The Tinderbox

by Beverly Lewis

  I’ll be eating like a king when poor Mahlon hasn’t been hungry in weeks, he thought guiltily.

  Earnest’s visit to see Mahlon that morning had had every mark of a deathbed visit. Recalling it, Earnest leaned back in his work chair, closing his eyes. His friend’s words were still in his ears. “I wonder who the Lord will choose to replace me as a preacher,” Mahlon had said, motioning Earnest near his bed.

  Earnest realized the man was thinking ahead to the casting of lots that would take place if Mahlon should pass away. He had leaned closer to hear what more his friend had to say, assuring him that he was praying for his recovery.

  But Mahlon shook his head. “My dear brother in the Lord, be ready to pick up the mantle, if it should be Gott’s will.”

  Earnest had struggled to keep a poker face as he inwardly shrugged the notion away. “The People need you,” he had insisted. Not a man like me . . .

  Sitting to the left of her mother at the supper table, Sylvia couldn’t help observing her father after the silent blessing. He had surprised Mamma by being on time for the meal, but there was something off in his demeanor, and Sylvia couldn’t rightly discern what. While he seemed downright blue about Preacher Zook’s failing health, something else behind his dark brown eyes hinted at a deeper misery.

  Mamma passed around the baked pork chops, and Sylvia’s youngest brother, Tommy, just turned eight, soon began scraping off the browned bread crumbs mixed with onions and seasoning, muttering that he didn’t like his pork chop that way.

  The other boys—eleven-year-old Calvin, thirteen-year-old Adam, and Ernie, fifteen—snickered. Dat let it go, maybe not even noticing. His mind’s elsewhere, Sylvia thought.

  Calvin spoke up to ask when Tommy was getting a haircut. “’Tis gettin’ mighty long . . . an’ curly, too,” he said, his eyes dancing while he seemed to hold back a laugh.

  Dat smiled a little then and scratched his wavy brown beard. “Say, I had curls like that once,” he told them, looking at Mamma. “’Course, I didn’t have a bowl cut when I was Tommy’s age.” He chuckled. “I missed out on that.”

  Sylvia smiled.

  “Well, you need a haircut, too, dear,” Mamma said, surprising them. By the looks of it, this took Dat off guard.

  He flipped his hand through the back of his hair and laughed a little. “Been too busy, I guess.”

  Right then and there, Mamma scheduled Dat and Tommy for haircuts on the porch tomorrow evening. “Can’t be puttin’ it off any longer,” she said.

  Tommy pulled a face and reached up to tug one of the curls Calvin had complained about earlier, but Mamma had spoken, and that was that.

  “Tell us more about what it was like growin’ up English, Dat,” Calvin said, taking his table knife and fork to his pork chop.

  Instantly Sylvia was all ears, hoping to hear something about Dat’s family—especially his younger sister.

  Dat glanced at Mamma, then back at the boys. “Well, it wasn’t nearly as much fun as you and your brothers are having, I can tell you that.”

  Adam’s smile was nearly identical to Dat’s. “Ya mean, you never had a mouse run up one pant leg and down the other when you were little?”

  Dat shook his head. “Nope. And I didn’t learn to bow hunt or help plant a big potato field, either. None of that.” He made the saddest face just then, comically shaking his head in mock dismay.

  Sylvia smiled. Truth be told, Dat had acknowledged numerous times the many things he’d missed out on—churning butter, playing corner ball, building a chicken coop, or going through eight grades of school at a one-room schoolhouse. His growing-up years had been so different from everything Sylvia knew, there were times when she wondered how Dat could not miss the fancy life.

  I’m glad he doesn’t!

  “See? You kids have all the fun,” Dat said, using one of his favorite expressions, and Mamma nodded as she sat there eating and enjoying the silliness.

  “Seems to me we get all the hard work, too,” Ernie said, rubbing his forehead.

  “Hard work puts meat on your bones,” Dat said, “and builds strong character.”

  “What do curls do?” With a grin, Calvin turned to look at Tommy’s hair. “Make ya look like a little kid?”

  “Now, son,” Dat chided.

  Sylvia didn’t say what she was thinking, which was that, with such a mop of hair, their baby brother somewhat resembled a girl.

  “In the blink of an eye, Tommy will be a young man,” Dat told them.

  Tommy beamed like he’d won a foot race.

  “But looking young is a gut thing.” Dat grinned at Mamma. “Just take a look at your pretty Mamma here . . . still as youthful as the day I met her.”

  “For goodness’ sake,” Mamma said, blushing as Dat lightly touched her cheek.

  Sylvia had never heard any other person talk like Dat did. Scarcely anyone amongst the People would call another person pretty, not right out. But she couldn’t deny appreciating the way her parents treated each other, like a young couple still in love, different from most other couples their age. It seemed an awful lot like Dat was still courting Mamma. Why, there were moments he looked at Mamma the way Sylvia sometimes caught Titus looking at her.

  She had to wonder if this was because of her father’s upbringing, raised outside of their cloistered world and only becoming Amish in his twenties. Listening now to Dat’s familiar teasing, she couldn’t imagine having more fun around the table at any of their kinfolk’s homes, or with any other family for that matter—Plain or fancy. And Mamma and Dat’s enjoying every minute of their time together made Sylvia dismiss the notion that her father had been troubled earlier.

  CHAPTER

  Two

  After the last of the dessert dishes and lemonade glasses had been washed and put away downstairs in the kitchen, Sylvia had turned in early, saying her familiar “Sweet dreams, Mamma and Dat” as she hurried to her room with a book tucked beneath her arm. Now that the boys were also in bed, Rhoda gave Earnest a back and shoulder massage, sometimes rubbing his neck beneath his dark brown hair.

  The gaslight flickered on the walls of this large bedroom where Rhoda and her husband had loved so dearly, and where she still hoped to conceive at least one more baby. She had often wished for another baby girl, but seeing as their youngest was already eight, Rhoda wondered if five children might be all the Lord had planned for them. In that moment, she thought how wonderful it would be to sit and rock another little one in the old rocker passed down from her grandmother. Her heart ached for her youngest sister, Hannah Riehl Mast, who’d suffered a miscarriage last week. Her second in two years . . .

  Rhoda kept kneading her husband’s shoulders and neck like bread dough, smoothing away the lumpy knots. “You’ve been awful tense lately,” she whispered. “Ain’t so?”

  His answering murmur was more like a sigh.

  “It’s been years since you’ve taken even a little time off work.” She hoped Preacher Zook’s illness wasn’t the reason Earnest was so stressed. Her husband was a giver who was always doing for others and dropping everything to help anyone in Hickory Hollow who needed looking after or just befriending. Through it all, Mahlon Zook had been the one person he turned to outside their family. And when the time came for Mahlon to take his last breath, Earnest’s clock making would likely become his solace . . . that and his family, of course. She just hoped he wouldn’t lose himself in his work like some folk seemed to do during hard times.

  When she’d finished the massage, Earnest rolled onto his back and took her into his arms. She smiled in the dim light. “Who would I be without ya?” she asked softly.

  “Shh, my love,” he said, kissing her cheek, her forehead, her eyelids. “Rhoda . . . my sweetheart.” His lips met hers.

  The background of night sounds—someone’s mule in the distance and a light wind in the trees near the eaves—began to fade as Earnest’s kisses became more ardent.

  “I love you so,” he whispered, and if she wasn’
t mistaken, his cheeks were damp with tears.

  For the life of her, she could not remember a time when their hours together had been so tender. It was as if her husband’s heart was breaking.

  Before breakfast the next morning, after he had hauled hay down from the barn loft for the livestock—one cow, two driving horses, and the field mules—Earnest plodded back to the house and sat down on the back porch steps, Mahlon’s words repeating in his mind. “Be ready to pick up the mantle, if it should be Gott’s will.”

  He leaned forward, his hands pressed against his temples, trying to dismiss what his friend had said. Truth be told, Mahlon doesn’t know everything about me. . . .

  Earnest raised his head and looked toward the field that separated his house from the Zooks’ brick farmhouse with its abundant rose arbors—the latter one of Mahlon’s pet projects—and something welled up. He had an impulse to rush over there again to look in on his dying friend, now in the painful last stages of stomach cancer. But it would be selfish to disturb the household at this early hour, and on a Saturday, too.

  Mahlon’s impending death—and the possibility that Earnest could be nominated for the drawing of lots—had stopped him in his tracks and made him think about things he had not previously considered. Or if he had, he’d pushed them far into the recesses of his mind.

  Getting up from the steps, he walked out to his red two-story barn, climbed up the long ladder to the hayloft, and perched himself on the edge. Earnest looked at the rope swing far below and shuddered as the past crashed down upon him.

  Rhoda watched her husband through the kitchen window after breakfast that Saturday as he hitched up to run an errand. Without even a wave, he leaped into the spring wagon and rattled down the drive to Hickory Lane. She found it peculiar, since he always made a point of running inside to kiss her good-bye when he was leaving the house.

  She shook it off, refusing to dwell on it. Not after last night . . .

  Just then, Sylvia came downstairs from redding up her room and asked what she could do to help in the kitchen. “I was thinking we could bake some cookies or sticky buns for Aendi Hannah . . . and Uncle Curtis, too.”

  “Nice idea,” Rhoda said, glad her daughter had suggested it, as they were fairly caught up with indoor chores. “We’ll make snickerdoodles, Hannah’s favorite.”

  So, while Sylvia wiped the kitchen counter, Rhoda set out the mixing bowl and gathered the ingredients. She hoped the cookies would put a smile on Hannah’s face. Since the sudden loss of her baby, her dear sister had kept her shades drawn and wasn’t eating much. This worried Rhoda no end. Hannah’s in desperate straits.

  Rhoda began to make a generous batch of cookie dough. “Some cheer-up cookies will be just the thing to give me an excuse to look in on her,” Rhoda said, noticing again how very perky her daughter looked these days—brown eyes sparkling and a nearly perpetual smile on her dear face.

  “Sounds good. I’ll be headin’ to see a friend in a little while myself,” Sylvia said as she measured the vanilla for the cookies.

  “Will ya be back for dinner at noon?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “Not today, nee.”

  “Oh?”

  “Gonna have a picnic.”

  Given the pink tint to her daughter’s cheeks, Rhoda was curious to know more. “Ain’t picnic weather yet, is it?”

  “Well, the sun’ll be shinin’ right nice by noon. Besides, we’ll be picnicking in a gazebo.”

  Furtively, Rhoda made a mental list of the neighbors who had gazebos. But as much as she wished her daughter would reveal what was up, Rhoda kept her peace and didn’t probe further. When Sylvia was ready, she would tell her more. Meanwhile, she may have already mentioned something to Earnest. The two of them have always been so close.

  Rhoda had thought of inviting Sylvia to go along with her to Hannah’s, but Rhoda knew her sister wasn’t herself at all, and Sylvia would sense something more was amiss. Heartbroken and fragile as she was, Hannah didn’t want the miscarriage to be known even amongst her nieces. Most folk just think Hannah’s been under the weather. . . .

  Dear Hannah had been four months along this time, and Rhoda prayed for wisdom to help bring her sister out of the doldrums.

  Sylvia was staring at her. “You look awful sad, Mamma.”

  “Just thinkin’.” Rhoda tried to put on a more pleasant countenance, wanting to keep her sister’s secret.

  “Well, let me know if there’s anything else I can do.” Sylvia removed the cookie sheets from the cupboard and greased them with freshly churned butter from their neighbors over on Cattail Road.

  After they scooped out balls of snickerdoodle dough, rolled them in cinnamon sugar, and placed them onto the prepared cookie sheets, Rhoda opened the hot oven. “You really don’t have to wait around for these to bake, Sylvie.”

  “Denki, Mamma.” And without another word, Sylvia flew toward the stairs to change clothes—or so Rhoda assumed.

  How unusual to meet a beau for a noontime picnic, Rhoda thought, then smiled to herself, remembering the thrill of falling in love.

  On the drive over to Amos Kauffman’s in Dat’s enclosed family carriage, Sylvia passed the old water wheel just up the way on Hickory Lane, there near the grassy streamside beneath the stately trees, and recalled her father pointing it out to her as a little girl.

  As the carriage rumbled along, Sylvia reveled in the sight of dozens of flower beds bursting with golden-yellow snapdragons, as well as the sweet perfume of lilac bushes lining the roadside. There were times when the wondrous sights and sounds of nature made her want to stop and fall to her knees to pray. She wondered if anyone else ever felt so moved; it was as if the Lord was trying to say something to her through His creation. Could it be a sign of His blessing over her and Titus’s growing love? Might he propose marriage today? Or perhaps the invitation was simply meant for her to get better acquainted with his family.

  Mamma will soon know I’m seeing Titus, if Dat hasn’t told her already. . . .

  Presently, she looked around her at the Kauffmans’ front yard, a sure slice of heaven. The immense rolling lawn leveled off to a small pond encircled by a narrow walkway that Titus and his brothers had created years ago, and neighboring trees towered over ducks, Canada geese, and two swans. Taking in the loveliness, Sylvia thought, If I weren’t Plain, I’d want our wedding to take place right here.

  She caught herself and felt a bit shamefaced. Such flights of fancy would never do. Once she joined church this September, she would have to keep her musings in check.

  Hearing footsteps on the gravel lane, she saw Titus coming to greet her. And by the enormous smile on his handsome face, she sensed that something really wonderful was about to happen. Oh, she could scarcely wait!

  CHAPTER

  Three

  Willkumm!” said Titus, looking handsome even in his work clothes as he offered a hand when she stepped out of the carriage. The sandy brown hair peeking from beneath his straw hat looked recently combed. “It’s wunnerbaar-gut to see ya, Sylvie!”

  She smiled, touched by his enthusiasm. “You too. A nice day, ain’t so?”

  “The best, now that you’re here.” Titus offered to unhitch the horse and lead it to the stable for water. “Mamm’s waitin’ for ya on the back porch,” he said, giving Sylvia a quick peck on the cheek after checking to make sure no one was looking. “She has a surprise.”

  “Do I get a little hint?”

  Titus smiled mischievously. “It’s somethin’ you’ll love. And that’s all the hint ya get.”

  Even more curious now, Sylvia made her way the short distance around the walkway, where Spanish bluebells bloomed on the side closest to the house. Reaching the porch, she called a hullo to round-cheeked Eva, then asked, “Wie geht’s?”

  “Gut, Sylvia. It’s so nice to have ya with us. Kumme join me.” Eva motioned her near, sitting there barefoot in her purple dress and black apron. She even wore her white organdy Kapp, which, like most women, she pr
imarily donned on Sundays for Preaching or for going visiting, and its long white ties hung down the front of her dress bodice. “How was the ride over?”

  “Just fine.” Sylvia sat next to her on one of the several wooden porch chairs.

  “Did ya notice our new baby ducklings?” Eva asked. “They hatched just yesterday.”

  “Not yet. I’d love to see the fuzzy wee critters . . . and to go walkin’ along the perty path near the pond sometime.”

  Eva nodded and beamed. “Maybe you an’ Titus can go together today.”

  Sylvia shouldn’t have been surprised at how talkative and welcoming Eva Kauffman was. After all, being a preacher’s wife meant that she spent a lot of time with womenfolk in the church, as well as counseling couples with her minister husband. Eva was a natural at it.

  Eva reached into her quilted carryall, which hung on the back of the rocking chair. “I’ve been working on a little something for your hope chest.” She reached in and brought out an embroidered dresser runner. “Titus says you like tulips.” Eva handed it to her.

  My favorite flowers. Sylvia’s heart beat a little faster, realizing that Eva surely knew before today that her son’s interest in her was serious. She ran her pointer finger over the stitching. “It’s so lovely. Denki.”

  “I chose different colors for the clusters on each end of the doily.” Eva described how she’d worked on it evenings a little bit at a time while the girls redded up the kitchen. She offered Sylvia the carryall, too, for the runner’s safekeeping.

  “How thoughtful,” Sylvia said, accepting the gift and folding it carefully before placing it back in the carryall.

  “Been wantin’ to do something special.” Eva began to rock again. “Titus thinks the world of ya.”

  Sylvia felt embarrassed. “He’s a truly wunnerbaar fella,” she said, catching the delicious scent of barbequed chicken. The tantalizing smells coming from the nearby kitchen prompted her manners, and she offered to help with food preparation.