.” His voice thickened as he thought again of Suzy.

  Inhaling deeply now, he added a prayer for the bishop, both for renewed health . . . and for an understanding heart.

  Betsy and Nan chopped piles of carrots, celery, new potatoes, and onions to make a beef stew for the noon meal.

  “How’s Nellie Mae doin’ out there today?” Betsy asked, glancing out the window at the bakery shop.

  Nan shrugged. “Lots of customers for the middle of the week, I’d say.”

  “More than usual?”

  “Seems so.” Nan scooped up a handful of carrot chunks and dropped them into the black kettle. “Must be autumn’s in the air.”

  “Jah, the tourists flock in from all over, seems.”

  “Some from as far away as London, Rhoda says.”

  Rhoda knows of this? Betsy felt somewhat surprised that Rhoda should be privy to the comings and goings of such fancy people. “Your sister hears these things from the Englischers she works for?”

  Nan blushed, nodding. “Jah . . . and Nellie and I both hear a-plenty from the shop’s English customers, too, Mamma.”

  Betsy straightened. “Ach, I’m afraid of that.”

  Nan left the counter and went to the sink, washing her hands quickly. Her daughter often put a quick end to conversation whenever Betsy came close to touching on anything to do with Rhoda and her work outside the home. More and more young Plain women were eager to make money, cleaning for Englischers or working a
s nannies, but Betsy had a mother’s concern that permitting such things endangered the Old Ways. Betsy wanted to ask Nan if she, too, was thinking along the lines of getting a job, but she didn’t feel up to hearing the potential reply. What would be would naturally come; there wasn’t much stopping the young people once they got something in their heads.

  At least Nan seems mighty interested in good Amish boys, Betsy reassured herself. She had higher hopes in that regard for Nan’s future than Rhoda’s. At least, she had. Now she honestly didn’t know how this daughter was doing.

  “I don’t think you have a lot to worry ’bout where Rhoda’s concerned,” Nan said suddenly, interrupting her thoughts.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “ ’Cause I believe I know her.”

  “She’s not too taken by the world; is that what you mean?”

  “Not like Suzy was. . . .” Nan’s eyes grew wide and she covered her mouth. “Ach, Mamma, I’m ever so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up Suzy. Truly I didn’t.”

  Betsy had wept enough for one day. She turned to head for the sink to wash her hands, hoping Nan hadn’t seen her tears spring up.

  “Nellie’s sufferin’ something awful, too . . . over, well, you know.” Nan’s voice quivered.

  Betsy nodded her head, the lump in her throat nearly bursting. “We’ll all suffer for a long, long time, I daresay.”

  Nan sighed. “You and Nellie most of all.”

  Betsy leaned her head on Nan’s shoulder as her daughter placed a gentle hand on her back. “Nellie’s got to be in terrible pain, really.” She didn’t go on to say what she was thinking. Fact was, the two girls had been inseparable from the time Nellie had first attempted to hold her sister—Nellie had been nearly a baby herself at eleven months old. The pair had been much like twins, being so close in age.

  “Honestly . . . I think Nellie’s reading something of Suzy’s,” Nan whispered.

  “Oh?”

  “Jah, I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s her diary.” Nan looked sheepish.

  “You’re sure?”

  “Jah, looked like Suzy’s little diary to me.” Nan moved to the counter again to chop the last of the potatoes.

  Startled, Betsy considered whether Nan knew what she was talking about. Pushing the thought aside, Betsy dried her hands and set to working again. “Time you got back out and helped your sister,” she said at last.

  Nan chuckled. She finished quickly with the potatoes and hurried over to the sink to clean up once again.

  Betsy was glad to have the stew ready to go onto the fire. “Thank you, Nan. I love all my girls . . . ever so much.”

  Nan smiled. “I know you do, Mamma. I know.” With that she was off to assist at Nellie’s Simple Sweets.

  That one sure knows how to get me stirred up, Betsy thought, wondering again whether what Nan said was true. She’d known Suzy had kept a diary, but it hadn’t occurred to her it might still be around.

  Betsy thought again of the note Suzy had left for her. What else had her youngest written before she died?

  CHAPTER 24

  After supper and Dat’s evening Scripture reading, Nellie shut her bedroom door and pulled the diary from its hiding place in her side table drawer, under several Sunday hankies. Then, settling onto her bed, she tucked her legs beneath her and set the book in her lap, running her hand along its cover before opening the diary.

  I figured I couldn’t hold out till my birthday, so I bought this journal with some money I received for Christmas. Now that I’m nearly sixteen, I want to remember everything that happens to me. Especially the boys I meet once I’m old enough to go to Singings and whatnot all.

  Nellie smiled, torn between the satisfaction of hearing Suzy’s perkiness in the words she’d written and missing her even more because of it. Suzy’s writing was tiny and precise, like Suzy herself.

  Sighing, Nellie began reading again.

  Today is New Year’s 1966. I will faithfully write each day no matter how busy I get doing chores with Mamma, or Dat, who needs me to help curry the colts and tend to the chickens. Of course, there is always baking to be done for Nellie, as well, which I like best, because I love Nellie Mae so. She’s the dearest person I know, except for Mamma.

  When I’ve got time, I like sewing, too—and embroidering. Right now I’m stitching some pillow slips secretly for gifts, and I have some tatting started. Doilies will make nice surprises for my sisters’ hope chests. A hopeless chest, really, as far as Rhoda goes. I’m laughing a little as I write, which ain’t so nice, is it? And now I’m talking to myself! I just don’t understand why a boy hasn’t invited her driving after Singing or frolics—she’s always home long before either Nan or Nellie Mae. Rhoda’s as pleasant as the day is long, and right pretty in her own way. She’s a good cook, too, so she’d make a fine wife. It’s the strangest thing that no one else seems to think so.

  Nellie paused, dreading to read Suzy’s private thoughts further. She rose and went to the dresser, picking up the blue plate. “This feels like a betrayal,” Nellie whispered, her heart pounding ever so hard. “Should I continue?”

  After a while, she returned to the diary and began to read the third page.

  I remember hearing the snowplow before ever laying eyes on it. Awful noisy it was, grumbling up the road behind me, making a clean sweep ahead. In more ways than one I need a clear path, too.

  But finding that path seems nearly impossible. . . .

  The sky was a shining arc of cloudless blue and the roadway was piled with snow on both sides, forming a wide tunnel. Suzy didn’t mind whether the snow was knee-deep or plowed here on the road; she was having herself an adventure, headed to see her new friends this brisk January day. A wonderful-gut way to begin the year! she decided.

  Congratulating herself on being sly enough to slip away from the house following afternoon chores, Suzy picked up her pace. She wanted to be where she’d promised to meet her friends at the appointed time, so she clomped over the snowpacked road all the way to the intersection of Route 10 and Beaver Dam Road. She caught herself grinning because Jay Hess, so blond and good-looking, would be driving today, or so she had been told by several of his school friends. She’d seen him around school two years ago when she was still young enough to attend—the People didn’t go past eighth grade—but had never given him a second glance. That had changed when seventeen-year-old Jay spotted her walking in the square at Honey Brook before Christmas, enjoying her freedom and the fancy decorations. He’d asked her if she wanted to go for a ride in his car, and Suzy had smiled and accepted, eager for some excitement.

  Today they were all going to that same square to mill around and have some ice cream, since school had let out for the day for Jay and his friends. Dat would find her easy way with Englischers another argument for why Amish pupils would do well to attend their own schools, no doubt. A life set apart. She’d heard this said so much she was tired of it. Tired, too, of being expected to grow up “in the faith.” In short, Suzy was ready for some modern living, like some other Amish youth her age, though mostly it was the boys who pushed the limits. Boys got away with things girls could never get by with, like driving cars and hiding them from their parents.

  Suzy often wondered why her older brothers had never strayed from the People. Or had they just kept it hushed up once they decided in favor of the church?

  But no, she was mighty sure Benjamin, James, and Ephram hadn’t sown wild oats. It was harder to know about the twins, because Jeremiah and Thomas were so much older, going on thirty now. Even so, they’d married before twenty, as had all her brothers. Following the example of our parents by wedding young.

  Suzy knew she was being lured away from the Plain life by her own longing for freedom. She was reaching for a little heaven on earth, sowing her wild oats and hoping for crop failure, as some Plain boys would say.

  Truth was she liked Jay and his friends—both the girls and the boys. Not a single one looked at her askance because she wore humbl
e garb and pulled her hair back in a tight bun. They accepted her completely.

  Darlene Landis and Trudy Zimmerman were the most interesting of the girls. Jay had whispered to Suzy they were “only friends,” but when one day she’d heard Trudy talking to another girl about wanting Jay to kiss her again, Suzy’d gasped outright before she could stop herself. Even knowing that, she was curious about Jay and his ultra-casual way—what she supposed some called a “devil may care” attitude. If getting to know him meant associating with Trudy or anyone else he might have kissed, then so be it. She was not about to give up this chance.

  Gingerly now she made her way over the thick coating of snow, slipping occasionally as she went. Enjoying the brisk air and the sun on her face, she looked toward the woods south of the road. Trees flocked with light snow glistened in the late afternoon sun. She assumed the majority of school kids had hoped yesterday for a snow day today, but Suzy was thankful the weather hadn’t spoiled their plans.

  Presently she stood waiting at the junction of Route 10 and the road she lived on, glad for some wind shelter. Scooting up close to the wide trunk of an old oak, she wondered how long she might have to wait for Jay and his buddies. Assuming he would be along any minute, she breathed the icy air into her lungs and slowly exhaled.

  She began to shiver but not from being too cold. Waiting there, Suzy felt the edge of the precipice on which she’d been balancing. She could nearly see it before her as she leaned over as far as she could—and then some—knowing there was no safety net at the bottom should she fall. Neither Dat nor Mamma would approve of her plans today—Nellie, neither. Nor would they have wanted her going anywhere with Jay’s friend Dennis Brackbill, as she had for the past two weekends. Two long dates—two too many. Dennis was a fun-loving clown, but he had been reckless in his driving, even though she was in the car. No regard for a girl’s safety, she thought.