Amanda Weds a Good Man

by Naomi King

  When at last the service ended, Amanda rose with the rest of the women. The twins stood on the pew bench to hug her as they waited for the women behind them to disperse into the kitchen, and Amanda’s heart thrummed gratefully. Such a blessing it was, to have little girls of this age, this innocence.

  “I’m hungry, Mamma!”

  “Jah, me, too! Church just went on and on and on today!”

  Amanda almost chuckled—until a woman in the row behind them plucked at Dora’s dress.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” she demanded.

  Amanda blinked, startled by her tone. “Matter of fact, I married Wyman Brubaker just a week and a half ago—”

  “Your girls shouldn’t be seen in this color. Pink’s too bright and showy—”

  “Jah, and in church, no less,” Mildred joined in with a shake of her finger. “You’d best be sewing up appropriate clothes for them. And your Lizzie ought not to be wearing her dresses so short, either, or showing so much hair in front of her kapps,” she went on in a sharp voice. “My daughter is Teacher Elsie, you see. She’s instructed your girl about these matters, yet Lizzie refuses to obey her. That’ll lead to trouble down the road. Just you wait and see.”

  Cora’s chin was quivering. “But Mamma says we look perky in pink, like the zinnias in her garden.”

  “And Lizzie’s my sister,” Dora spoke up boldly. “We love her, and you should, too!”

  The women around them could have flown to the ceiling, the way their eyebrows arched up like wings. “Ach, but that’s no way for you girls to talk,” Mildred chided, again shaking her finger at them.

  Amanda nearly grabbed that accusing finger, even if it belonged to the bishop’s wife. “They’re four, you know,” she replied in a strained voice. “We’re adjusting to a new home, and new siblings, and—”

  “As the branch is bent, so grows the tree,” another woman behind them warned.

  Something inside Amanda snapped. Had there ever been an unfriendlier bunch than these biddy hens who pecked at her precious daughters? She helped Cora and Dora hop off the bench into the aisle and then steered them out the kitchen door, thinking some fresh air and quiet time would be the only thing that got her through the common meal.

  And there stood Lizzie. While the other young people buddied up beneath the red and gold maple trees, her daughter leaned against the house by herself, the picture of misery. As Amanda strode closer, she saw the wet tracks streaming down Lizzie’s cheeks. Would they ever reach a time when this girl stopped crying?

  “So, they’ve been picking at you, too?” Amanda murmured. The twins grabbed Lizzie and hugged her between them. “I hear the teacher’s told you to wear your kapp farther forward—”

  “That’s just the half of it,” Lizzie rasped. “Seems my dresses are too short—even though they’re below my knees. It’s not like we’ve had time to buy fabric or sew anything, even if I knew where the sewing machine was! I’ve had it, Mamm! My stomach’s in such a knot I’m going to throw up—and this stink isn’t helping.”

  “Well, we can’t have you getting sick.” Amanda knew exactly how distraught her daughter felt, and there was no ignoring the aroma from the bishop’s hog houses as she searched the crowd for her husband. When Wyman emerged from the other end of the house with the men, she slipped her arm around Lizzie’s shoulders. “Come on, girls. We can’t do this ever again, but we’re heading home to deal with what these women are saying.”

  Amanda nodded at Vera, who was chatting with her friends, and walked on by without an explanation. “Wyman,” Amanda said when they reached him, “Lizzie’s got a stomach bug, it seems. If you’ll hitch up one of our rigs, please, you and Vera and the boys can stay for the meal.”

  Aware that the other men were observing how he handled this situation, Wyman looked ready to challenge her—especially considering today’s topic of a wife’s submission. When Lizzie clutched her stomach, however, Amanda marched the girls on toward the stable and the corral. Wouldn’t be the first time she’d hitched up a buggy, after all.

  Her husband caught up to them, keeping his voice low. “What’s this about, Amanda? I saw how upset you looked when a couple of the women were—”

  “Upset doesn’t nearly cover it,” she replied tersely. “Seems we newcomers don’t measure up to your district’s standards. Seems I have a lot of rethinking—and sewing—and praying to do before the next preaching service.”

  Wyman’s eyes widened but he said no more. He called Dottie from among the dozens of horses and then hitched the mare to the smaller of the Brubaker rigs. When she heard a peculiar sound behind them, Amanda turned to see Jemima lurching toward them, favoring a leg.

  “Grabbed your coat and mine,” the older woman huffed. “Don’t even think about leaving me here. Lord a-mercy, I’d rather be dead on the road for the buzzards to pick at.”

  Wyman scowled. “I can see we have some things to talk about when I get home,” he murmured. “I had no idea . . . Viola never let on about these women being difficult—”

  “Well, I’m not Viola. Obviously,” Amanda retorted more vehemently than she intended. “Denki for not making us stay. We won’t ask you to do this again.”

  Wyman helped Jemima into the back of the buggy while Amanda grabbed the reins. As the mare clip-clopped down the Schmuckers’ long lane, she felt the other members’ curious stares . . . sensed that she and her girls and Jemima would be discussed during the common meal.

  But she had no control over what these people said about her and her family. Vera and the boys would have a full report when they returned home, but for the next few hours Amanda just wanted to regroup—to bind herself, her girls, and Atlee’s mamm together with love so they could move forward in this difficult new district.

  Once they got home, she and Lizzie unhitched the rig while Jemima took the twins inside to find something for dinner. Amanda thought glumly about the big bowl of chowchow and the sliced ham she’d left in Mildred Schmucker’s refrigerator . . . nothing fancy, but with laundry to catch up on yesterday, she hadn’t had time to cook anything but their three regular meals. Would she ever reach a point where mothering this huge family felt normal?

  Amanda slung her arm around Lizzie. “I had to bite my tongue when the women around me insisted the twins’ pink dresses were inappropriate,” she muttered. “And when Mildred Schmucker said Teacher Elsie was her daughter—”

  “Oh, jah, I’ve been warned we’d be getting a visit from the bishop if I didn’t cover myself with my kapps and dresses,” Lizzie interrupted. “You’d’ve thought I wasn’t wearing anything at all.”

  Amanda steered her daughter around to the front of the house. Why was it that on such a glorious autumn day, the five of them who’d lived in peace in Bloomingdale now felt so attacked? And so at odds with the world?

  “This place looks lived in and loved,” Amanda remarked as she gazed at the tall white house with its additions sticking out both sides. “It’s been painted and kept up so well, anyone would realize that generations of Brubakers have lived gut lives here. Surely there’s a way for us to make it our home, too. When Wyman and the rest of them get back, we need to talk about . . .”

  Amanda blinked. She walked closer, focused on the screened porch as another wave of dismay washed over her. “Where’s Mamm’s china hutch? And the chairs Uncle Lester built? And—”

  “The sewing machine!” Lizzie blurted. “How am I supposed to make new dresses if— And I don’t want to use Viola’s machine!”

  “Well, those pieces have to be here somewhere. They’d better be!” Amanda stalked toward the machine shed, her heart throbbing uncomfortably. Why would Wyman do this without telling me? Or is it another one of the boys’ tricks? Do they despise me already?

  Into the shadowy shed she went, with Lizzie on her heels. It smelled of the kerosene stored there. The stench of filth
y rags tossed into a corner made her wrinkle up her nose, as well. Along the wall, a row of uneven shapes lurked beneath an assortment of old tarps. Lizzie gasped as a mouse scurried past them and out the open door.

  Amanda yanked at the nearest tarp. As dust flew around her head, she beheld the dresser and headboard of a bedroom set Atlee had made from bird’s-eye maple, the first year they were married.

  She burst into tears. How was she supposed to talk to Wyman about moving her pieces into his household—her home now—if she had no words for yet another disappointment that cut right through to her soul?

  Chapter Seventeen

  “So why are the Schmuckers following us home?” Eddie murmured as the buggy rolled out of the bishop’s lane and onto the blacktop.

  Wyman reconsidered an answer Simon would repeat at exactly the wrong moment. “Most likely he and Mildred are . . . concerned about Lizzie and your mamm leaving before the meal was served,” he replied carefully. He glanced at Pete and Vera in the backseat. “What can you two tell me about how Lizzie’s doing? Why is she so upset all the time?”

  Brother and sister exchanged a glance, neither wanting to respond first. Alice Ann, the only cheerful one among them, wiggled her fingers at him from where she sat on Vera’s lap.

  “I warned her that Teacher Elsie would call her out for her short dresses,” Vera replied in a tight voice. “And Lizzie wants so much time to herself in the room, and— Well, it’s my room, too! Even though she apologized for reading my diary, she still sniffles and looks out the window as though she’d rather be anywhere except with me!”

  Pete let out a rueful laugh. “She doesn’t earn any points with Teacher Elsie when she rants about how her dresses and kapps were just fine in Bloomingdale—and how much nicer the kids were,” he said. “Lizzie doesn’t come out and say so, but she liked her other teacher a lot better, too.”

  Wyman didn’t doubt that. Elsie took after her mamm, pointing out improvements other people should make. Most folks speculated that Elsie had been chosen over other girls qualified for the teacher’s post because she was the bishop’s daughter. It seemed the young men weren’t eager to court her, either, so she might remain the teacher in Clearwater for many years.

  “Jah, Lizzie’s a bawl-baby, all right,” Simon murmured. “Doesn’t like anything we—”

  “Enough, son. That’s not helpful,” Wyman warned. How could he explain Lizzie’s situation without seeming to condone her attitude or favor her? “Lizzie’s in a difficult position. Everything in her life changed this week—her home, her school, her church, her friends,” he pointed out. “And frankly, I hadn’t noticed that her hemlines are any higher than yours, Vera.”

  Truth be told, he liked it that Amanda wore her dresses slightly shorter than Viola had. He loved her energy and admired the way she had overcome so many obstacles as a woman alone supporting a family, too. His new wife had been extremely upset when she’d left church, however, and he longed for some time alone with her before Uriah and Mildred arrived.

  But there was no negotiating when the bishop of Clearwater tended his flock, and Wyman had a feeling that a few of the newer sheep were about to be chastised. He could only hope that during their time at home, Amanda, Jemima, and the girls had settled their ruffled feathers and that Lizzie wasn’t sick to her stomach anymore . . . if indeed she had been physically ill. Girls that age were hard to figure out. He decided not to remind Vera of her own moods and complaints about Teacher Elsie when she’d been thirteen.

  As they turned in at the lane, Uriah’s rig was only twenty feet behind them. Wyman would have no time to prepare Amanda for guests. . . . He recalled with a sigh that the kitchen sink had been piled high with their breakfast dishes when they’d left home, because Jemima’s lengthy stint in the bathroom had made them late.

  “I’d appreciate it if you boys would tend the horse and rig, and the evening chores,” he said as they pulled to a halt by the barn. “And Simon, this would be a gut time to stay outside and run off Wags’s energy, all right?”

  “Jah, he’s always ready to romp after being in his pen so long.” The boy sprang down from the buggy and ran full tilt toward the backyard.

  “Vera, do we have anything to offer the Schmuckers if they stay to supper?” Wyman asked.

  His daughter’s horrified expression confirmed his fears. “I’ll try to scare something up while they’re visiting with Amanda.” She glanced toward the couple that was climbing down from the rig parked alongside the house. “Since we’re not to be working on the Sabbath, calling for pizza delivery seems like a real gut idea. But I won’t do that, of course.”

  Wyman laughed in spite of his misgivings about this visit. There had been times after Viola died when they’d relied upon the sub and pizza place down the road for hot meals. “We’ll believe that the Lord will provide,” he murmured. “And we’ll pray for His help with Uriah and Mildred, as well.”

  This was no time to mention the murmurings among some of the members, about how difficult and unyielding their bishop was compared to Vernon Gingerich and the leaders of other nearby settlements. Over the past few years, while they were delivering their corn crop, a few fellows had confided that they were looking for land elsewhere—and some had moved—because Uriah had lit into them about one problem or another.

  Be with us, Lord, Wyman prayed as he waited on the porch for the bishop and his wife. After all, You caused the lot to fall upon this man, choosing him to be our leader. It’s not my place to defy Your will.

  As he held the door, he saw Vera running hot water to wash the dishes. “It was a hectic morning. The eleven of us are still figuring out our get-ready-for-church routine,” he explained as their guests entered the kitchen.

  “You should assign everyone a time to be dressed and at the table, to avoid rushing around. Especially on Sunday,” Mildred stated as she scowled at the messy kitchen. “And now that you have more women here, there’s no excuse for chores to go undone at the last minute. Amanda—and you, as the man of the family—need to set your house in order, Wyman.”

  Wyman remained silent. He felt badly for Vera, who hunched over her work at the sink. Had Abby or anyone else from Cedar Creek been visiting, they would have grabbed towels and helped his daughter rather than finding fault—but pointing that out to Mildred wouldn’t improve her disposition.

  “Seems mighty quiet,” the bishop remarked as he peered into the front room.

  “Could be that Amanda and the others are napping, as none of them were feeling well this morning,” Wyman replied. “It is a day of rest, after all—and they didn’t know you folks would be visiting.”

  When Uriah raised one shaggy eyebrow, Wyman realized his reply might have sounded flippant. It was highly unusual that the house seemed deserted at this hour, and except for the swishing of dishes in the rinse water, the only sound was Alice Ann banging together two pots she’d grabbed from the open cabinet beside the stove.

  “Not now, sweet pea,” Wyman murmured as he pried the pan handles from his daughter’s tiny fists. “How about if you find your dolls—or stay here to help Vera—while Dat talks to Bishop Uriah?”

  As he put away the pans, Wyman desperately hoped Alice Ann’s screwed-up face didn’t turn into a crying fit. Where was everyone? Surely Amanda had heard them coming inside—

  A loud crash downstairs, followed by his wife’s voice saying, “Fine! Just fall on the floor and break, then!” answered his question about her whereabouts.

  Mildred made a beeline for the basement stairs. “That didn’t sound like an empty Mason jar hitting the floor—or a full one, for that matter,” she remarked. “We should be sure your wife’s all right, what with that broken glass to contend with.”

  Wyman closed his eyes. He could guess what Amanda was doing, just as he knew she would be anything but all right when the Schmuckers descended upon her. But there was nothing to do except foll
ow the bishop and his wife into the corner of the basement where he had set her potter’s wheel and the shelves for her ceramics.

  “And what would these paints be for? These pots and pie plates?” Mildred demanded in a shrill voice.

  “Didn’t I see some of these items for sale in the Cedar Creek Mercantile?” Uriah demanded. “Couldn’t believe Sam Lambright would carry such gaudy pieces in his store, and him a Plain preacher, too.”

  Wyman’s heart sank as he caught Amanda’s eye from the bottom of the stairs. I’m sorry, he mouthed, shrugging and shaking his head behind the Schmuckers.

  Amanda stopped sweeping the colorful shards of the piece she had dropped. She gripped the broom handle, a determined expression on her face. “And gut afternoon to you, too,” she said in a strained voice. “Before I married Wyman, I supported myself and my three girls by selling my pottery in shops around Bloomingdale. My first husband’s lingering illness and death drained all our cash reserves.”

  Uriah picked up a pitcher that was painted bright red with yellow and white flowers on it. “Gut thing the Lord led you to Wyman, then,” he remarked archly. “You’ll have no reason to continue with this artwork, which is far too fancy for those of the Old Order.”

  “Colorful to the point of being sinful.” Mildred turned to address Wyman. “Didn’t Viola make a kneeling confession about her painting? Note cards and framed likenesses, as I recall.”

  Wyman felt his temperature rising with his temper. Why were the Schmuckers being so rude and hardhearted? “She did.”

  “You should have instructed Amanda to dispose of her paints and pots before she moved them—and their worldly influence—into your home,” the bishop said sharply. “I feared you were straying from the path when you married in Cedar Creek rather than in your home district, Wyman. It seems I was right. Never mind that I felt slighted when you chose Vernon Gingerich to conduct your vows.”