As we filed outside, where the early March sunshine was putting on a surprising and most welcome display of the approaching spring, every face wore a smile. I stepped from the porch to the grass, and a herd of children ran past me, their delighted laughter filling the air. Mark and Luke raced after the older ones, intent on keeping up as they galloped toward the barn.
“We have a new litter of kittens,” a familiar voice said behind me.
I turned to greet Josiah, with whom I’d not spoken before the service. “That explains the excitement.”
“I warned them to take care. That barn cat doesn’t take kindly to people approaching her kittens.” He shook his head. “No doubt we’ll see blood drawn before the day is over.”
Bishop Beiler exited the house, scanned the gathering, and when he caught sight of us, headed our way. With a nod at Josiah, he addressed me. “Seth, I want to speak with you. You are aware of Laura King?”
I’d heard Mamm and Saloma discussing the sad news only the day before. Laura, the daughter of one of the families in our district, had been enjoying her rumspringa for several months. Last week Laura had shocked the district by running away from home. Her parents found a letter on her pillow in the morning, telling them she had decided to leave the Amish.
I scanned the crowd gathering on the grass as more people exited the house. Susan King stood in the center of a small knot of women. She held a handkerchief to her eyes, her shoulders heaving, and my own mamm rested a hand on her arm in a gesture of comfort.
“Ya, I know of Laura.”
The bishop rocked back on his heels, hands clasped behind his back. “We are going on Tuesday to bring her home. I would like you to come with us.”
“She has decided to come back?” I had not heard that bit of news.
Bishop Beiler’s lips tightened. “Not yet. But she will.”
Now I understood. When a young person chose to leave the Amish, it was the district’s responsibility to convince them of the error of that decision. No doubt Laura had already received letters written by many in our community. In fact, that was the conversation I’d heard yesterday. Saloma had written a letter to Laura, telling her how her absence had affected the entire district and particularly Laura’s parents. If the campaign of letters from those who loved her and were concerned for her failed to bring about a change of heart, a delegation was often sent to try to persuade the lost sheep in person.
“I don’t see what I have to offer,” I told the bishop. “She barely knows me.”
“You are respected and liked more than you know. You can speak of the comfort of the Lord through faithful adherence to our ways.”
Ah. Now the reason for my inclusion became clear. Because I had experienced tragedy and remained faithful, my opinion might hold some weight. At least that was the bishop’s hope.
Was I seen as having a strong faith among my community? I glanced at Josiah, who wore a thoughtful expression and whose head nodded slowly as though in agreement with the bishop’s explanation. Did no one know how often I had questioned my faith after the loss of my wives? How often I still did?
The bishop’s gaze became piercing. “I believe you should join us.”
In other words, the invitation was not one I could refuse. Accepting the inevitable, I nodded. “Ya, I will go. Of course I will.”
He smiled. “We will pick you up at eight. Laura is in Philadelphia, so I expect to be back before the evening meal.”
The drive would be less than two hours each way. Laura had not gone far from home, which could mean she was reluctant to desert her family and her community completely.
The bishop’s gaze focused on something behind me, and he left with a determined step. I turned to see him approach Abigail Schrock, no doubt to recruit her for the same mission.
“That was a surprise,” I said to Josiah.
He cocked his head and peered at me from beneath the round brim of his hat. “It shouldn’t be. You’re the perfect person to go, for several reasons.”
Something about the way he spoke set off a flicker of concern. “What reason besides the one he gave?”
“You really don’t know? Laura was riding home from the singings with Daniel Schrock. Now Katie Zook rides home with Daniel.”
He indicated a place to our right with a jerk of his forehead, where Daniel and Katie stood a good distance apart from everyone else. They stood close together and, as we watched, Daniel lifted his head and laughed at something Katie said. Their attraction for one another was obvious to anyone who happened to glance their way.
I turned back to Josiah. “So Daniel threw Laura over for Katie. What does that have to do with me?”
“Seth.” Josiah spoke softly. “Laura is now without a prospect for a husband.”
His meaning slapped me like a physical blow. I reared back and stared at him, incredulous. “Do you think the bishop intends me to court Laura King?”
“It has been discussed.”
“Discussed?” Now I was incensed. Was I a topic of conversation among my community? “By whom?”
My friend shrugged. “Ella said it has come from several sources.”
I could not believe what I was hearing. Josiah’s own wife had participated in gossip about me, her husband’s friend? “But Laura is a teenager, little more than a child.”
“She is twenty. You are twenty-six. The age difference is nothing.” His tone softened. “It has been a year since the accident, Seth.”
Hot anger rose up inside me. I spoke through clenched teeth. “Do you think I don’t know exactly how long it has been?”
Compassion flooded his face. “Of course you do. I didn’t mean to suggest otherwise.”
So it was not only my family who had decided I’d had enough time to grieve. My entire district apparently believed grief expired after one year.
Well, I would put a stop to their scheming. Josiah was my closest friend. Let him be the messenger.
“I do not intend to marry again. Ever.” I looked him directly in the eye. “Please tell Ella to do me the favor of informing her sources.”
Josiah looked at me, shaking his head. “You may think so now, but you will change your mind.”
Seeing pity so clearly in the eyes of my friend fanned the anger smoldering inside me into full flame. My hands clenched into fists.
“I know my own mind, and it will not change,” I retorted with more volume than I intended. “I won’t marry again. I have no right to do that to another woman.”
Josiah’s eyes widened, and I snapped my mouth shut. I hadn’t intended to say that. My anger had gotten the better of me. I wasn’t prepared to discuss my deepest guilt with anyone. From the look on Josiah’s face, he was about to prod the issue, something I would not allow. Before he could reply, I turned on my heel and stomped away.
I would wait in the buggy for the rest of my family. Alone. The way it should be.
Trimming my bowls turned out to be an exacting and extremely rewarding task. Once again I sat next to Elias and watched him closely as he demonstrated.
“It is important to center the bowl on the wheel.” He lifted one of his bowls from its bat and placed it upside down on the wheel, then began to kick. “Concentric lines on the wheel help, but again, you must develop an eye.”
The spinning bowl looked perfectly centered to me, but Elias rested a hand on the rim of the basin and extended a finger until the tip barely touched the clay. Using that technique, I saw that his fingertip did not touch the bowl consistently, but one side moved slightly away. He stopped the spinning and made a slight adjustment to the bowl’s placement. After repeating that process several times, he sat back with a satisfied smile.
“Now you do it.”
My bowl, which had been so pliable and soft in my hands on Saturday, had hardened somewhat. The clay felt firmer, and though I could still press it inward if I applied pressure, I was able to place it upside down on the wheel without fear of damaging the rim. Of course it took me three
times as long to center my bowl than it had Elias, but eventually he gave me a nod. We then pressed small pieces of clay onto the wheel on three sides of the bowl to hold it in place while we worked.
I learned to apply a faceting tool—a new word for me—to trim away the excess clay on the bottom of the bowl. Clay carved away in ribbons as I created the foot on which the finished bowl would rest. Elias demonstrated the proper way to apply a soft rib—another familiar word with an unfamiliar application, this one for a rubber wedge with rounded edges—to smooth out the foot and the sides of the bowl.
That finished, Elias said, “Now you must mark your work.” He picked up a wooden-handled metal pick and, with a deft movement, carved his initials and the year into the bottom of his bowl.
I retrieved my own pick and sat staring at the neat bottom of my bowl. What should my potter’s mark be? Initials, like my teacher? No, I could not mar the perfectly smooth clay by carving my initials into it. Something else representative of me, then. But what represented me? A cow to indicate my work as a farmhand? Inwardly, I indulged in a sarcastic laugh.
I leaned over the piece on my wheel, lowered the pick, and carved a straight line. In my mind rose an image of Rachel on our wedding day. A distance away I carved another line, a picture of Hannah laughing at something I’d said so clear my heart twisted. In the center of the two, I carved a third line, this one a diagonal slash that did not quite touch the other two. I was the lopsided line, hovering in the middle, no longer anchored on either end. Drawing in a deep breath, I blew it out slowly as I set down my tool.
Elias inspected my mark for a long time. Finally, he gave a nod. “I like the simplicity.”
So did I. An immense feeling of satisfaction settled over me when I leaned back to inspect my work. “It looks like a real bowl.”
Elias laughed. “It is a real bowl, and a fine one.” The laughter faded, and he eyed me sideways. “You have the touch, a feel for the clay. You could be a good potter.”
I was still attempting to battle a flare of pride when he lifted his head and shouted toward the showroom. “Leah, come and see what Seth has done.”
The curtain parted and Leah entered. I scooted back on the bench as she approached and tilted her head to inspect my bowl. Though her solemn expression did not change, I detected a slight…softening, perhaps? Was that her way of showing approval? A moment later my assumption was proven true.
“You did a good job.” Her low voice held a note of affirmation that set off an answering flutter in my stomach. I doubted if compliments came often from Leah’s scarred lips. Then the sardonic tone returned. “It would bring a good price as long as you don’t mess it up when you glaze it.”
Judging from the glance she gave me, she fully expected me to botch the glazing process.
Elias leaped to my defense. “He will do fine.”
I ignored both the accusation and the affirmation, and answered the first part of her comment. “I don’t intend to sell it. This will be a gift for my sister, Becky, for when she has a home of her own.”
“Then we must work on turning this bowl into a matching set,” Elias said. “After we trim the rest, we will have time to throw several more before your driver returns.”
I remembered his comment from Saturday, how he liked to trim the day after a piece was created. “I’m not sure when I can come back. Tomorrow I’m traveling to Philadelphia, and on Wednesday I’ll need to help my bruder with the farm after being absent for two days.”
“Philadelphia?” He raised his eyebrows. “There is a ceramic supply store there with a particular glaze I like. Would your errand in the city allow you time to bring back a gallon or two?”
Leah left my side and headed toward the front as I answered.
“I’m not sure. If I have time and the others don’t mind, I would be happy to. But I am going with a group to convince a young woman to come home.”
At my words, Leah halted and jerked around to face me. “You’re going on a delegation visit?”
The question sounded like an accusation. I returned her piercing stare with a curious nod.
Her lips twisted, making the scar appear more pronounced. “I will say a prayer for the poor girl.” With that she swept out of the room.
What did she mean? Not that she would pray for the success of our mission. Did she mean she would pray for Laura to be persuaded to the truth and return with us? From her sharp tone, I didn’t think so. It sounded as though Leah intended to pray that Laura would stand firm against us.
I turned to Elias, questioning him without words.
He shook his head slowly. “She experienced many such visits herself in the days when she went Englisch.”
“Leah was Amish?”
“Ya.” A sad expression rested heavily on his features. “My wife and I raised her in our faith when our son and his wife died. But she has suffered much, our Leah. In the end she chose to leave.”
“Wait.” I put a hand on top of my hat, trying to make sense of the words whirling through my brain. “Leah is your granddaughter?”
“Did you not know?” I shook my head, and Elias heaved a sigh. “The only one of our family who has rejected our ways. But she has not rejected us.” He cast an unreadable glance toward the closed curtain and continued in a soft voice that could not have been heard from the other room. “And we never cease to pray that one day she will return, embrace a Plain life, and be baptized.”
So many questions burned in my mind. What suffering had Leah endured that caused such damage to the faith of her upbringing? Was her scar a part of that suffering? And what of her relationship with Elias and his wife? Apparently, Leah had not yet been baptized when she chose to leave the Amish, which meant that while her family must certainly grieve her decision, she was not under the ban, and they could still associate with her, even eat with her. Still, most young people who rejected our way of life moved away so they could engage in worldly pursuits without the disapproving eyes of their families.
Elias had moved to Lancaster County from Ohio, where districts often adhered to an Ordnung much stricter than ours. I’d heard, for instance, that in some communities bicycles were not permitted or, if they were, that the tires may not be rubber. A visitor to our district a few years back had expressed surprise that we were permitted to ride in cars in the seat behind our Englisch driver. In his community, they were required to all ride on the passenger’s side, even in the backseat, lest the view from the driver’s side tempt them to drive themselves.
Had Elias’s district adhered to such a strict Ordnung that his relationship with his granddaughter was affected? Was that why he came here, to Lancaster County, to set up his pottery shop?
I might have asked some of my questions, except Elias rose from his bench and picked up the bowl he’d trimmed as I’d worked on mine. By his manner he dismissed the subject from further discussion.
“This”—he lifted the bowl—“is called greenware. It is a piece that is ready for the bisque firing.”
His attitude was once again that of the teacher instructing his student. Though my questions about Leah and the reason behind his move remained unasked, I had plenty more of a less personal nature.
“Bisque firing?” I repeated the unfamiliar term, weighing it on my tongue. Leah’s comment returned to me. “Because it is not yet glazed, I assume there is more than one firing.”
He nodded. “A pot is fired twice. The first firing dehydrates the clay, removing all remaining moisture, which changes the clay into ceramic material. A gradual increase in temperature is very important. If the kiln becomes hot too quickly, the water in the clay will turn to steam before it leaves the material, and the bowl will crack.”
I glanced toward the back corner of the room where the kiln rested. “How hot does it get?”
“Around one thousand seven hundred degrees. But slowly.” He held up a finger. “Very slowly. Then the pot is sintered, and the gradual cooling begins.”
I shook my head. S
o many new terms, I almost felt as though I should write them down in order to remember them all. “What is sintered?”
“That means the composite material of the clay has been transformed enough to fully adhere. Look here.” He set his trimmed bowl on one of the wide metal trays along the back wall and moved to a separate section to pick up a pitcher. Handing it to me, he said, “Feel the difference.”
Was this the same pitcher I’d seen on Elias’s wheel the day I brought the women of my family to shop here? If not, it was certainly similar. Having just trimmed my own creation, I turned it over in my hands, admiring the evenness of the sides, the uniformity of the thickness. The clay of which this pitcher was made had become chalky white and firm. I ran a finger down the sides, which felt smooth but not yet slick and polished like the ones in the showroom.
“It is hardened, but still porous enough to accept the glaze.” He took it from my hands and returned it to the shelf beside several other white pieces. “These are all ready to be glazed. The ones waiting for the bisque firing are kept there.” He pointed toward the shelf where he’d just placed his newly trimmed bowl. “Put yours there and get the next. We have more trimming to do.”
I did as I was told, eager to practice the trimming techniques I’d just learned.
Once again, Robbie’s appearance surprised me. I had trimmed all four of my bowls from Saturday and had thrown three more. Though I’d picked up speed, my technique still lacked Elias’s skill. Two of my new bowls were close enough in size and shape to my favorite from the previous batch, but I had not yet managed to achieve a set of four that matched.
“You will have to keep trying,” Elias said, his lips forming a wide smile.
I grinned in return. “I suppose I will.” With another glance at my bowls, I found myself unwilling to wait three days to return to the wheel. Surely, Aaron would not begrudge me a few hours if I rose early and finished my chores before I left the farm. I faced Robbie. “Are you free to drive me on Wednesday?”
The Amish Widower Page 8