The Tinderbox

by Beverly Lewis

  Earnest listened to the bishop’s sobering words in the stillness of the packed house, the air so very warm and stuffy.

  “Mahlon Zook’s death comes to us as an alarm bell—an important warning,” Bishop stated, his black leather Bible in his callused hand. “Ofttimes the end of life catches us by surprise.”

  At the word warning, Earnest had to remind himself to breathe. Mahlon would have entrusted me with his life, he thought. Yet I didn’t trust him with the truth.

  “A year ago, Mahlon would never have thought he’d be gone from us today.” Bishop John paused for a moment, his gaze scanning both sides of the crowd as a holy hush continued over the room. “Without a doubt, the Lord God has spoken through the death of our brother Mahlon, who desired that each of us live a life pleasing to our heavenly Father in word, deed, and thought.”

  Just then, Earnest recalled his effort to start the conversation with Rhoda—a conversation it was imperative they have. Yet since Monday night, he hadn’t tried to pick it up again and follow through with his plan to confess, using the distraction of Mahlon’s funeral as a sort of excuse. This failing annoyed him, and as this understanding merged with Bishop John’s words, he felt all the more frustrated.

  “Those of you who have not yet followed the Lord in holy baptism, I urge you not to put it off,” the bishop said, now directing his remarks to the young people in attendance.

  Earnest thought of his own children, especially Sylvia, who planned to be baptized this September, before her marriage. As far as he knew, she had never wanted to do otherwise, even prior to her engagement to Titus. The same held true for Ernie Jr., who was an obedient and loving son. While the day of Ernie’s baptism was still a ways off, Earnest fully expected him to take the kneeling vow at the first opportunity.

  Shortly thereafter, the second sermon began, this one given by an Amish minister from Bird-in-Hand who’d known Mahlon since childhood. The Gospel of John, chapter five, verses twenty-eight through thirty was the focus. “‘Marvel not at this: for the hour is coming, in the which all that are in the graves shall hear his voice, and shall come forth; they that have done good, unto the resurrection of life; and they that have done evil, unto the resurrection of damnation. I can of mine own self do nothing: as I hear, I judge: and my judgment is just; because I seek not mine own will, but the will of the Father which hath sent me,’” the preacher read.

  Sitting there, Earnest imagined almighty God requiring an account of his life, fiery eyes penetrating into his very soul. Bowing his head, he shook off the image.

  Yes, he regretted things from his past, but he also felt soul-sick at the rupture in his relationship with his only daughter . . . and knew he risked the same with his darling wife. Yet I owe Rhoda the truth.

  After the funeral, as the viewing recommenced, Earnest hung back with the non-relatives. Some folk, like Ella Mae Zook, paused a bit longer, and when Samuel Lapp and his married sons stood before the coffin, Ben, the youngest, pulled out a white handkerchief and wiped his eyes.

  As for himself, Earnest doubted he would ever see his friend on the other side of the grave. That was the worst of it. But here and now, he doubted that Rhoda could ever forgive him.

  “Der Graabhof is such a perty place. S’pose that sounds strange,” Sylvia’s cousin Alma said quietly as she and Jessie and Sylvia walked up the hill toward the cemetery. It was a place not just of repose but of peace; the age-old trees created a shimmering green shelter over the fenced-in sanctuary, its familiar landscape linked to grief.

  Sylvia agreed. “Mamma says that the more of our loved ones are buried here, the less difficult it will be for us to visit.”

  “Why’s that?” Alma asked, reaching for Sylvia’s hand.

  “Maybe because, as we grow older, there’ll be more people we love over in Glory than alive here on earth,” Sylvia said, looking at her cousins.

  Jessie nodded her head. “It’ll make us want to join them, too, one day.”

  Farther up the hill, Sylvia saw her mother with her own Mamm and with Aendi Ruthann, as well. Hannah was noticeably missing, as was Onkel Curtis, and Sylvia wondered what was wrong that Hannah had been homebound for so long.

  Sylvia saw Eva Kauffman with her daughters. Eva was helping her oldest sister walk over the uneven areas on the ground. Sylvia couldn’t keep her eyes off Eva, curious about her opinionated yet caring ways. What sort of Schwermudder would she be?

  Sylvia realized she hadn’t spotted Titus today, although she assumed he had been in the Zook barn with his brothers, since his father had preached the first sermon out there. She really hadn’t expected to run into him anyway, since the young men usually stayed together at such gatherings. Even so, she had hoped at least for a glimpse of him.

  At the graveside service, new mourners arrived, including English neighbors who hadn’t gone to the funeral. Amongst such a throng of people, it was hard for Sylvia to hear the minister as he read a hymn while the coffin was lowered into the grave and family members shoveled dirt onto it.

  Standing now on tiptoes, Sylvia spotted her father with Judah and Edwin Zook, their heads bowed before everyone present recited the Lord’s Prayer. At the words “Thy will be done,” a shiver went through Sylvia as she surrendered anew her will to the heavenly Father.

  When the prayer was finished, Dat shook hands with Mahlon’s brothers, his eyes glittering with tears. The Zook grandsons who had been pallbearers came over to shake her father’s hand, as well.

  They’re his family, too.

  Will things ever be normal again? Sylvia thought as she and her mother and brothers gathered in the front room for Bible reading and prayer hours later. The sun would be setting in another hour or so, yet Dat was still at work in his shop. Seeing Mamma’s serious expression as she gave the Bible to Ernie, Sylvia didn’t dare inquire as to why.

  It wasn’t the first time Ernie had read in Dat’s stead. There had been two other times that Sylvia remembered—once when Dat was sick with influenza, and another when he was out of town on business.

  Ernie picked up where Dat had left off last evening, reading from Psalm one hundred and thirty. “‘Out of the depths have I cried unto thee, O Lord. Lord, hear my voice: let thine ears be attentive to the voice of my supplications. If thou, Lord, shouldest mark iniquities, O Lord, who shall stand?’”

  Muted footsteps came into the sitting room, and Sylvia looked up to see Dat standing in the doorway. He was still wearing his for-good black trousers and best white shirt and black suspenders. But he looked downright miserable.

  “Keep reading, son,” he said, leaning against the casing.

  Ernie continued. “‘But there is forgiveness with thee, that thou mayest be feared. I wait for the Lord, my soul doth wait, and in his word do I hope.’” Ernie glanced up at Dat and frowned a bit, perhaps, like Sylvia, wondering why he wasn’t sitting down with them. “‘My soul waiteth for the Lord more than they that watch for the morning: I say, more than they that watch for the morning,’” he continued.

  Ernie read clear to the end of the psalm; then they all turned around in their seats and prayed the silent evening prayer, her father kneeling in his usual place next to Mamma.

  When they had finished, Sylvia waited to speak, curious whether her father might say anything to the family, as he often did, but he only mentioned having more work to do before he left the room.

  Ernie and Adam went out, as well, heading to the stable to clean the horse stalls, and Mamma sat back on the settee, fanning herself with the hem of her work apron.

  “Are ya hungry?” Sylvia asked.

  Mamma shook her head, looking ever so weary. “Not a speck,” she murmured.

  Certain her mother sensed something amiss, Sylvia felt uneasy.

  CHAPTER

  Twelve

  Late that night, Rhoda awakened, feeling overheated. She leaned up to push back the lightweight quilt and realized Earnest was missing. Shaking off her sleepy stupor, she slid her legs over the side of the
bed and fumbled around on the floor for her slippers.

  Downstairs, she saw no sign of him, not even in the spare room, where he sometimes had his forty winks after the noon meal. She hurried out the back door and across the porch to Earnest’s workshop door. There, peeking in the screen door, she saw her husband sound asleep, his head resting on his hands on the worktable, the gas lamp alight. He still wore his church clothes from the funeral, minus the black frock coat and vest.

  “For pity’s sake,” she whispered, going inside and inching her way over to him. With all the windows wide open and the screen door letting in the night air, the shop was cooler than their upstairs bedroom.

  Earnest’s breathing was shallow and held its familiar snuffle. Standing near, she wanted to touch his dark hair, stroke his neck, and coax him to bed, but he was clearly exhausted.

  Stepping back, she sighed, deciding to let him be. Sleep restores the mind and the body, she thought, feeling certain that Earnest was very much in need of that just now.

  Taken aback by the sight of her husband slumped in such an uncomfortable position, her gaze rose to the shelves above, the wood gleaming in the gaslight. Sylvia’s kept up with the dusting and cleaning here, she thought, then noticed a vacant spot on the very top shelf.

  Looking around, it crossed her mind that Sylvia might have moved Earnest’s family heirloom while dusting and then forgotten to put it back in its esteemed spot. Earnest placed the tinderbox there the day he set up shop, she thought, frowning. Never once has it moved.

  She went to put out the gas lamp, deciding to ask Earnest about it tomorrow.

  In the wee hours, Rhoda turned over in bed and stretched out her hand. Earnest was asleep right beside her. Knowing this made her feel more relaxed, and she fell back into slumber.

  Later, when sunlight seeped beneath the green window shades, she awakened to birds chirping near the eaves. Earnest must have gotten up earlier and dressed, leaving his bureau drawer partway open and his pajamas folded on the back of his favorite chair.

  In a hurry, she mused, picking them up and adding more laundry from the hamper around the corner from the dresser. Then she walked to the laundry chute in the hallway and dropped in the dirty clothes.

  I really need to sit down with Earnest, she thought, perplexed at his strange behavior the last few days.

  Sylvia washed up and dressed, relieved that Preacher Zook’s funeral was behind them. Then, heading downstairs and out the back door, she heard Uncle Curtis’s watchdog barking loudly and looked across the field. She didn’t see anything unusual, though she did spot her brothers out harvesting radishes and onions, no doubt talking in Deitsch as they worked in the early morning sunshine.

  When she crept into the barn, she was conscious of the sweet smell of new hay and the familiar scent of the road horses in their stalls. But Sylvia hadn’t expected to see her father washing down the cow’s udder, preparing to milk by hand. Quickly, she turned to leave, darting straight back to the house to make breakfast, hoping her father hadn’t noticed her.

  Rhoda rushed downstairs, where she found Sylvia already washing newly picked asparagus. “Guder Mariye,” she greeted her daughter.

  “Good mornin’ to you, too, Mamma. Dat’s out milkin’ Flossie, so I thought I’d come in an’ help you,” Sylvia said as she placed the asparagus spears on a paper towel to dry. “Oh, and the younger boys are still out pickin’ radishes,” she said. “Thankfully they were up early enough that they’ll have plenty-a time to clean up for school.”

  “Last day of school’s the thirteenth, the day before Ascension Day. How ’bout that?” Rhoda said, making small talk.

  Sylvia glanced at the calendar on the back of the cellar door. “That reminds me, I promised Titus I’d bake a couple chocolate sheet cakes for the gathering with die Youngie.”

  “Oh, they’ll like that.” Rhoda reached to grab her work apron from the hook. “Say, when are Alma and Jessie picking ya up for the jam-making frolic?”

  “Around seven-thirty.”

  “You’ll have a real gut time putting up rhubarb jam together.” Glancing toward the back door, Rhoda said, “Listen, I’ll be right back.” She wanted to catch Earnest alone in the barn, hoping Ernie was over in the stable just now.

  Hurrying across the yard, Rhoda hoped this would be a good time to talk. She slid the barn door open and closed it behind her as two gray cats scurried out of sight and the cow mooed. “Ach, hope I didn’t startle Flossie,” she said when Earnest glanced over at her.

  “She’s a little skittish today.” He frowned. “Everything all right?”

  “Do ya have a minute?”

  Earnest continued milking, the fresh milk squirting hard against the side of the bucket. “I always have time for you, dear.”

  Forging ahead, Rhoda began to say how worried she’d been about him, especially in the night. “When I found you asleep at your worktable, I felt awful sorry for ya.” She paused a moment. “And while I was there, I noticed your tinderbox missing. The spot where ya kept it was—”

  “I put it away,” Earnest said.

  His voice sounded so pinched, she hardly knew how to respond.

  “It’s a long story,” Earnest went on, the cow’s stream of milk beginning to slow. “And complicated, too. I started to tell you about it Monday evening.”

  “Ach, sorry I interrupted.” She’d regretted it later that very night.

  “Wasn’t your fault, Rhoda.” He shook his head, his voice so soft she could scarcely hear him now. “None of this is your fault.” He fell silent.

  “You’re not yourself, love.” She stepped forward. “Anything I can do?”

  Earnest shook his head again, and his solemn expression pained her. “Once the boys leave for school and Ernie heads to the Zooks’, we can talk more,” he said quietly.

  “Well, and Sylvie’s goin’ with Ruthann’s girls to make jam pretty soon,” she added.

  Earnest held her gaze. “Judah Zook and I are going to Bird-in-Hand, but not till this afternoon.”

  “Whenever it suits ya, then,” she offered, feeling strangely tense talking to her own husband. “I’ll be here.”

  “Jah, it’s best not to put this off.”

  The urgency of his words gave her goose pimples. “You’re not . . .” Her breath caught in her throat. “You’re not ill, are ya?” Solemn as he looked, the thought had just crossed her mind.

  Earnest shook his head. “Fit as a horse.”

  Rhoda sighed heavily. Then just what was gnawing at him?

  Sylvia enjoyed working alongside the other young women her age in the assembly line at the jam–making bee. Anytime she was invited to a work frolic, she jumped at the chance. Unlike most of the girls present here today, she’d missed out on having a sister.

  Currently, she and Alma were washing rhubarb stalks in the deep sink while Alma and Jessie’s cousin on their father’s side, Anna Sue, was over at the table chopping with another young woman from the district. All the while, there was chatter about next week’s Singing.

  Sylvia perked up her ears when she heard that the host family was including another small group of Youngie.

  “From Smoketown,” Anna Sue was telling Jessie, but all of the girls seemed to be paying close attention.

  “That’ll be fun,” Alma said, her big brown eyes bright.

  “Jah, some new fellas,” one of the girls said, which was followed by a peal of laughter all around.

  Sylvia smiled, glad she was settled with a beau. A fiancé! she thought, eager to see Titus again this Saturday.

  After a time, Alma brought up the fact that there had been over six hundred mourners at the funeral yesterday. “My Dat and his brother counted heads,” she was saying. “And when the People from other communities kept comin’, there was some talk that they might need a third location to accommodate everyone.” She glanced at Sylvia. “Did ya hear that, too?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “But I’m not surprised. There were so many inside the
Zooks’ house.” The bench she’d sat on had been overly crowded, with scarcely space to turn to kneel and pray when it was time.

  “If I was a church member, I know who I’d want to nominate for preacher next October,” Cousin Alma said right out, looking straight at Sylvia.

  Bewildered, Sylvia said nothing. Besides, it was too soon to talk like this—Preacher Zook hadn’t been laid to rest for even twenty-four hours—and the nomination process wouldn’t begin until St. Michael’s Day, October eleventh.

  Fortunately, Alma changed the subject and started talking about another canning bee to be held over at Lois Peachey’s. “Next Tuesday,” Alma stated. “So if you can go, let me know.”

  “It’ll be another gut day,” Sylvia said.

  “Wunnerbaar.” Alma smiled.

  Maybe Mamma will come, too, Sylvia thought as she continued washing the rhubarb.

  Refusing to surrender to the fear that lurked in her mind, Rhoda kept busy in the kitchen, even making time for an extra load of laundry. While the clothes were drying on the line, she baked an apple cobbler, one of Earnest’s favorite desserts.

  Around midmorning, her husband came inside and went to sit at the head of the table. He had removed his straw hat and sat with his hands in his lap. “I closed down the shop for the day,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The sign’s in the window.”

  Closed for the whole day? Rhoda had to wonder. She took coffee over and set it down in front of him, resting her hand on his shoulder. Earnest thanked her, put a cube of sugar in it, and stirred. “Do ya want a sticky bun, too?” she asked. “Curtis brought a dozen over this mornin’ from Hannah.”

  Shaking his head, Earnest raised his coffee mug to his lips, then glanced back toward the dim hallway leading to the utility room door. He set down his coffee and rose suddenly to close the back door.