by Naomi King
“And when Dat got really sick at the end,” Lizzie added, “he stayed in this bedroom, so Mamm could keep an eye on him while she worked. That was before Cora and Dora were born.”
Sad compassion clouded Vera’s face, but as she ran her fingers around the unglazed pie plates and bowl sets on the shelves, she brightened again. “It’s so neat that you start with clay and shape each piece on your wheel,” she murmured. “It means that no two pieces are exactly alike.”
Amanda brought a stack of old newspapers to the worktable and they began to wrap the dishes. “It’s as you said when you made those wind chimes and necklaces,” she replied. “If I don’t think too much about what I’m doing, my hands just take over. I make so many of each item—and I glaze them with my favorite colors and designs—that I don’t have to concentrate very hard. I’ve not thought about it, but jah, I suppose each piece is unique.”
Just as God has created each of us with different abilities . . . and different needs, Amanda thought as she watched her helpers. Vera was taller than her Lizzie, with darker hair and a quieter way about her, yet the two girls had taken to each other as if they had been close friends all their lives.
Vera carefully tucked the ends of newspaper around a teapot. “Do you suppose someday you could teach me to make pottery, Amanda? I do okay at cooking and sewing, but I’ve never taken to quilting like other girls . . .”
“I’m with you there,” Lizzie remarked. “Mammi Jemima’s tried to work with me, but my stitches are too big and uneven to suit her. I’d rather bake or crochet.”
Amanda’s pulse quickened. As Vera declared her love of creating, she evoked Amanda’s own deep need to continue crafting her colorful dishes even if the Clearwater elders declared them art, and therefore unacceptable as a Plain pursuit. She felt a fierce desire to share her skills with this young woman, sensing that Vera was a kindred spirit in ways her Lizzie would never be.
But this could lead us both down the path to perdition. . . .
Yet Amanda didn’t have the heart to squelch Vera’s curiosity, or the important bond they might share as they became part of a new, blended family.
“So you’d rather work with clay than fabric? I started out by helping my mamm’s Uncle Mahlon in his pottery shop when I was a wee girl, for that very reason.” Amanda thought about the rest of her answer as she wrapped her paintbrushes and added them to the box they were packing. “I’ll warn you, though, that in a lot of districts this would be considered too worldly. My great-uncle made dishes, using muted blues and browns—but only when he got too old and lame to farm did their bishop allow him to earn his living that way.”
Vera reached for another sturdy cardboard box and began to wrap plastic bottles of colored glazes. “Our bishop, Uriah Schmucker, is really old-fashioned. He still doesn’t like it that Dat partnered with a Mennonite before he joined the church, and that the elevator is on the Fishers’ land,” she remarked. “He says having electricity and their computer makes the business too English, even though it gives our Plain farmers a place to sell their corn.”
Amanda listened as she packed. Wyman had once told her that to compensate for his worldlier way of doing business, he often made extra donations to his district’s relief fund—just because he felt it was the right thing to do.
“I probably should’ve asked the bishop about making those necklaces.” Vera sighed ruefully as she met Amanda’s gaze. “But I got so excited about using your broken pieces that I didn’t think about it.”
Amanda had met Clearwater’s bishop when Wyman had announced his intention to marry her. She, too, sensed that Uriah would frown on her bright colors even if the pieces she made were useful. “I’ve been praying on that very subject,” she said. “Lamar Lapp, our bishop in Bloomingdale, allowed me to sell my pottery when Atlee got too sick to work, and he understood that colorful pieces sold better. I’ll be awfully busy getting adjusted to our new family anyway, so it might be a while before I can work at my wheel again.”
“Oh, but I hope you won’t give it up.” Vera cleared her throat, as though considering whether to mention something. “My mamm enjoyed drawing and painting, you see. Made the prettiest note cards . . . but when one of the preachers heard Eddie saying she’d painted some canvases of wildlife and flowers, the bishop came for a visit.”
Amanda’s heart sagged. She could guess what had happened next.
“He made Mamm throw away her paints. And he got after Dat for allowing her to have such a sinful pastime,” Vera went on. “Mamm obeyed, of course, and she never spoke of her painting again. But it was like a piece of her heart went missing after that.”
Amanda sighed. “Denki for telling me that, Vera. We’ll keep this matter in our prayers as well, all right?”
Had Uriah’s attitude toward Wyman’s first wife’s painting prompted him to insist she wouldn’t need the money from her pottery? It wasn’t a subject Amanda wanted to get into with Vera, because it was such a pleasure to discover the girl’s interest in colors and clay. But maybe, since Wyman seemed drawn to artistic women, he would understand her need to create . . . an inner longing to interpret her life using the vibrant palette with which God had made the world. Even if she didn’t sell her pottery, it satisfied her soul to make it. Maybe I can tuck my wheel and kiln into a corner of the basement at the Brubaker place. . . .
She and the girls worked for several minutes in silence, and it wasn’t long before they were taping their packed boxes shut. “We’ve done a gut morning’s work here,” Amanda said. “Let’s see how Jemima and the girls are doing. It’ll soon be time for our fellows to show up for dinner.”
“Jah, that meat loaf smells so gut. Nice to be eating something I didn’t have to cook myself.” Vera entered the kitchen and immediately went toward the voices coming through the screen door. “And what’s going on out here? We haven’t heard a peep out of you girls.”
“We’ve been busy bees!” one of the twins piped up. “Look at all the tomatoes and green beans we brought in. And cabbages!”
“And Mammi says it’s time to dig the carrots and taters, too,” her sister said.
As she followed Vera out to the porch, Amanda relaxed. Wasn’t it a good sign that Vera and Alice Ann got along so well with her three girls? Buckets of ripe tomatoes sat on the porch table alongside a wheelbarrow of fat green cabbage heads and at least a bushel of green beans. She and Jemima had a lot of canning ahead of them . . . their last harvest from this garden on Atlee’s farm. It was a bittersweet thought, even though Jerome and their expanded family would be eating these vegetables all through the winter.
As Amanda sliced bread for their dinner, she looked out the window. It was satisfying to see Eddie and Pete washing up at the pump, with Simon following their example. The twins were setting the last of the plates on the table when Jerome came in, tossing his hat onto its wall peg. “And how’d it go this morning?” she asked.
Her nephew’s easy grin lit up his swarthy face. “Gut help, those Brubaker boys. Made a lot of progress even if Simon had to chase a few grasshoppers,” he added. “The hay’s dry enough that after dinner we’re going to bale it and get it into the barn.”
Simon burst through the kitchen door. “Jerome says I worked so gut that I get to drive when we start balin’! Let’s eat now, so we can get back out there!”
Amanda’s eyebrows shot up. “That’s quite an important job, being the driver,” she remarked as she looked to the older boys.
Jerome winked at her. “Jah, the fellow holding the reins—and his assistant—have to stay put to keep the mules on track.”
Eddie and Pete hung their straw hats beside Jerome’s and glanced eagerly toward the table. “The snack hamper you packed us was mighty fine,” the older boy said.
“But I’m sure ready for whatever smells so gut for dinner,” Pete added with a grin, smoothing hair that was still damp from being splashed
at the pump.
“Take a seat and we’ll get everything on the table,” Amanda said. As Vera poured cold water and lemonade, Jemima was taking the blue enamel roaster from the oven. With Lizzie spooning up the hot vegetables and the twins carefully carrying the bowls to the table, they were seated within a few minutes.
As they bowed silently for prayer, Amanda thanked God for how smoothly this group effort was going. When Jerome picked up the platter of steaming meat loaf, they began to pass the carrots and potatoes along with a bowl of slaw, a crock of baked beans, and a gelatin salad loaded with fruit.
Eddie gazed at his heaped plate and smiled at Jemima. “Awfully nice of you to make us such a fine meal.”
“Jah,” Pete chimed in. “And those fried pies in our basket hit the spot, too.”
“I ate three whole ones all by myself!” Simon gushed. Then he stuck a large chunk of carrot into his mouth, letting part of it stick out as he chewed—mostly to entertain the twins.
“Well, now,” Jemima murmured. “I reckon it’s the least I can do, cooking so you boys can work out in our hayfields all day. We’re blessed to have your help, and happy to have your sisters here, too.”
And isn’t that a fine surprise, coming from Jemima? Amanda gazed around the table, which hadn’t had this many folks gathered at it in a long while. The two teenage boys took seconds as they chatted with Jerome about which field to bale first, while Lizzie and Vera talked quietly like two longtime friends sharing secrets. As she cut up Alice Ann’s potato, Amanda thought that maybe—by the grace of God—the Brubakers and the Lambrights could blend into one big happy family after all.
“So how is it that this little angel’s not yet talking?” Jemima asked. “She follows every word we say.” She buttered a slice of warm bread and laid it on Alice Ann’s plate.
The Brubaker kids got quiet. Amanda realized that while Wyman had told her about his wife’s tragic death, Jemima had heard only the sketchiest details.
Eddie took a deep breath. “When we were out haying a couple of years ago, it started to rain,” he recounted somberly. “Pete and Dat and I were across the field raking up some rows so the baler would pick up the cut hay. Mamm was helping us, so we could get it in the barn before it got too wet. . . .”
Pete cleared his throat as though the memory still felt raw. “Mamm was holding Alice Ann when thunder made the mules bolt. She grabbed at their reins and then she . . . she slipped in the wet grass. Tossed the baby aside as she fell underneath the baler.”
Vera nodded gravely. “The doctor believes Alice Ann got such a shock, seeing our mamm get crushed, that she went mute. She wasn’t but a year old, not yet forming words, you see.”
Jemima’s face fell. “Oh, my, I . . . I didn’t mean to upset you all over again about how your mother died. Please forgive me if I’ve been impatient and cantankerous with you. I—I had no idea.”
Amanda reached around the high chair to squeeze her mother-in-law’s shoulder. “We’ve all had losses in our lives,” she said quietly. “The way I see it, we can help one another bear those burdens and come out the better for it. Are you kids with me on this?”
All eyes focused on her for a solemn moment, and then everyone nodded. Amanda felt as though they’d taken a vow together: their earnest expressions gave her hope that they could carry this moment of understanding forward, through whatever trials their new life presented.
“Gut,” she murmured. “Your dat will be pleased. Meanwhile, we’ve got much to be grateful for—and happy about! Like those pies and brownies on the counter, ain’t so?”
The boys’ wide smiles made Amanda laugh. Raising three sons would be a challenge—much different from dealing with her girls—yet she had the sense that she’d found her new purpose in life. The place God had prepared for her.
Chapter Six
That evening as Wyman closed the door to the office in the grain elevator, he heaved a tired sigh. He and Ray had taken in truckload after truckload of corn, recording the number of bushels of each farmer’s harvest to date. Meanwhile Ray’s son Tyler kept everyone abreast of current prices on the grain exchange with his computer. The summer’s drought meant yields weren’t as high all over the country, but the short supply also increased the per-bushel price. With the livelihoods of his neighbors on the line, Wyman was keenly aware of how the community of Clearwater depended upon him and Ray Fisher.
Why on earth had he decided to get married during the busiest month of the year? There was a good reason many Old Order couples waited until November to wed. . . . But how much longer can you wait for order to be restored in your home, your life? Admit it: you’re more desperate for Amanda than she is for you.
It was a startling thought. And he certainly couldn’t express such an idea to anyone—especially not to Amanda—if he wanted to remain the head of his expanding household. It was his responsibility to provide for the five additional people he’d have under his roof, while his new wife relieved him of overseeing the day-to-day business of living. Such a division of duties had kept Plain communities stable for centuries, so there was nothing to gain by deviating from that plan.
As Wyman crossed the county blacktop to stride down Brubaker Lane, the door of his sprawling white house flew open. Simon raced toward the road as fast as his five-year-old legs could carry him.
“Dat! Dat, I got to drive today! Four mules!” his son cried. Wags ran circles around Simon until they were close enough that the tousle-mopped boy launched himself.
Wyman caught him, laughing. Simon’s joy made him forget all about droughts and family dynamics. “And how did that happen?” he asked as he swung the youngster into the air.
“Me and Jerome, we hitched the mules to a cart and hooked the baler to it—and then a big flatbed wagon behind that,” Simon said. “Jerome put the first bale down so’s I could stand on it! And then he stood right behind me, showin’ me how to hold the reins and get the mules to go where they was s’posed to!”
What a fine young man Amanda’s nephew is, Wyman thought as he held his son to his shoulder. He hadn’t spent much time with Jerome Lambright, but any fellow who had kept Simon focused, learning a vital skill, deserved respect. “So that means Eddie and Pete were on the back wagon, stacking the bales as they shot out of the baler?”
“Jah. And we had a treat basket!” Simon exclaimed. “I ate five fried pies and four big brownies today!”
Wyman laughed, dodging the circling dog as they reached the house. “How did you have room for dinner, after so many goodies?”
Simon’s eyes resembled dark brown buttons. “Dat, we were workin’ hard,” he insisted. “Pete and Eddie ate way more than me. And we had meat loaf, and taters with carrots, and Jell-O with lotsa fruit—”
“All your favorite things,” Wyman remarked as he set Simon down on the porch. “Sounds like you all had a fine day at Amanda’s.”
He let Simon enter the house ahead of him. Filling the dog’s water pan gave Wyman a moment to wish he had been working in Amanda’s fields with his boys and eating such a robust meal . . . The sandwiches and potato salad Vera had packed in his cooler had abandoned his stomach hours ago. After harvest, however, he would again walk home for dinner each day instead of eating his noon meal at his untidy desk between truckloads of grain. And in just a week, when he married Amanda, his life would be complete again.
As Wyman stepped into the kitchen, he eyed the table. The platter of cold, sliced ham and the bowl of the same potato salad he’d had for lunch made him nip his lip. He didn’t expect seventeen-year-old Vera to put on a spread that compared to Amanda’s when she had been away from home all day, but he was ravenous for a hot, filling meal. As though his daughter could read his thoughts, she smiled apologetically.
“Supper’s almost ready, Dat,” she said, scrambling to place the silverware around their six plates. “We stayed at Amanda’s long enough for the boys to stac
k the bales in the barn. We got a lot done—Alice Ann even helped the twins and Jemima pick the last of their vegetables. Amanda sent us home with a rhubarb custard pie and a plate of wonderful-gut brownies, too.”
The sight of the pie on the sideboard made his stomach growl. “And what were you helping with, Vera? It sounds as though going over there was one of Pete’s better ideas.”
“Lizzie and I helped Amanda pack her pottery. And you know those broken pieces I was playing with?” she asked eagerly. “Amanda thinks Treva Lambright might carry my wind chimes and flowerpots in her greenhouse shop—”
“Don’t count your chickens before they’re hatched,” Wyman warned. “I can’t think the bishop will go along with that idea. You’d be better off going to more Singings with the young people, finding a fellow to pair up with. You’ll have more time for that once Amanda’s here, after all.”
When Vera’s face fell, Wyman regretted being so blunt with her. She had taken on the huge responsibility of minding her younger siblings while keeping up with the cooking, laundry, and gardening, and he couldn’t have managed without her these past two years. But there was no sense in allowing daydreams about colorful dishes to distract her from finding a mate. Fulfilling her purpose.
“Do you understand where I’m coming from?” he asked as he took his seat at the head of the table.
“Jah, Dat.”
“I see no reason to get your hopes up, after your mother was told to throw away her paints.” While Wyman believed he’d given his daughter the correct advice, being right didn’t keep Vera from turning toward the sink so he wouldn’t see the tears streaming down her face.
The screen door banged. Eddie and Pete’s banter about the day’s activities filled the kitchen, and soon his children were in their places, bowing in prayer before their evening meal.
Wyman took two large slices of ham and passed the platter to his boys. He glanced at Alice Ann, who sat between him and Vera in her high chair. She was kicking her legs in anticipation of the bread her sister buttered for her. “So you worked in the garden with Dora and Cora today?” he asked in a light voice.