“I have never made anything like that,” I admitted, though my mind was already planning how I would approach the job. The base and support columns would pose no problem, nor would the fluted opening. The sphere, though, would be a challenge.
“Oh.” She gave a short sigh. “Well, no problem. I thought I’d ask.”
“Daadi could do it.” Leah looked up from the picture. “Elias Beachy, my grandfather,” she explained to Amanda.
“He is my teacher,” I added.
Amanda grinned. “Maybe he could teach you how.”
Creating a piece like this would definitely require a different skill than I had yet learned. The idea appealed to me, though the piece definitely wasn’t one I would have chosen to attempt. Of course, neither were the candleholders. They had been a profitable accident.
“I make no promises, but I will try.” I picked up the page. “May I keep this?”
“Of course.” A broad smile settled on her features. “And if it doesn’t look exactly like that, don’t worry. It might be even better. After all, it’s art.”
We arranged for them to return in two weeks’ time to pick up their pieces. The salad plates would be ready far more quickly, but I wanted to give myself plenty of time to work on the fancy vase.
When they’d gone, Leah folded her arms and eyed me. “You are definitely good for business.”
Ducking my head, I returned to the workroom to finish my flat-form bowls.
The salad plates were finished within a few days, as I’d expected, but Amanda’s ugly vase proved more challenging. Over the next two weeks I created no less than four fancy vases, but none of them looked similar enough to the picture for me to be satisfied. Elias exercised great patience, as always.
After the fourth failure, I lost my temper. I threw my sponge into the water bucket with force and raised my voice. “You finish it! I can’t do this.”
My teacher’s serene expression did not change. “If I finish the piece for you, you have learned nothing. Now, you will take a walk to calm yourself, and when you return you will try again. Next time use a lighter touch.”
I took his suggestion, breathing deeply of the fragrant April air, and tried again.
Finally, I achieved a result I felt Amanda would approve of. I glazed the piece the same bright blue color she favored. The placement of the decorative ovals did not match the picture, but in that I took pleasure in creating my own design. That part of the vase, at least, held a subtle beauty of which I approved.
The day before she and her friend were to pick up their pottery, I painted the ovals. Leah had ordered the bright, garish colors, for we did not stock glaze in such hues. I mixed them thick, and set about applying them with a paintbrush. They would be ready for the final firing that night.
I was hunched over my work when the curtain behind me parted. Assuming Leah had entered the room to watch me work as she sometimes did, I didn’t bother to look up until I’d finished painting a yellow oval.
When I straightened, I was surprised to discover that my observer was not Leah.
“Bishop Beiler.” I set my brush down and stood. “I did not expect you.”
“Apparently not.” He did not immediately meet my gaze but inspected my work closely. The corners of his mouth turned downward, giving him a stern and disapproving look that I had not often seen.
Finally, he looked up. “You made this?”
With a glance at my vase, I nodded. “It was a commissioned piece.” I snatched up the magazine page, which by now was stained with dried clay and rainbow-hued glaze. “An Englisch woman asked me to make it for her.”
His eyes moved from the vase to the picture and back again. “They do look alike.”
If that was supposed to be a compliment, it was grudgingly given. My defenses went up, and my posture stiffened. “I think she will like it.”
Looking away from the vase, he glanced around the room, actually turning in a circle to see every corner. “So this is where you spend all of your time.”
“This is where I am learning my craft, ya.”
“Your craft.” Now he waved toward the vase. “Is that what you call this?”
Rarely had I seen my bishop express such disdain. I sucked in a long breath and battled a flare of temper. He had no inkling of how hard I’d worked on this piece. I changed the subject.
“My teacher, Elias Beachy, is outside tending the wood kiln. I would like you to meet him.”
I headed toward the doorway, but he stood stiffly in place. “I met him when I arrived. A good man. And a good potter. I looked at his work in the showroom.”
So he had met Leah as well. Had she reacted to the arrival of an Amish bishop with her customary scowl? Or did she not realize who this man was? I pictured her now, standing behind the counter on the other side of the curtain, where she could not help overhearing this conversation.
“I saw your work as well.” He met my gaze, and now made no pretense of hiding his disappointment. “Your teacher’s work is beautiful. Yours is fancy.”
I bristled. Leah had insisted on my trimming and glazing my four failed attempts to create Amanda’s vase, declaring them to be lovely enough that an Englisch customer would buy them. I’d complied because I’d come to appreciate her intuition when it came to pieces that would appeal to buyers. And also because I could see that, even though they were not Plain, they had turned out well. Amanda would call them art.
So far two had sold, and I’d gasped when Leah told me the outrageous price they’d brought.
When I could reply in a calm tone, I said, “Not all of my pieces are fancy.”
“Ya, I saw some nice bowls and plates and pitchers.” With that admission, the man’s rigid posture softened. His expression lost the stiff disapproval and took on the concern that lay more easily on his face. “Seth, I am worried for you. You spend much time here, and not much at home.”
Had someone in my family complained to our bishop? No, I couldn’t believe that. They’d all seemed pleased with my announcement that I would become a potter instead of farming the land. Even Daed, who naturally would like to see his sons follow the same path he had taken through life, had expressed his approval with my choice.
“I spend so much time here because I am learning the techniques I need for the profession I have chosen.”
“This is what you would do with your life?” He waved a hand toward my vase. “Create objects that have no use, no purpose? Do you think this pleases our Lord, Seth?”
Ya! I wanted to shout. How could anything that gave pleasure to a kind person not be pleasing to Gott, who loves all His creation, Amish or not? But was I to argue with my bishop? That would definitely not please the Lord. I countered with a question of my own.
“Do you expect that everything an Amish man makes be for Plain use only?” I could reel off a list of businesses within our own district that contradicted that view. Noah’s animal carvings, for instance. The birdhouses James Troyer made and sold at the Amish craft stores across Lancaster County. Even the crops we raised were not for Amish use only, but sold for a profit to anyone who had the money to buy them.
Bishop Beiler shook his head, and his expression softened further. “No, of course not. And your work is not the reason I came today. If you want to make…” He looked at my vase, over which I now felt a bit protective since it had suffered an attack. Clearing his throat, he continued. “If you want to make fancy things for the Englisch to buy, that is your decision. Though I prefer the bowls and mugs that are beautiful in their own way while also having a purpose.”
Because I agreed with him, I remained silent.
“The reason I came to talk to you is because there has been some concern expressed about the time you are spending with the Englisch.”
Was it my imagination, or did I hear a soft gasp from the other side of the curtain?
I shook my head. “I do not understand. Elias, my teacher, is Amish.”
“No, not him. It is your driver,
the Englisch boy.”
“Robbie?” I plucked at my beard, my thoughts whirling. Who would have complained about Robbie driving me?
The words were on my tongue to relay what I suspected about Robbie’s troubled past, and his mother’s concerns and gratitude that driving me gave him a purpose and a way to help. But before I could speak, the bishop continued.
“I have nothing against the boy. You are my concern.” He peered at me closely. “You are a full-grown man. You should have your own buggy and drive yourself.”
Now I knew where the complaint had come from. Laura King. My teeth clamped together, and I had to restrain myself from grinding them. Or if not Laura, then her mamm or daed or someone who hoped to see us together.
I could not force my jaw to unclench. “I am not interested in…” I stopped myself before I spoke her name. “…buying a buggy.”
Compassion shone in my bishop’s eyes, and he nodded slowly. “I understand the reason. But Gott cannot heal you from something you hold to so tightly.”
Tears stung my eyes, and I turned quickly away. The words had hit their mark. I wanted to flee, to run from the room where I could gasp in great gulps of air that might dissolve the boulder that had lodged in my throat. No, I wanted to grab a lump of clay and slap it on the worktable and wedge it with fury until the tightness in my chest eased.
Bishop Beiler waited, kindness wafting from him in palpable waves. He truly did desire my healing. He wanted to see me married and living the happy life of an Amish family man. I understood that. But could he not see that a buggy would not heal me? Why didn’t anyone except me see the truth? How could I ever live in peace when two wives had died because of me?
But if a buggy would satisfy him and the others in my community, then I would buy a buggy.
Once I was sure I could speak, I faced him. “Okay. I will buy a horse and buggy.” But so that there would be no confusion, I added in a stern voice, “But I will not drive Laura King.”
From the sudden widening of his eyes, I knew I’d guessed the source of today’s errand correctly.
The curtain parted, and Elias entered the room, followed by Leah carrying the lunch basket.
“Bishop Belier, you are in time to share with us a rare treat.” He beamed. “I know gluttony is a sin, but once you taste my wife’s cooking you will understand why it is a sin I struggle with daily.”
The bishop held up his hands. “No, I could not impose.”
“Impose?” Elias appeared outraged at the thought. “You are my apprentice’s bishop, and my guest. Sharing our meal is surely not an imposition.” A grin crept onto his face. “You have never tasted anything like my Lily’s chicken pie.”
“Chicken pie?” Interest erupted on the bishop’s face. “Well, in that case…”
FIFTEEN
Planting time was nearly upon us. Aaron had plowed in the fall, but soil hardened beneath a long winter’s layer of snow and must be prepared. Aaron and Noah began the work on our fields with the disc harrow. By weekend they would smooth the soil with the cultipacker. My bruder told me that my help with the planting would be appreciated the following week, providing the weather held.
Though tempted to delay buying a buggy until after planting was accomplished, once the decision was made, I didn’t want to wait. Daed seemed more eager than I, and he managed to discover several buggies for resale throughout the county. I arranged for Robbie to drive us around on a Thursday, and I spent Wednesday trimming all my thrown pots so I could take the day off without unfinished tasks weighing on my mind.
The selection of a buggy could be an ordeal. Each district had its own approved style, so not just any buggy would do. The buggies of some of the eastern districts had brown tops, something which would not be permitted in ours. Thankfully, all the districts of our affiliation had agreed on a standard design that included several styles based on the required size. That meant I had a good chance of finding a suitable buggy in the area without having to pay the price for a new one.
We drove north first, to a farm outside of Ephrata.
In the front seat, I twisted around toward Daed. “How did you hear about this one?”
“From Leon Schrock. His brother-in-law’s cousin has a friend who bought a bigger buggy for his family.” He stabbed a finger at the window. “There. That is the place.”
Robbie slowed and turned onto the dirt path leading up to the house. I knew the moment I spied the buggy that I would not buy this one. It was small and carriage style, and looked far too much like the one I had bought for my Hannah. The one beneath which she and our unborn child had died.
But Daed exited the car the moment it rolled to a stop. What could I do but follow him?
The young man who owned the carriage came out of the barn, smiling and telling Daed the history, how he had bought it from another man in his district who had also outgrown it. I followed them around the buggy, inspecting the wheels and the bench, my stomach churning all the while.
The door to the house opened, and a smiling woman appeared. “Werner, invite them in for coffee and sweet rolls.”
My heart skipped a beat when I caught sight of her round belly. A pregnant woman rode in this open carriage? I almost bought the thing on the spot, just to keep her out of it. But then I spied another buggy parked beyond the barn, a solid one, properly enclosed. Daed’s comment came back to me, that this man had bought a bigger buggy for his growing family.
I found I could not speak, but instead I caught Daed’s eye and shook my head. Muttering my thanks to the young man, I hurried toward Robbie’s car, heart pounding double time to my footsteps.
“You don’t like that one?” Robbie asked.
I didn’t trust my voice, so I merely uttered a closemouthed, “Uh-uh.”
Daed joined us soon after. “That is not the one for you. The axle clips were worn and would need to be replaced.”
He continued on at some length about deficiencies I hadn’t looked closely enough to notice, and I was glad to let him carry the burden of the conversation. We’d driven several miles before my heartbeat returned to normal.
Our next stop was Farmersville, but even a casual observer could see that the amount of work required to repair that buggy made the low price far less appealing. From there we visited New Holland, and then on to Intercourse. Those two were probably fine buggies, and the prices were not bad, but I could not develop any enthusiasm for either. When we got back in the car, even Robbie could tell that Daed’s temper was becoming short because he kept glancing at him in the rearview mirror.
“I begin to think you do not intend to make a purchase today,” he grumbled from the backseat.
I kept my face forward, but the words worked on me. Truly, there had been nothing wrong with the last buggy. Why had I not wanted to buy it? Was I letting my fears get the better of me?
I knew the answer to that. In every buggy we had seen, I imagined a ghostly figure seated on the front bench. Stupid, Mammi would have said, and she would have been right. My fears were stupid. The buggy had not been the cause of the accident. It had been the fault of the Englisch teenagers who drove like maniacs, and mine for not protecting my wife better.
The sound of paper rustling came from the backseat.
“There is another nearby,” Daed said. “Turn left at the next intersection.”
Robbie did, following a series of turns until we arrived at a large Amish dairy farm. A fine herd of cattle occupied fenced fields behind the house. Clothing hung on a line in the yard, swaying in a light breeze. The woman who pinned them up apparently enjoyed order, for the clothing formed a neat row, beginning with the longest dresses and decreasing evenly in size to small white squares that looked like hand towels.
A man in the field began walking toward us as Robbie parked the car. Daed and I got out, and this time my driver did too. I glanced around but didn’t see a buggy.
“Maybe he already sold it,” I said to Daed, who nodded.
When the man appro
ached, he introduced himself with a friendly smile. “Welcome. I am David Miller.”
“Silas Hostetler. This is my son, Seth, and our driver, Robbie Barker. You are kin with Kurt Miller, a minister in my district.”
David nodded. “Kurt is my cousin.”
“He mentioned to me that you have a buggy to sell.” Daed made a show of looking around the yard. “But maybe not?”
“Ya, I do. It’s behind the barn.”
We followed him around the two-story structure, where we found the buggy. I knew at first glance that I would buy it, not because it was any better than the last two we’d seen, but I’d grown weary of looking. Still, I followed Daed and David around, inspecting the wheels and axles. I opened the door and glanced at the benches—two, which would seat four adults comfortably—and ran my hand across the dash rail.
“It is a fine buggy.” I closed the door. “Why do you wish to sell it?”
The man’s expression did not change, but his eyes became sad. “It belonged to my daadi, who passed on this winter.”
We did not reply for a respectful moment, and then Daed clasped his hands behind his back. “How much are you asking?”
“I thought to get fifteen hundred.”
A fair price for a buggy in such good shape. I was prepared to pay two thousand or even more. Daed looked at me, his eyebrows arched in a question, and I nodded. “I will buy it.”
Looking pleased—though not nearly so pleased as my daed—David said, “Come inside, and I will write the bill of sale. I am sorry my wife is not here to offer you something to eat, but she has gone into town.”
Daed and David started toward the house, while I went to the car to get my money pouch.
Robbie followed me. “How are you gonna get that thing home? I hope you’re not planning on towing it behind my car.” He laughed.
“I will come back and bring my bruder’s horse.” I glanced at the sun, which was not yet overhead. There was still plenty of daylight. “Maybe even today.”
Ahead of us, David stopped and turned. “Are you looking to buy a horse as well?”
The Amish Widower Page 19