Elias took his plate and looked over the food, grinning widely. “Beans and coleslaw too? Seth, I beg you. Forget your lunch every day.”
He loaded his plate—which was, of course, made of stoneware with his own potter’s mark on the bottom—and then balanced a biscuit on top. Leah had spoken the truth. There was enough food to feed us and several others. Elias seated himself at one of the wheels while I piled modest portions on my plate, though I did select two pieces of fried chicken.
Leah sat at the bench facing mine. When Elias bowed his head for the blessing, she did the same. So she still followed some of the ways of her childhood. Or did she pray only in the company of her grandparents out of respect for them? I realized I was staring at her and quickly closed my eyes, reeling off a prayer of thanksgiving for the bounty of this lunch and for the people who shared it with me.
“Amen.” Elias did not begin eating but instead said to me, “Go ahead. Taste my Lily’s chicken.”
He watched as I bit into a thigh. Though cool, the breading was still crisp and flavored with a combination of spices so pleasing to my taste buds that I chewed with relish. The meat was tender and juicy, and after I’d swallowed I was able to say with perfect honesty, “That is the best chicken I’ve ever tasted.”
With a grin that stretched the width of his face, Elias nodded. “Did I not tell you? The Lord bestows gifts on each of us, and He blessed my Lily with the gift of cooking. Wait until you try the coleslaw.”
He raised his biscuit to his mouth, but before he took a bite, the jangle of bells in the other room reached us. Leah hurried to put a forkful of green beans in her mouth, and then she set her plate on the wheel, already rising.
“No, no.” Elias waved her down. “You eat. I will take care of the customers for once.”
Before she could protest, he scurried from the room. With a shrug, she picked up her plate and set it once again on her knees. “He loves talking to the people. He might say he’d rather leave that part of the business to me, but it’s not true.”
“No?”
She shook her head. “He wants me to feel useful, like I’m an important part of the family business.”
The explanation rang true. Anyone had only to watch Elias when he looked at his granddaughter to see his concern for her. Certainly explainable, because she had left the Amish faith, which he obviously cherished. My curiosity about her returned. Her past was no business of mine, but I couldn’t help wondering about her present. Maybe in her current softer mood, she would not mind a question or two.
“Do you live with them?”
She looked up from her plate, surprise on her features. “Daadi and Grossmammi? No. I have a small apartment in town.” A grin tweaked the scarred corner of her lips. “With a microwave, so this chicken would be hot if we were eating it there.”
“And a lot of other Englisch things as well, ya?”
“Of course. An electric coffeemaker, a radio…even a television.” She scowled. “But I never turn it on. There’s nothing but trash showing, and I don’t want to fill my mind with that stuff.”
I finished the thigh and set the bare bone on the edge of my plate. “What do you do with your free time?”
“I read a lot.” She eyed me over a fork loaded with coleslaw, and the grin returned. “I like Amish novels, if you can believe that.”
That surprised a laugh out of me. “Why would you read those?”
“Because they’re so sweet and peaceful. They remind me of when I was growing up.” A faraway look appeared in her eyes, but then it cleared. “Some of them, anyway. Some get it all wrong, and a few are so ridiculous they make me laugh.”
I could almost see her, sitting in a cushy Englisch chair, laughing with derision over the pages of a book.
She lifted a chicken leg and eyed it with appreciation. “I do eat dinner every night with Daadi and Grossmammi. I’m their official dishwasher.”
“Every night?”
“Mm-hmm.” She chewed and swallowed. “I’m a terrible cook, and as you can see, my grandmother is amazing.” Her gaze became distant, and she lowered the chicken to her plate. “They, at least, will still eat with me.”
A confusing statement. I’d been under the impression that she was not yet baptized when she became Englisch. If that were so, then she wouldn’t be under the ban. Any Amish person could eat with her.
Regardless of my determination not to pry into her past, I couldn’t help it. The question popped out unbidden. “You were baptized, then?” I thought she might not answer, but finally she shook her head. “No.”
“But—”
A blast of air that might pass for a grunt accompanied the return of her bitter expression. “I am sinful and unrepentant. Our bishop back in Ohio thought that a taste of what it would be like to live as one who’d been shunned might convince me to repent.” Her head dropped forward. “Most of my aunts and uncles agreed with him.”
I slumped backward on my bench. Discipline was, of course, the responsibility of the bishop, and the community was bound to follow whatever measures he decided were appropriate in a given situation. But refusing someone who had not yet been baptized the privilege of eating with their family? Either Leah’s sin was a grievous one, or their former district was far stricter than any in our affiliation.
The sorrow apparent in her bowed head and drooping shoulders touched a place deep in my heart. I picked up my second piece of chicken and held it aloft. “I am eating with you. And I will do so again.” I took a big bite.
Was that a flash of gratitude in her eyes? I couldn’t be sure, because a second later the twisted smile returned. “Only because you want more of Grossmammi’s fried chicken.”
We finished our lunch in a companionable silence.
TWELVE
I awoke the following morning with an unnamed feeling of dread and could not for a moment figure out why. As I fastened my suspenders to my trousers, the reason returned. Today was church Sunday, and it was the Schrocks’ turn to host.
I had not been in their home since the day of the accident that haunted me day and night.
The last time the hosting responsibility fell to them, I’d made an excuse not to attend. My family had immediately seen through my claim of illness—I knew that from the pity in every face—but no one challenged me. At that time it had been just six months since Hannah’s death.
I stared for a long time at my black felt hat hanging in readiness on its peg. Could I do that again? Make up another excuse? Actually, my stomach was churning at the thought of entering the house where I’d attended my last church service with Hannah, so I would speak nothing but the truth if I said I felt too sick to go.
Maybe I could offer to stay home with Mammi, who could not yet withstand the buggy ride or sitting on a hard, backless bench for the length of the service. When Becky innocently suggested that she take her seat cushion, Mammi’s glare could have ignited wet logs.
No. Everyone would see right through my suggestion. They would know it was not a sacrifice I offered, but a self-centered escape. And Mammi herself would insist on my going.
Heaving a heavy sigh, I took my hat and coat from their pegs. I had to return to the Schrocks’ house sometime. They were part of my community, my extended Amish family. If not today, then when?
I said nothing during the ride to church, and my family seemed sensitive to my need for silence because no one spoke to me. I sat wedged in the front between Daed and Aaron, while Mamm and Saloma rode on the seat behind us with the twins. We followed Noah, Becky, and Sadie, who had thrown a tantrum because she wanted to ride with her grossmammi like the boys and had received a strong scolding as a result.
When we arrived at the Schrocks’, I helped the women and Daed out in front of the house and then rode with Aaron to park the buggy in the field designated for that purpose. He maneuvered Rosie into a long line of buggies, and we left her happily munching on a patch of new clover that had pushed its way up through the winter-hard soil.
Aaron didn’t wait but began walking toward the house while Noah was still settling his buggy. Sensing that he wanted to speak with me, I fell in step beside him.
“This is a hard day for you.” He spoke without looking my way, his gaze fixed on the house ahead of us.
Did he realize that on his own, or had Saloma or Mamm said something? I had no doubt every one of my family members was aware of the significance of this church service for me.
Seeing no reason to deny it, I nodded. “Ya, it is hard.”
We covered a few more steps.
“We all have memories, Seth. We loved her too.”
Emotion lay raw in his words. It was the first time my bruder had spoken to me of Hannah’s death. He had never mentioned Rachel to me at all. I dared not look in his direction, lest the bubble of tears that pressed against the backs of my eyes burst.
He waited a moment, and when I gave no answer, he spoke again. “A year is a long time. But not, maybe, enough time. No matter what the bishop says.”
Now I did look at him, my jaw dangling in surprise. Aaron and I were not accustomed to voicing personal feelings to each other. To hear him speak in open contradiction to Bishop Beiler, even though I knew how much he respected the man, spoke of the depth of his feelings on this matter.
His comment also revealed another truth to me. Not only had my family discussed the fact that I should be over my grief and ready to find a new wife, they had discussed it with the bishop as well. And who else? Lettie Miller and her daughter Hannah? Ella, my friend Josiah’s wife, who was also friendly with Becky? Was the entire district talking about me?
At least Aaron understood. Warmth for my bruder flooded me.
“Danke for that,” I said.
When we neared the house, where people clustered outside visiting before the service began, he stopped. Staring at a group of women that included Saloma, he spoke in a low voice. “Our home is your home. Never think other than that.” Then he looked at me, and the depth of feeling I saw in his eyes nearly undid me. “You always have a home with us, Seth. Always.”
My throat was so tight that I could not answer. I merely nodded and kept my lips rigid so they would not crumple and betray me.
When I entered the house, my bruder was right beside me. Our shoulders touched as we squeezed through the doorway together. I doubt I’d ever been more grateful for anyone’s presence as I was for Aaron’s that day.
The congregation sang the first song, a slow, unison hymn from the Ausbund that I’d never understood. It had been one of Rachel’s favorites, though, so I stumbled through the German words with my mind fixed on her and not on the Lord, where it should have been.
While we sang, the bishop and ministers filed out of the room to decide who would preach the opening sermon and who would preach the main sermon. Apparently, they had no trouble with the decision because they filed back in long before we’d sung the last word. And they brought with them a surprise.
At first I didn’t recognize the young woman who entered with them. The last time I saw her, her lips had been painted bright red, and black marks from her Englisch makeup streaked down her cheeks. Today her face had been scrubbed clean, and a starchy kapp covered her hair. She wore a proper Amish dress, and she walked with her head bowed in an attitude of humility.
The song’s melody stumbled as the people recognized Laura King. Several indrawn breaths were audible, and at that moment she walked directly in front of me so that I saw her face in profile. Head still bowed, her mouth twitched into a smile. Only for a second, but long enough that I knew she enjoyed surprising some in the community by her return. By the time she reached the women’s side on the front bench and stood beside Sarah Beiler, her expression was once again properly humble and penitent.
When the song ended, the bishop gestured for Laura to join him. She stood facing the congregation, hands clasped and head still bowed.
“It is with the joy of the Lord that I tell you a lost sheep has returned to her flock. Laura has made her confession and has been accepted back into our community. Further, she has made the decision to take the classes and be baptized this fall.” An excited murmur arose from somewhere behind me on the other side of the room, which Bishop Beiler allowed with an indulgent smile. “I urge you all to accept her and make her welcome.”
Laura returned to her place on the women’s side. I risked a glance at her mother. Joyful tears flowed freely down Susan King’s face. I would have liked to see Daniel Schrock’s reaction, but to do so I would have to twist all the way around on my bench, which would be an unacceptable display of curiosity.
No one was surprised when Bishop Beiler delivered the first sermon on the topic of faithfulness to God and the importance of a Plain lifestyle as the way of worshipping Him. The main sermon came from Kurt Miller, and I don’t think I was the only one who struggled to find a clear message in the string of seemingly unrelated comments.
Abigail had prepared a light meal of sandwiches and store-bought chips. Acutely aware that the last time I’d attended church in this house I’d skipped the meal to go home and enjoy time alone with my wife, today I took a sandwich of peanut butter and a mug of coffee and headed outside. Though the sky was overcast and rain threatened, the temperature was not unpleasant. Some of the men had moved the church benches to the yard, and I sat to eat my sandwich. I looked around for Josiah, and then remembered hearing Becky say he and Ella had gone to visit her family the next district over for the weekend.
Laura stood near the door, surrounded by a crowd of women who were no doubt following the bishop’s directive to make her welcome. Even many of the men stopped by to speak a word to her. Scanning the area, I saw Daniel slumped on one of the benches, shoulders tense and his entire focus on a handful of potato chips. Where was Katie?
I looked closer at the knot of young women around Laura and identified Katie. The two embraced, which brought a smile to my face. Good. Forgiveness had occurred and, I hoped, friendship restored. The Lord and the bishop would both be pleased.
I’d finished my sandwich and was about to drain the last of my coffee when Laura left her group of well-wishers and made her way toward me.
“Guder daag, Seth.”
She stood in front of me, forcing me to tilt my head back to see her face from beneath the brim of my hat. “Guder daag and welcome home.”
“Danke. Were you surprised to see me?”
“Surprised?” I nodded. “Ya, but glad.”
She dropped onto the bench beside me. “The last time I saw you, I was rude. I hope you will forgive me for shouting at you.”
“I hope the same.”
“I already did, the minute I read your letter.” She stared at her hands, folded in her lap. “I received a lot of letters, but yours was the only one that didn’t try to make me feel guilty for leaving. You said the decision must be mine.”
I grinned. “I am glad you made the right one.”
She returned my smile, and then her expression brightened. “Will I see you at the singing tonight?”
The question surprised a laugh out of me. Singings were for the youngie, a time when youth from several districts in our affiliation gathered to sing songs, play games, and flirt.
“I’m too old for singings.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I am twenty-six.” I tugged at my beard, a sign of the youth I’d left behind when I married Rachel. “Far too old for singings.”
“There is no age limit on singings.” A stubborn set to her jaw made her look almost like the twins when they were feeling defiant over an instruction they did not want to follow.
The comparison elicited another laugh from me. “Imagine what people would say if a bearded old man showed up at a singing.” If I weren’t the object of gossip already, that would assure me a place in many a conversation throughout several districts.
“I don’t think of you as one who cares what people say.” A sparkle appeared in her eyes. “If I cared wh
at people said, I would never have been able to come home. No doubt many conversations this week will speculate on the details of my confession to the bishop, and I don’t care in the least.”
I envied her attitude. Knowing that people were talking about me bothered me enormously. I shifted on the bench. No, it was not the talk that bothered me. It was the pity.
“Besides,” she went on, “if you really think you’re too old, you could come and chaperone.”
“That’s for the parents to do.”
She shrugged. “It doesn’t have to be.”
I turned sideways to look at her head-on. Why was she so determined to convince me to go to a singing? She returned my stare without flinching, and then she did something that sent alarm bells ringing in my ears. She tilted her head slightly and half closed her lids so she gazed at me from beneath a veil of curly lashes. The merest hint of a dimple appeared in one creamy-smooth cheek.
Laura King was flirting with me!
What had given her the idea that I would be interested in her? Certainly, our heated conversation in Philadelphia left no doubt that I had no intentions toward her, nor her toward me. My mind raced over the contents of the letter I’d written to her. Nowhere in it had I hinted at a romantic interest. In fact, I’d openly stated the exact opposite.
Around us, parents began to call for children, and people wished each other farewell. Men began picking up the benches and loading them onto the wagon, where they would be taken to the bishop’s barn and stored until needed for the next church Sunday. We stood when Nathan Yoder and Daniel approached to take our bench. Laura nodded a greeting at Nathan and ignored Daniel completely.
When they had moved out of earshot, she faced me. “Will you drive me home, Seth? We can continue our conversation about the singing.”
I was stunned at the bold request. When a man drove a young woman home, that sent a clear message to everyone that they were courting. Normally, the man asked the girl, or if she wanted to make her interest known she might convince a friend to hint to him that she would be open to his offer for a ride.
The Amish Widower Page 16