With Winter's First Frost

by Kelly Irvin

  “Tell Zechariah I said hello.”

  Mary Katherine’s teasing voice floated around Laura like smoke that hinted at a fire in the distance.

  NINE

  “YOU BETTER WATCH OUT OR YOUR FACE WILL FREEZE like that.”

  Remorse for the remark immediately blew through Laura as she approached the front porch. The cold wind cut through her. Exhaustion, the children’s bickering on the ride home, or hunger served as her flimsy excuse for being mean to Zechariah. Even all three combined couldn’t be allowed to excuse her attitude. Day four of her mission to soften him up and she was the one being cranky.

  He didn’t respond. He simply continued to hull pecans from a large sack that sat on the bench next to him. He had pulled up a short wooden table to hold his tools. He took turns using side cutters, pliers, and then a skinny screwdriver to pick the remaining shells out. His gloved hands occasionally jerked and sent pecan meat flying, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  Or notice her and the children for that matter. Too busy scowling and cracking. Cracking and scowling. It wasn’t just his face that would freeze like that. His whole body would freeze. The afternoon sun sought the horizon and the wind continued to huff and puff. Gathering gray clouds, like dirty wool, threatened sleet or maybe even snow. Zechariah wore a woolen coat, thick pants, and boots. His black winter hat didn’t cover his ears, however, and his nose was bright red, his lips chapped, and his breath came in white puffs.

  Why not hull the pecans at the kitchen table or by the fire in the front room? Sheer stubbornness came to mind.

  Laura took a long breath of cold air and set Delia on her plump legs. She shifted the weight of the packages between both arms. Surely Zechariah hadn’t descended the steps into the basement. “Did Christopher bring that bag up from the basement?”

  Zechariah’s arm jerked. The pliers flew from his gloved hand and pinged against the porch railing.

  He growled. The scowl transferred from the pecans to Laura. “Don’t sneak up on a man like that.”

  “I didn’t sneak. Didn’t you hear me talking to you?”

  “I was thinking. I had a hankering for pecan pie.”

  As if that explained everything. Still, it was a tiny half step in the right direction. “I’ve been told my pecan pie is decent.”

  “No rush.”

  “Are you sure—”

  “Hand me the pliers.”

  “If you don’t take my hand off with them.”

  “I promise not to inflict any harm.”

  She let go of Delia’s hand and started up the steps.

  “I want nuts.” Delia scooted up the steps on her hands and knees like a kitten. Dried leaves stuck to her brown mittens. “Nuts, nuts.”

  “I’ll tell Christopher we’re here.” Samuel raced past his sister. “I can help him unhitch the horse.”

  “Pick up the pliers first for your great-grandfather and be sure to wipe your boots on the rug.”

  Samuel did as he was asked, but he didn’t waver in his determination to share his adventures in town with big brother.

  “Don’t slam the—”

  The door slammed.

  “You want a pecan, do you, Delia?” Zechariah made a big show of studying the half-full orange plastic bowl. “I see one here that has your name on it.”

  Eyes wide, Delia stared at the bowl as if trying to see what her great-grandpa saw. He selected a small piece and held it out.

  Delia’s lower lip protruded. She eyed the pecan and then her great-grandpa. Zechariah wiggled his fingers. He popped the meat into his mouth and made a big show of chewing. His eyes rolled back and he rubbed his stomach. “That some gut eats.”

  Delia squealed and jumped up and down. “Mine, mine. I want nuts.”

  Zechariah obliged by holding out another pecan. “Better hurry or I might eat this one too.”

  “Nee, mine.” Delia shook her head and plucked the pecan from his gloved fingers. “It’s gut.”

  “Gut.”

  The two nodded at each other as if in cahoots over something valuable that only they could understand.

  “More, I want more.” Delia held out her hand a second time. “Nuts.”

  “One more.” Laura didn’t want to sever the sweet connection between the two. “If you eat them all, I won’t be able to make pie. Do you like pie, Delia?”

  The little girl nodded. “Mudder’s apple pie.”

  It always came back to the center of Delia’s world. Mommy.

  “You can help me make the pie.” She offered a smile to Zechariah. “If Zechariah will let us have the pecans he’s hulled.”

  He returned the smile with one of his own. “Help yourself.” He held up the bowl.

  Astonished, Laura opened her mouth and then shut it. Zechariah had a beautiful smile with a set of even teeth that surely were still his own. A lot to be said for that in a man his age. Now she remembered what Marian saw in young Zechariah.

  If looks counted for anything, which, of course, they didn’t.

  After a few seconds, his eyebrows shot up. She remembered to shift her packages so she could take the bowl. She managed not to spill the pecans. Aware of sudden heat on her cheeks, she hurried toward the door, Delia her little shadow.

  “Your hands are full.” Zechariah stood and opened the door for her. “One of your grands is here. She’s been waiting awhile. She said she didn’t mind.”

  His neutral tone told her nothing of what he thought of this visitor or her decision to wait.

  Tamara. She’d saved her old grandma a trip to Ruby and Martin’s farm.

  The sound of squeaking buggy wheels and horse hooves thudding made her stop and swivel. Zechariah still held the door but he, too, looked back. A buggy with some of Zechariah’s sons on board halted by the front porch.

  “Visitors for you.” Laura was pleased at the idea, but Zechariah didn’t seem happy. “Be sure to invite them to supper. There’s plenty.”

  “Elijah and Michael checking up with me.” He grunted and pulled the screen door wider. “Looks like Ivan is with them. I’m surprised my dochders didn’t show up too.”

  “I’m sure it’s more to help out with chores for Benjamin than it is to check on you.” She didn’t bother to try to keep the tartness from her voice. “Don’t forget to invite them to eat supper with us when they’re done. I’ll make hot kaffi to warm them up. And start the fried chicken.”

  Not everything was about Zechariah Stutzman, even if he did seem to think it was.

  How many men did it take to water and feed horses, pigs, chickens, and a couple of milking cows? His cane secure in one hand, Zechariah trudged down the steps to Elijah’s buggy. His grandson Michael, one of the few blond, blue-eyed offspring in the Stutzman family, waved and slipped from the back of the buggy. Ivan hoisted himself from the passenger side. None of them spoke.

  “What brings you out here so close to dark?” Zechariah had a suspicion, but he kept his tone light. “Not enough work at your places?”

  “I told you. We all told Ben we’d give you a hand. David’s down with the flu or he would’ve taken a turn tonight.” Elijah stomped his feet, rubbed his hands together, and then blew air on them for good measure. “It’s a mite cold for so early in winter.”

  “It is winter.” Zechariah stalked past them. With God’s help he wouldn’t fall flat on his behind in front of them. “I’ve got work to do.”

  “Did Christopher feed the chickens?”

  “I reckon.”

  “I’ll chop some more wood.” His tall, thin frame bent against the wind, Michael headed that direction before Zechariah could speak up. “It looks low.”

  Not really. He’d just restocked the day before. Never mind. “Laura says to stay for supper. She’s making fried chicken.”

  “Sounds gut.” Ivan shoved the barn door open and led the way inside. The corners were beginning to get dusky. “We’ll earn our keep first.”

  “No need. What’s on your mind?”

  El
ijah grabbed the pitchfork and tossed hay into the horses’ stalls. He did it with such ease. He’d been a skinny boy who ate like a horse. Now middle-aged, he was broad through the chest and had the beginnings of a paunch. His hair had gone white far sooner than his older brother’s. Both had Zechariah’s brown eyes, but only Ivan had resorted to glasses—so far.

  “Nobody wants to go first?”

  Ivan snapped up a strand of hay and chewed on the end. “Me. I’ll go first.”

  “Then do it. I’m old. I don’t know how much longer I’ll be around.”

  “It’s words like that—”

  “He’s just trying to get your goat.” A light sheen of sweat shone on Elijah’s forehead despite the winter air. “We’ve been talking with David, and we think you should move in with Michael and his fraa.”

  Zechariah inhaled the comforting scent of hay, dust, horse, and manure. He had been in Ben’s house for nine months. Before that, Esther’s for six months. Seven months on his own after Marian’s death. His symptoms during her illness had been kept from her. She knew he had Parkinson’s but not that it had progressed toward the end of her illness. She had enough challenges of her own. His children decided—not him—that he shouldn’t be alone as the symptoms continued to progress. They went with him to the doctor. They convinced him he could no longer take care of his daily needs on his own. “I won’t be moved around like a piece of furniture or livestock.”

  “That’s not our intent.” Elijah handed the pitchfork to Ivan, who pitched hay into the next stall with even less effort than his younger brother. If it was their intent to add insult to his injury—which it wasn’t—they were doing a good job. “Ben and his fraa have their hands full. Rosalie is coming home in a few days with the boplin. She can’t lift anything heavy. They’ve already got the three little ones.”

  His sons weren’t adding up the entire equation. They’d failed to include Laura. Laura with the sharp gaze and crackly laugh. With her obsession with tea. The maker of biscuits so flaky they nearly floated. The owner of sharp, green eyes.

  Zechariah grabbed the stall railing to steady himself.

  “What? Are you all right?” Ivan laid his hand on Zechariah’s shoulder. “We don’t mean to upset you. We want what’s best. We want to make sure you’re comfortable.”

  “I haven’t outlived my usefulness yet. I need to work. I can work. You seem to think I’m an invalid.”

  “No one thinks you’re an invalid.” Elijah’s soothing tones said exactly that. “We know Mudder’s time had come. Even so, we know you miss her. And with Robert passing too—”

  “No need to dig up the past.” He forced the words past the knot in his throat. He never talked about Robert. A father should not outlive his children. But the longer a man lived, the more loved ones went on before him. His wife. His oldest son. Sweet special daughter Martha. His three older brothers gone. His two older sisters. His parents. Life often seemed a series of births, weddings, and funerals. Until they became an indistinguishable blur. “I’m no different than I was before. Gott will take me when He is gut and ready. In the meantime, I can’t keep moving every time there’s a hardship.”

  Both men were silent. Brownie shook his head and whinnied. Another country heard from. Elijah tugged at his beard. Ivan wrinkled his nose and rubbed his forehead. They wanted to confer, it was easy to see, but didn’t want to talk in front of him.

  “Don’t forget Laura’s here.”

  “True, but she’s . . .” Elijah’s voice trailed away.

  “Old too?”

  “I think we should ask Ben about it.” Ivan hitched up his pants. “Why don’t you get some oats for the horses? We’ll give them a treat to go with the hay. How are the pigs doing? Enjoying the cold weather?”

  “So you haven’t asked Ben if he wants me to go?”

  “Nee, he won’t ever say that. He’ll do his part. He never complains.”

  “You’re right about that. But I don’t want to be a burden to anyone. Let me move into the dawdy haus.”

  “That won’t work. But you can check on the pigs if you want. Or feed the chickens.”

  Grunting like an old pig, Zechariah dunked the bucket into the bag of oats and gave the horses their treats. Let the boys check on the pigs and feed the chickens.

  He needed to stay in one place. He needed a home.

  TEN

  THE GIRL WAITING IN THE KITCHEN WASN’T TAMARA. Hannah, great-grand number ten, had a way with words and loved to tell stories since she was a first grader on Laura’s lap on cold winter nights. She was also the spiker everyone wanted when they chose sides for volleyball teams.

  When Laura had settled the pecans and her packages on the table, Hannah had been washing dishes at the kitchen sink. In the twenty minutes since then, she’d talked about everything under the sun—how big Delia was getting, how cold it was, how were the twins, and how good the pumpkin cookies smelled—except why she stood in Rosalie’s kitchen washing dishes.

  Laura handed Delia another piece of white construction paper to draw on and patted her silky cheek. “Now draw me a picture of your kitty cat.”

  Delia nodded enthusiastically, as she had done when asked to color a cow and a horse, and went to work. It would last about two more minutes. Then the crayons would be on the floor and Delia on the run.

  No answer from Hannah, who still faced the sink. “Don’t you get enough dirty dishes at home?”

  Hannah’s shoulders sagged. She sank against the counter, her back to Laura. A sob burbled in the air.

  “What’s the matter?” Laura trotted to her. “Ach, kind, tell me what’s going on.”

  Hannah darted into Laura’s arms with such abandon she had to take a step back. “I’m so glad you’re here. Where have you been? I needed to talk to you.”

  Had she forgotten she had a visit from Hannah on her calendar at the dawdy haus? Did Hannah share some terrible problem with Laura that only a seventeen-year-old could have? A problem Laura now couldn’t remember?

  Hannah was the granddaughter of Aaron and Deborah, daughter of Seth and Carrie, a carrot-topped Englischer who’d joined the faith many years ago before marrying Seth. Truth be told, Laura kept a genealogy tucked in her German Bible on the kitchen table so she could keep them straight. Right next to the list of all the babies she’d delivered. Her memory wasn’t what it had once been.

  No shame in that. Seventy-three years on this earth called for a lot of memories tucked into boxes and baskets of her old attic of a brain. Some flew away on the night wind, but others were too precious to be released.

  “I have to get supper.” She nudged Hannah back so she could examine the girl’s blotchy face. Acne mixed with her freckles. Her blue eyes were red rimmed. “But you’re welcome to stay and help. You can eat with us. Zechariah has a hankering for pecan pie. I thought we’d have fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy. You can bring up a jar of corn from the basement.”

  “Okay.” Hannah wiped at her face. “But I’m not very hungry.”

  “I’m hungry.” That from Delia. “I want a cookie.”

  “No cookies. Color.”

  Hannah did look a little green around the edges. Concern rolled through Laura. “Don’t tell me you have that flu that’s going around. I don’t want the kinner to get it with the babies coming home one of these days.”

  “Nee. It’s not that.” Hannah’s cheeks flamed red. Her gaze slid to the floor. “Mudder and Daed are mad at me.”

  “About what?”

  Hannah went to the table and opened the first bag. “I like this material. I thought you weren’t sewing anymore.”

  “My dresses.” Delia took a swipe at the material. Hannah shook her finger at her and returned the material to the bag.

  So it was like that. Laura turned to the cabinet and gathered the ingredients for the piecrust. “Why don’t you start on the pecan filling while I make the crust?” Sometimes it was easier to talk without eye contact. “Once it’s in the oven, we’l
l start on the chicken.”

  The sound of her rubber soles on the wood floor said Hannah had consented to the plan. She came to the counter and picked up the pecans. She didn’t speak.

  Laura measured the flour, salt, and lard. She went to work cutting the lard into the flour and salt. She sprinkled in a tablespoon of water and tossed the mixture with a fork. Another tablespoon. She didn’t want it to be too dry or too wet. Just right, like the bear’s porridge. Flaky piecrust was her specialty.

  It should be after sixty-five years of making it. Her mother’s scent of lavender floated in front of her nose. The scenes rolled through her mind, her mother showing her how to use the rolling pin. Her mother teaching her to knead bread. Her mother clapping in delight when Laura’s first cinnamon rolls came from the oven puffy and fragrant. All those lessons all those years ago.

  “I can’t believe your daed and mudder are mad at you.” Laura rolled the dough from the bowl and laid it on a floured cutting board. She gently flattened it with a rolling pin. “Especially during your rumspringa.”

  No one spoke of those rumspringa activities.

  “This one can’t be forgiven.” Hannah’s voice quivered, rose, and broke. “I’ve brought shame on myself. I’ve shamed them.”

  “All can and must be forgiven.” Laura stopped rolling. “Ach, kind, tell me.” She moved to Hannah’s side and stilled her hands. “Tell me.”

  Hannah’s face crumpled. Her hands went to her flat belly. “I can’t. I can’t say it.”

  The truth of the matter hit Laura with a force that sent her breath reeling from her lungs. “Ach, kind.”

  Hannah ducked her head and sobbed.

  Delia skipped over to Hannah. “Don’t cry, Hannah.” She patted her hand. “It’s okay. My mudder is coming back. I have two baby sisters.”

  The sobs grew louder. Laura picked up Delia and took her back to the table. “Why don’t you color a picture for Hannah? It’ll make her feel better. We’ll turn it into a card, and I’ll help you print your name on it.”