The Amish Widower

by Virginia Smith

  Bishop Beiler cleared his throat. “We’ve come to bring you home.”

  “I know.” Swallowing hard, she nodded. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  Hope sprang into Susan’s eyes. “Then you are ready to come home?”

  The look Laura gave her mother was filled with pity. “No, Mamm. I am staying here.”

  Susan leaned forward, her face to her knees, as sobs took her once again.

  On Laura’s other side, Irene grabbed up her free hand. “Look at her. She’s like this always. How can you do this to her? To all of us?”

  I knew in the moment before Laura’s face hardened that her sister’s approach was the wrong one. Guilt was no way to convince a person to embrace faith.

  “The whole community misses you,” Bishop Beiler said. “You are part of us. When one part goes missing, the others suffer.”

  Laura lifted her gaze to him. “It’s not my intention to make anyone suffer, but I must make my own decisions.” She squeezed her mother’s hands. “I have a job here, a good one. And a nice place to live, thanks to Marilyn.”

  “You have jobs to do at home.” Irene’s tone held an unrelenting note of accusation. “But now the rest of us have to do them. We work twice as hard to make up for you.”

  I interrupted, mostly to relieve the mounting tension. “What job do you have?”

  Laura gave me a grateful look. “I’m a waitress at a pizza restaurant. Besides my paycheck, my meals are free.” The hint of a smile appeared. “And I must be a good waitress, because my tips are always good.”

  The bishop straightened. “Did not our Lord say, ‘Ye cannot serve God and mammon’?”

  Her expression became contrite at the reminder. “Ya, but I am not serving mammon. I am serving people.” She looked down and lowered her voice. “Which the Lord also commanded us to do.”

  Daniel gasped, and even I widened my eyes at her boldness. To quote die Bibel to her own bishop? Had rebellion taken such a deep root in her?

  When she looked at Daniel, her expression hardened. “What are you doing here?”

  “I…” He cleared his throat. “I came to apologize if I have hurt you in any way.”

  “No apology is necessary.” She gave him a brief, chilly smile that convinced no one. “There was no understanding between us.”

  The glance Daniel cast at the bishop held a not-so-subtle I told you so. “Still, I would hate to think I had any part in your deserting your family.”

  The woman who had opened the door interrupted any answer Laura might have given by entering at that moment, carrying a silver tray. “I know you’ve driven a long way, so I thought you might like some coffee.” She set the tray, which held a coffeepot, mugs, and a plate of cookies, on the low table in front of the couch. “I also have tea if you prefer.”

  Susan, who had managed to stop her flow of tears, cast a cautious but grateful look at her. “That is very kind of you.”

  The woman gave her a smile that held a measure of compassion and then left us alone.

  Laura began pouring coffee into mugs. “That is Marilyn, my friend. She let me stay here free until I found a job. Now I’m able to pay rent like the others.”

  Bishop Beiler took the mug she handed him. “Others?”

  “Ya. Five girls are living here.”

  Marilyn’s comment at the door returned to me. “Are all of them leaving the Amish?”

  “Not all.” Laura brought coffee across the room to me. “Only three of us. The other two are Englisch. They fell on hard times, and Marilyn offered to help.”

  I glanced at the empty doorway through which Marilyn had disappeared. She opened her home to girls in need. Admirable, and in fact an act of Christian charity. I shook myself. Well, the Amish knew there were Christians living in the world. But we were called to express our Christian faith in different ways than them. And Laura, having been born and raised Amish, needed to understand the difference.

  Bishop Beiler obviously felt the same. He began to speak then, telling Laura of the grief her community felt over her departure. Had that not become evident to her in the many letters she had received? Did she think she could find the same sense of belonging in the world?

  As he spoke, my thoughts drifted to another woman who had left the Amish. Had Leah found a sense of belonging in her Englisch life? Judging by her solemn countenance and sarcastic comments, I didn’t think so. Yet she still enjoyed the love and acceptance of her family. Watching Laura’s face as she attended to the bishop’s lecture—for there was no other word to describe the diatribe he now began—I wondered if Elias and his wife had truly acted in their granddaughter’s best interests. Had they been less accepting and instead insisted on her returning to the Amish, would that have been a deciding factor in her decision?

  Of course, there was also the suffering Elias had mentioned. Christ Himself instructed us to ease the suffering of others. I could do nothing but respect Elias for supporting one he loved who was caught in the midst of such pain as Leah must have experienced to cause such a life-changing decision.

  With a quick shake of my head to dislodge the thoughts, I drained the last of my coffee. Such questions were for men much wiser than I, who couldn’t get through even a single day without being tormented by my own pain.

  At last the bishop seemed to have exhausted his store of reasons for Laura to return to those who loved her. She rose, her expression solemn, and picked up the silver tray. As she circled the room so each of us could place our mugs on it, she didn’t meet anyone’s gaze.

  “I’ll take this to the kitchen,” she said before leaving the room, her head lowered.

  Bishop Beiler looked at me. “Talk to her, Seth.”

  I scrubbed at my beard, overcome by a fit of nerves as they all stared at me. I’d been included in this delegation for a reason—my mind skittered away from the second reason Josiah had mentioned—and the time had come to fulfill my commitment. Dread settled in my stomach as I rose and followed Laura from the room.

  The kitchen lay at the end of the short hallway through which we’d entered the house. The same cheerful jumble of brightly colored items filled this room, and I glanced around at an assortment of appliances that would never be found in an Amish kitchen. The countertops were covered with electric gadgets, each connected by cords to outlets in the walls. I knew their purposes, of course, having seen Englisch appliances on the shelves at Zimmerman’s often enough. A mixer, blender, and toaster sat side by side next to the stove. Red curtains, even brighter than Laura’s toenails, hung at a window above the sink.

  Laura jumped when I came to her side, and then she gave an embarrassed laugh. “You startled me.”

  “I didn’t mean to.” I pointed to the tray of dirty coffee mugs. “Could you use some help cleaning up?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Is that why they brought you? So you could wash the dishes?”

  The look she gave me was filled with such shrewdness, and more than a little belligerence, that I couldn’t help but laugh. This girl was smart and not one to fall for vague platitudes. Nor was she likely to be convinced by tearful pleas, though clearly her mamm’s sorrow touched her deeply. The approach Laura would respect the most would be complete transparency.

  Which, of course, was the attitude that made me the most uncomfortable.

  I forced an easy tone as I took a half-filled mug from the tray and emptied it in the sink. “I think I’m supposed to convince you that the best way to overcome grief is to draw on the depths of your Amish faith and the support of your community.”

  She took the empty mug from my hand and placed it in the top rack of an electric dishwasher before giving me a sharp look. “What grief? Ah. You mean losing Daniel to my closest friend.”

  Bitterness saturated the words. She looked quickly away, but now I understood. Josiah and the bishop had been right. She felt angry and betrayed that her friend had taken up with her beau. Was that her only reason for leaving home? I had no way of knowing, but the loss of
a loved one was a reason to which I could speak. My throat tightened at the thought. Though I much preferred to keep my grief to myself, if a word from me could comfort another hurting soul, was that not my duty as a man of faith?

  “I lost someone I loved too.” I couldn’t look at her but focused on emptying another mug.

  She placed the mug carefully in the rack and spoke in a quiet tone. “I know. I am sorry.”

  How I’d grown to hate those words in the months after the deaths of my wives. Of course everyone was sorry, but was their expression of sorrow supposed to lessen mine? Now I was more accepting, and even sympathized with those who were, after all, only attempting to acknowledge my pain.

  “Thank you. The point I believe I’ve been brought here to make is that faith is what…” I’d been about to say overcomes the grief, but that would not be true. Grief still gripped at my very soul. I cleared my throat. “Faith provides the comfort necessary to move forward. That, and the work we do in service to our families and our community, which is an outward expression of that faith.”

  “I have work.” She set the last mug in the dishwasher and slid the rack inside. “I work hard at my job, and I do my share of work here.” A hand waved to indicate the house around her. “We all do.”

  “But your family is not here,” I pointed out.

  “We are like a family.” She lifted her chin. “And besides, as I told the others, I am not grieving over the loss of Daniel or even of Katie. I was hurt, yes, but I’m over it. I’m happy here. I even have a boyfriend.”

  “An Englisch boyfriend?”

  “He is Englisch and honorable. He treats me well.”

  That piece of news had not been mentioned in my hearing. Did the bishop know? Did Susan and Irene? Attachments to people of the world were among the most dangerous things that could befall an Amish person. Of course there were honorable Englisch people, but the fancy ways they embraced were so contrary to ours. Could someone raised Plain ever find true happiness in the world?

  I could see how a young woman such as Laura, hurting over what she no doubt felt as the betrayal of her friends, would be vulnerable enough to fall for anyone who showed her kindness.

  “Laura, you are an attractive young woman. There are plenty of men back home who would treat you well.”

  She whirled on me, eyes blazing. I was stunned at the anger in her face. What had I said? I’d spoken only the truth.

  “Is that why you think I should return? So I can find an honorable Amish man to marry me?”

  “I…no.” I took a backward step away from her sudden fury. “I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.” She jerked her head toward the front room. “What the bishop meant. What my mamm and Irene mean. You want me to come back home, find a husband, and become a good Amish wife!”

  She was shouting now, and I countered with a low, reasonable voice.

  “What is wrong with that? The Plain way is a good life, the one you were brought up to live. A quiet life of faith, and—”

  “Wait a minute.” Sparks snapped from her eyes as she raised a finger and stabbed it in my direction. “I just realized why you’re really here. You need a wife.”

  Fury, hot and fierce, rose up in me so quickly it sounded like fire roaring in my ears. “I do not need a wife! I will never marry again, never! And if I did, I would not choose a rebellious child like you!”

  My declaration came out louder than I intended. The words bounced back to me from the kitchen walls, pounding against my ears. Laura opened her mouth to snap back a reply, but I didn’t want to hear any more. I turned on my heel and left the room. Marching down the short hallway, I glanced into the living room, where the others sat staring at me through wide eyes. That they had overheard at least the last part of our conversation was obvious.

  I slammed the door shut behind me and winced when the glass rattled. Though I’d intended to sit in the van, the sight of it changed my mind. At the moment the idea of sitting in a confined space was suffocating. Instead, I stomped away from Marilyn’s house, down the cracked sidewalk, breathing deep gulps of air that tasted like exhaust. In my mind I tried to form the words of a prayer—any prayer—but the flames of my temper were not so easily extinguished.

  I didn’t know how much time had passed before my anger lessened enough that I became aware of my surroundings. The houses along the street were not familiar. I had not made any turns so I knew I was on the same street. All I had to do was turn around and go back in the direction I’d come.

  Which is what I should do. My outburst had probably damaged the day’s mission. I should go back and apologize to Laura for my unacceptable lack of control.

  The idea left a sour taste in my mouth. I’d spoken the truth, but not all truth needed to be spoken. If only I’d held my tongue and my temper, the others may have been able to convince her to return to her family, her community. Instead, I’d probably driven her further away.

  I was saved from the decision when the white van pulled up to the curb beside me and stopped. Through the windshield I glimpsed Kevin and Bishop Beiler, whose face was as blank as a sheet of unlined paper. The side door slid open, and I scanned the interior. As expected, Laura was not inside. Susan sat with her head bowed, her face covered with a handkerchief. Irene did not meet my gaze but stared at the floorboard. With a sigh, I climbed inside and slid onto the back row.

  Daniel looked at me. “She says she’s never coming home.”

  A muffled sob sounded from the center row, while the bishop twisted around in the front to face us.

  “What did our Lord say when a sheep has wandered away from the flock?” He paused, but no one answered. “He said the shepherd would leave the others to go after the lost sheep, and there will be rejoicing when that sheep is restored.” His gaze softened as it rested on Susan. “We will not abandon our lost sheep. We will try again and again until she is safe at home.”

  Susan looked up from her handkerchief, but being behind her I couldn’t see her expression. Still, she must have taken some comfort from the words, because her sobs quieted.

  Kevin pulled away from the curb as the bishop again faced forward. Daniel and Irene turned away from me to look out their respective windows. I did the same, guilt twisting in my gut. There would no doubt be another delegation sent to convince Laura to return to our community, but I would not be invited to be part of it.

  EIGHT

  When I entered the shop the next day, Leah looked up from the computer screen with a hard glance. “Well?”

  I set down the two buckets of glaze I’d purchased in Philadelphia and turned to pull the door shut before facing her. “Well what?”

  She rolled her eyes. “Did you convince the wayward soul to return to the safety of the fold?”

  A half dozen sharp replies to the sarcastic question came to mind, but I’d spent much of the night praying for the ability to better control my tongue. So I answered simply, “No.”

  A half smile, half smirk settled on her face, and she returned her focus to the computer.

  I started to slide past her into the workroom, but curiosity stopped me. Leah obviously harbored a lot of painful memories behind that hardened exterior and caustic tongue, memories that were none of my business. But one question did burn in my mind.

  She raised an expectant expression up to me.

  “Do you hate the Amish?”

  Clearly, I had surprised her. Her eyebrows arched, and for perhaps the first time since I’d met her, the sneer that always hovered around the edges of her nostrils disappeared.

  “Of course not. My family is Amish.” Her gaze flickered toward the curtain leading to Elias’s workshop.

  “Yet you seemed happy just now that our mission to bring Laura home failed.”

  Her head tilted sideways, and she studied me through narrowed lids, as though trying to decide whether to answer me honestly or deflect with yet another derisive comment. Apparently she settled on the former.

  “I
don’t hate the Amish in general, but when I made the decision to leave, there were those who didn’t treat me kindly.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  She gave me a sharp look, as if to judge the sincerity of my words, and then nodded. “That meeting you had yesterday? I sat through five of them, and the last few did not end well.”

  Laura’s shouted accusations and the echoes of my own voice sounded again in my ears. “Yesterday’s didn’t end well either.” At her openly curious glance, I shrugged. “I lost my temper.”

  “Ow.” Her features scrunched in a wince. “Did you tell her she was dooming herself to eternal damnation if she didn’t pack her bag and come home with you immediately?”

  My head jerked upward. Never could I imagine anyone in my community, from Bishop Beiler on down to the least patient farmer in our district, saying that to anyone who had not been baptized into the Amish faith.

  My surprise must have showed on my face, for she grimaced. “That’s what I was told. And since I’ve never been one to hold my tongue, my reply was not the least bit, uh, Plain.”

  Her expression made me laugh. I imagined that Leah knew quite a few un-Plain expressions that would have blistered the ears of conservative men.

  “Our discussion was heated, but nothing like that,” I told her. My laughter faded, and I hung my head. “I became angry, but not for reasons of piety or even in an attempt to convince her to come home. She said something personal that hurt.”

  I could have bitten my tongue off for those last words. My private pain was not a topic I wanted to discuss. Not with the woman before me or with anyone else.

  Leah’s expression softened. “I’m sorry.” Before I could react, her habitual smirk reappeared, though perhaps not quite as overtly as before. “But I’m glad for her. If she’s meant to return to the Amish, she’ll come to that decision in her own time. If not, then forcing her will only end in her being miserable for the rest of her life.”