Her Secret Amish Child

by Cheryl Williford

  Lizbeth picked up a box of crumpled newspapers left over from the unpacked dishes. “You can take this with you, if you don’t mind,” she said.

  He grabbed the edge of the box. “You’re different now, you know.” His gaze wandered over her face.

  “You’re still the same. A jokester, always pulling pranks at everyone else’s expense.”

  Fredrik stepped into the hall, but looked back. “I’m sure I am, but it makes me wonder what made you so bitter and out of sorts.”

  She wiped her hand down her apron, her remorse lowering her head. “It’s just been a long day...a long week.”

  “Ya, it has. Perhaps a day at the fair would put you in a better mood,” he said with a smile that made her legs grow weak. “I’m going tomorrow after work. Would you and Benuel like to come with me?”

  “Nee, but danki, Fredrik. I already promised Ulla I’d go with her and the sewing ladies.”

  “Perhaps another time. There’s always the Christmas auction,” he suggested, patting his hat in place.

  Her heart skipped a beat. “Ya, that sounds gut.”

  “Ya, it does. Well, good night,” he said with a fresh smile and turned to go.

  “Good night,” she murmured, listening to the sound of his footfalls as he ambled through the house and out the front door.

  She hung her head. Gott had to be disappointed in her. Just because she was bone tired didn’t mean she could behave in such a way with Fredrik. He was only trying to be a help to her. She shuffled back toward the kitchen. It seemed the man wanted nothing more than to be her friend. He had no real interest in her as a prospective bride. Which was exactly what she wanted. So why was it so disappointing?

  Chapter Eight

  “Who’ll give me sixteen fifty?” the auctioneer called out.

  Several hands flew up. The crowd of auction-goers formed a tight knot, their placards waving, hoping to be seen.

  He waited, his left hand shading his eyes from the bright Florida sun overhead. “Do I hear seventeen fifty, now eighteen?” A warm summer afternoon sweat dampened the man’s shirt a darker blue around his neck and ringed his armpits.

  He squinted, scanning the swarm of Amish, Mennonite and Englischers milling around the front of his improvised auction stand. He appeared content to wait a few moments longer to see if the price would advance.

  Fredrik lifted his number high. “Twenty-five dollars,” he shouted over the hum of the generator vibrating behind him. The shelf would fit perfectly over the toilet in the apartment and add much-needed storage to the tiny bathroom space he was remodeling. He hoped to find some spare time to work on the place, if work at the furniture store slowed down.

  The auctioneer’s long gray beard touched the front of his pale blue shirt as he nodded his silver head in approval and pointed in Fredrik’s direction. “Fair warning...and it’s gone, gone, gone at twenty-five dollars and not a penny more.”

  Motioned forward, Fredrik wove his way toward the front of the crowd. An Amish teenager of fifteen or sixteen, with a bad complexion and a full head of dark hair, handed over the shelf. “Pay my mamm over there,” the boy muttered and pointed to a tiny woman sitting at a table under a moss-covered shade tree.

  “Ya, sure,” Fredrik agreed and strode away, only to step into the path of a running child.

  To keep from knocking the boy down, he had to grab hold of the child’s black suspenders. He was surprised to see he had young Benuel Mullet, Lizbeth’s son, in tow.

  “What are you doing running around all by yourself?” he asked. The boy’s sweaty face scrunched up, his bottom lip quivering as he prepared to cry. Fredrik skimmed the faces around them. Lizbeth had to be somewhere close by. “Where’s your mamm?”

  “Let me be,” Benuel wailed in Deitch as he twisted and kicked at Fredrik’s shin.

  “Not till you tell me where your mamm is, young man. I have a feeling she hasn’t a clue where you are.”

  “Ya, she does,” he declared. A tear glistened in his eye as he pointed to a fenced-in children’s pool filled with water and crowded with fluffy yellow ducklings. “She promised I could see the baby ducks my grossdaddi is selling.”

  The boy nervously glanced over his shoulder and peered into the crowd of shoppers behind them. Lizbeth, wearing a dress of pale blue cotton, surged from a group of local women in their customary kapps and aprons and rushed forward. Her long legs ate up the distance between them. Normally pale cheeked, her face glowed from her exertion in the hot afternoon sun. A vexed expression creased her forehead into deep lines, indicating to Fredrik that she might have been searching for the boy awhile.

  “Thank you for catching him,” she said.

  He released Benuel’s narrow suspenders and stepped back.

  Benuel’s small body stilled. He wiped away the dampness from his eyes and watched his mother advance. “Grossdaddi said I could see the ducks,” he called to her.

  Lizbeth scooped up the small boy. “You scared the life from me. Do you know that?” She kissed the boy’s cheeks and then his hair and pulled him close. “I thought you’d been taken.” She sent a look of appreciation Fredrik’s way.

  Benuel wiggled in her arms. “I just wanted—”

  “Ya, I know. You want to see those silly ducks swim.” She hugged him close, even though he pushed at her with his small hands. “Didn’t your grossdaddi promise to take you later, after we ate? Always stay with me, Benuel. Never wander off alone.” She looked into his eyes. “We’re not on the farm now. There are hidden dangers in Pinecraft from cars on the streets and crowds of strangers.”

  The boy’s eyes widened.

  Fredrik took in a deep breath. The boy needed the firm hand of a father, not the scary tales about danger his mother was telling him. He had been a boy much like Benuel. Always running off, giving his mother reason to worry. Lizbeth needed help raising the boy. That much was certain-sure.

  Preoccupied with thoughts of Benuel, Fredrik waved goodbye to Lizbeth and strolled away, merging into the crowd around him. He stood under the shade of an ancient oak tree watching mother and son from a distance. Was he the man to help raise the boy? Lizbeth was a fine woman. A devoted mamm. He’d be proud to call her his fraa. He longed to help teach the boy how to behave and grow into a gut man. Something unexplainable drew him to Lizbeth and her son.

  In frustration, he kicked at a stone on the path and sent it flying into the gnarled trunk of a palm tree at the edge of the largest auction tent. Was Lizbeth the woman for him? She was available, but a grieving widow. Perhaps he should step back awhile and wait on Gott’s direction.

  He cast her a veiled glance and headed back under the large tent where another auction was about to start. He contemplated his odd behavior of late. When had Lizbeth Mullet gotten so deeply under his skin? Was he falling in love with the widow?

  * * *

  By late afternoon the auctions under the big tent were in full swing. Lizbeth watched people mill around, their chatter sounding like the constant hum of a bee’s nest. The blue tarp, stretched taut by ropes, provided shade for the local sewing ladies all dressed in varying shades of pale lavender, blue and yellow. The covering danced and flapped overhead as a gust of wind swirled across the park and deposited dead leaves at their feet.

  Lizbeth plunged her short quilting needle into the soft layers of cotton for safekeeping and then stomped her old black lace-up shoes, sending leaves flying. She went back to making tiny stitches on the beautiful double-wedding-ring quilt the sewing group was finishing for Bertha Zook’s December wedding.

  Thankfully she hadn’t forgotten everything she knew about quilting while she’d been in Ohio. Her mother-in-law had never allowed her to sit in with the local sewing group. She was seldom allowed to go into town for groceries or fabric for clothes, and when she did, Jonah was always with her. The
ladies of the community came routinely to the farm to sew, but Lizbeth was always banished to her bedroom, as if she were an embarrassment to the family. It had been another way to humiliate her, which seemed to bring pleasure to the mean-spirited older woman.

  “You ready to move in to your new home, Lizbeth?” Kitty Troyer asked, her brown-eyed gaze darting toward Lizbeth and then back to the row of minute stitches she was making on her end of the quilt. As habit would have it, a tiny wedge of her pink tongue stuck out as she concentrated on what she was doing with her needle.

  “Benuel and I should finish moving in soon,” Lizbeth answered. But was she ready to move in to the big house with a kinner and live alone for the first time in her life? Most of her belongings, meager as they were, already hung in the generous closets, sat on the newly papered shelves. Benuel’s shirts and britches were folded in the old, but well-preserved, dresser in the smaller room next to hers.

  She’d managed to delay the actual move-in date, but she’d run out of time. Most of the house repairs had been made by Fredrik and her daed, with the exception of a short list, including new tile floors that were to be laid some time next week.

  It was move in or admit she wasn’t ready to be a single parent to Benuel. Did she have the parenting skills needed to keep such an overactive child contained? She doubted she did, but she was learning fast and would soon have them. The night before it had taken the joined efforts of her daed, Ulla and herself to get Benuel to bed. He’d been placed back in his cot over and over, threatened with punishment by her father, but still he’d resisted. Later, he had snuck into her bed late in the night, while everyone was asleep.

  Beyond exhausted, she’d allowed him to sleep with her for a few additional minutes and then carried him back to his bed, only to find him snuggled under her quilt when the sunshine came streaming into her bedroom window this morning.

  She couldn’t keep allowing him to sleep in her bed. He was getting too big. He needed to catch up with other boys his age.

  She’d struggled to teach him to tie his own shoes before breakfast, promising him the treat of his favorite pancakes if he’d just listen to her instructions and try for himself. His mind didn’t seem able to settle on what she’d been telling him. For mere seconds he’d paid attention and then was off to watch a ladybug crawl on the screen door. She’d ended up tying his shoes for him and sending him off to brush his teeth.

  The doctor she’d taken him to just after Jonah’s death had diagnosed him with ADHD. She’d been given a pamphlet. The doctor’s comments clarified why Benuel had such a hard time learning new skills and why he was never able to sit still long enough to listen to words of instruction. But knowing the name of the problem didn’t make him any easier to teach.

  The doctor had spoken of medication that could be used when he was older and in school. The pamphlets she’d read and placed on the table had turned up missing, no doubt thrown out by her father-in-law, who swore there was nothing wrong with the boy that a good whipping wouldn’t cure. It was that man’s answer for everything.

  Lost in her own world, Lizbeth didn’t hear her name being called until Ulla touched her arm.

  Lizbeth glanced up, acknowledging Ulla with a glance and then noticed all the women around the quilting hoop looking her way. She’d known some of the older women most of her life. A few were strangers to her, but they all accepted her in a way that told her she was welcomed to the sewing circle. She scrambled to remember what the topic of conversation had been a moment before. She felt her face warm. “I’m sorry. Was someone speaking to me?”

  At the far end of the large square hoop, Theda Fischer, the bishop’s wife, leaned forward and spoke, a tiny dimple appearing as she smiled sweetly Lizbeth’s way. The day’s humidity had the older woman’s crisp kapp floating atop a mass of frazzled reddish-gray hair. “Ya, it was me, Lizzy. I was wondering if you’d be starting Benuel at the Mennonite school. There’ll be two openings now that Henry Schrock took his twins back to live with his mamm.”

  Benuel’s birthday was in a few days. He’d turn five and be old enough to attend. But she hadn’t considered putting him in school since his behavior had become so volatile of late. She’d decided to wait a bit, at least until he turned six.

  If he were an average boy of five, she thought, she’d consider sending him. But sadly, he wasn’t. He was a handful, even for her daed, who had managed to keep her rambunctious brother in line until he’d been baptized and married at twenty-four. “He seems so young to be cooped up in a classroom all those hours. Perhaps it’s best...” Lizbeth let her words float away on the breeze, not sure what else to add.

  After threading another needle, Theda glanced back at her. “Mark my words. It’s the best thing that could happen to a young man with his level of intelligence and energy.”

  So others in the small community had noticed Benuel’s inability to contain himself. Lizbeth thrust her needle in the fabric and pricked herself. Careful not to get the droplet of blood on the quilt, she jerked her handkerchief from her apron and wrapped it around her finger. “Time will tell,” she offered and went back to sewing.

  Around the hoop several ladies murmured their opinions. Lizbeth glanced over at Ulla and watched as her father’s new wife smoothed the quilt out in front of her and tightened her edge of the hoop. She affectionately shared a smile with Lizbeth.

  A moment later Lizbeth glanced back up as Ulla murmured to no one in particular, “It makes me to wonder if all this talk of Benuel’s behavior and the merits of school isn’t stressing Lizbeth. We must remember she is a new widow, with enough on her plate for now. She’s dealing with the loss of her beloved husband, and moving in to a new home. Instead of us concerning ourselves with the pros and cons of school, let’s sing some songs and lighten her spirits.”

  A nervous giggle came from Pearly, the community’s favorite soloist at their local New Order Amish church. Ulla nodded her way and the sweet words of “I’ll Meet You in The Morning” began in the woman’s high, clear voice, leaving Lizbeth time to gather her troubled thoughts.

  As she sang along, she contemplated her and Benuel’s future. The choices she’d make in the next few weeks could change the little boy’s life. She wanted what was best for him, wanted him to grow into a fine, strong man, with or without a father around to guide him. Benuel would have her daed as a guiding light and he would have to be enough. He was a far cry better than Benuel’s last stand-in father.

  Sunlight filtering through the trees revealed Fredrik walking past their little canvas-topped island. He was with a man Lizbeth recognized as Lon Yoder, one of their classmates back in school. He and Fredrik pulled at the rims of their straw hats and nodded in her direction as they silently passed.

  She was careful to take in a slow breath and not let anyone see how thrilled she really was to be near Fredrik again. She’d had a crush on him as a girl, and she’d thought it could turn into more. But then he’d walked out of her life without so much as a wave goodbye. Someday he might make a good husband, but not yet. Besides, she wasn’t sure she’d ever be ready to marry. Would she be able to trust a man again? To love again? She hoped so.

  A cooling breeze ruffled her hair and brought her back to her surroundings. She looped a strand of hair behind her ear and picked up her needle. Fredrik was out of sight, lost in the sea of people mingling around. She tried to quiet her thoughts, but her heart kept beating loudly in her ears.

  She glanced around the quilting hoop. The singing had ended and several of the ladies where chatting amongst themselves, sharing stories about new grandbabies or the friendly Englischer who’d taken their pictures when they’d met on the street and then offered them a dollar in payment. Lizbeth resumed her work on the quilt, determined in her heart to do her best for Benuel as he grew into a man of faith.

  Chapter Nine

  The wind caught the farmhouse door and
slammed it shut with a bang behind Lizbeth’s father and Fredrik Lapp.

  Seeing them walk in, Lizbeth lowered her eyes and steadied her hand as she placed a steaming bowl of homegrown string beans on the table. “Is Fredrik eating with us tonight?” Her heart skipped a beat, reminding her of her growing attraction to the man. She smoothed out wrinkles from the simple white tablecloth covering the table before heading back toward the kitchen for the pot roast, new potatoes and carrots platter.

  Ulla’s eyes darted toward the front of the house. A corner of her mouth lifted. “Ya. He’s ready to start work on the apartment behind the house and needs John’s advice on some of the projects. Your daed told me he’d invited Fredrik to stay for dinner a while ago. I just forgot to tell you.”

  Lizbeth’s brows lifted. She tried hard not to smile and show the joy she felt. She was acting like a silly teen and knew it. “That’s fine with me.”

  Ulla slipped Lizbeth a curious glance and then went back to stirring tiny lumps out of John’s favorite brown gravy bubbling in the iron skillet. “You don’t have any feelings for Fredrik, do you?”

  Lizbeth brushed away a ringlet of hair from her forehead and then reached overhead for the gravy boat her mother had always used for special occasions such as this. It was Benuel’s fifth birthday, a reason to celebrate. “Nee. Not a bit.”

  She felt her face warm because of her lie. She’d have to repent during bedtime prayers. “I was just wondering, is all,” she added and placed the bowl in front of Ulla, watching as the thick mixture of browned flour, chicken broth, thick cream, and salt and pepper was poured into the fragile, spouted container. When it was full to overflowing, Lizbeth wiped the sides of the old dish and carried it over to the condiments tray. She waited for Ulla to lead the way back to the table being readied for their meal.

  Ulla carried in a covered basket of piping hot rolls and positioned them next to the steaming meat platter. Her face was flushed from working over a hot stove. She favored the right knee she’d injured stepping on one of Benuel’s small cars left on the floor. The hobbling woman whispered over her shoulder, “The man’s always seemed nice to me. Maybe you should show him some interest. I hear he’s looking for a fraa.” She smiled and looked hopeful. “He’d make a gut father for Benuel.”