by Naomi King
Wyman nearly bit his tongue, keeping his retort to himself. Wasn’t Uriah expressing his pride, his envy? “Preacher Sam offered us his home as—”
“And you listened to him rather than consult your own bishop?” Uriah turned sharply to glare at Amanda again. “And you are yet another example of how progressive ideas slither into our lives just as the serpent—the Devil—beguiled Eve in the garden. You know better than to be unpacking on the Sabbath, Amanda.”
Amanda stood still, not even breathing. Her knuckles turned white on her broomstick. “You’re absolutely right, bishop,” she murmured. “Will you please forgive me?”
The silence in the basement nearly smothered Wyman as the seconds ticked into minutes, marked by the clock on the wall. He wasn’t sure how his wife was holding her composure, but he had never loved her more or felt so in awe of her inner strength. He wanted to suggest that they all go upstairs to talk, but until the bishop responded to Amanda’s plea, it wasn’t anyone else’s place to speak.
“Consider yourself warned, Amanda,” Uriah finally stated. “Mildred and Elsie have pointed up other shortcomings concerning your daughters’ clothing, I believe.”
“Jah.”
Mildred’s eyebrows shot up, as though she expected Amanda to go down on her knees, thanking her for such constructive criticism. Amanda, however, said nothing more.
Uriah cleared his throat loudly. “We’ll be watching for the recommended improvements, as a sign of your sincere effort to cleanse your soul from the influences of sin—and as the assurance that you, Wyman, are steering your wife toward her salvation, and that she has submitted to your guidance.”
Wyman merely nodded, to keep from spewing out his true feelings. While he knew he should welcome the bishop’s correction, it galled him that the Schmuckers had treated Amanda so harshly on her first Sunday in a new church district. “Shall we go upstairs, then?” he asked when it seemed Mildred was looking around the cellar for something more to criticize. “Maybe you’d like some coffee—”
“We wouldn’t want to keep you from praying on these matters as a family,” Uriah insisted, “so you can amend your attitudes and rectify these matters immediately. Next time I’m in the Cedar Creek Mercantile, I hope to see that Amanda’s pottery has been removed from the shelves, as well.”
Again Wyman nodded, and then followed Mildred and the bishop upstairs. It was only proper to see the Schmuckers to the door, but he wasn’t surprised Amanda didn’t accompany him. He stood on the porch as they stepped up into their buggy, waving briefly as they pulled away. When he entered the kitchen again, Vera was drying the last of the dishes, a distressed expression on her face.
“Well, at least it’s over and they’re gone,” she murmured.
“And they didn’t tell Amanda to make a confession next preaching Sunday,” Wyman said.
“Yet,” his daughter replied. “Remember how it was with Mamm? They told her to put away her paints, and not two days later Uriah was back to inform her she’d be on her knees at a members’ meeting.”
“I’d forgotten that part. He came when I was at the elevator.” Wyman sighed, feeling drained and exhausted, but there was a lot of talking to do yet. “We Brubakers will have to pull together. Can you help Lizzie make some new dresses in the next couple days? And lend her some of yours in the meantime? Tall as you are, your dresses should be long enough, ain’t so?”
“I can do that, jah. Should have thought of it myself.” Vera draped the wet dish towel over the drying rack. “I’ll go upstairs and have her try some on.”
“Denki, Vera. I appreciate your help.”
She held his gaze for a moment, looking so much like her mother that it clutched at his heart. “If we put Jemima’s pie safe over on that far wall, can we leave the rest of the kitchen as it is?”
While he was pleased his daughter wanted to prevent any further injuries, Wyman knew a loaded question when he heard one. “That’s between you and Amanda. You three cooks need to figure out where things will go,” he said. “As long as gut meals are put on and the room’s set to rights afterward, I’m satisfied.”
Vera nodded, not entirely happy but accepting his answer.
“After you help Lizzie try on dresses, get together with the boys and call in an order for pizza and some hot subs,” he suggested. “We’ve got a lot to discuss, and having food delivered means none of us has to work, jah?”
Her grin lifted his spirits. Wyman wished something as simple as a store-bought supper would make Amanda feel better, too. As he returned to the basement, he prayed that his new wife would willingly comply with the bishop’s wishes instead of burying her resentment where it would fester. Few folks realized how much of herself Viola had sacrificed, for she had put on a faithful face at church and among her friends. The last thing Wyman wanted was for the same dark cloud to settle over Amanda—and therefore over him and the entire family.
Where does a man draw the line between following his faith and fostering the welfare of his family? The question weighed heavily on him as he went downstairs to find Amanda sitting on the old couch, muffling her sobs.
What have I done to her? Was I wrong to believe Amanda would be the solution to my problems?
Wyman drew her into his arms. At least she didn’t push him away but instead cried out her frustrations against his shoulder. This wasn’t how he’d envisioned Amanda as she ran his household and raised his kids, but he’d witnessed such deep disappointment before . . . and felt grateful for his experience with Viola’s low moods. He couldn’t have handled this emotional overload as a new groom of twenty.
“I’m sorry, Amanda,” he murmured, wishing his apology could wipe away the pain the Schmuckers had inflicted. “I couldn’t say no when Uriah insisted on a visit. I should’ve warned you that he’d object to your pottery before you brought it here.”
Amanda raised her head, sniffling. “But I knew about Viola’s pictures,” she rasped. “And when I met Uriah, and suspected he’d tell me to put away my work . . . I took my pieces to Sam’s store thinking I’d find them homes rather than packing them away forever.”
Wyman held her until her crying subsided. What a fine woman she was, not to whine or make excuses. Amanda deserved his understanding, even as he reminded her that he was responsible for the Brubaker family—and was its chief decision maker. In that sense, Viola had been easier. She had never been the breadwinner, and had never tasted the independence that came from living without a man.
“The kids have ordered pizza and subs,” he murmured, hoping this would ease her most immediate concern. “I have a solution for our bathroom problem, as well, I think. Shall we discuss it over supper?”
Amanda mopped her blotchy face with her apron. “Jah, that would be fine.”
“And Vera’s going to lend Lizzie some dresses until they can sew her some new ones,” Wyman continued in an upbeat voice. “So, see? We’ll figure it out, my love. We’ll shed our tears, but our joy will come. Do you believe that, Amanda?”
She peered at him through swollen, red-rimmed eyes. Again, it wasn’t the vision Wyman had imagined for his wife of a week, but at least she was looking at him. “Jah. We’ll make it work.”
“I love you, Amanda.”
She nodded, straightening her kapp and smoothing her crumpled apron. “Jah, there’s that. Let’s go upstairs.”
It wasn’t the response he’d hoped for, but then this wasn’t the sort of Sunday he’d figured on, either. Days like this had their purpose, however. When you’re down and out, the only way to go is up.
Chapter Eighteen
Early Monday morning Abby entered the mercantile’s back room and shivered. A cold front had blown through in the night, so she turned on the furnace to take the chill off the large, open rooms of the store. She made a mental note to ask Sam about getting the propane tank refilled, and realized it was time to order the ji
mmies, spices, and baking supplies for the upcoming holidays. So many things to remember, now that she often ran the store while her brother tended to his duties as a preacher.
About an hour before opening time, the bell above the door jingled. “Merle, gut morning to you!” she called out from the freezer case she was stocking. “You’re up before the sun today.”
He scratched his head, looking around as though he’d forgotten why he’d come.
Abby tucked her box of bagged fruits into the freezer and went over to help him. James’s dat loved to shop—sometimes to get away from Eunice’s watchful eye—so it was Abby’s mission to be sure he didn’t buy items they wouldn’t use. “Does Emma need something for your breakfast?” she asked.
“What Emma needs, I can’t give her,” Merle teased as he reached for Abby’s hand. “But you can help me. Eunice has a birthday coming up, and I don’t have the foggiest notion what to give her. It’s not like I can make her some little surprise, because she’ll see me working on it.”
Abby squeezed his gnarled hand. It was always a fine day when Merle’s memory and sense of humor were working at the same time. “Gut thing you reminded me. I’d feel awful if October twenty-ninth went by and I didn’t have a little something for her, too.” As she gazed around the store, a splash of color caught her eye. “How about a piece of Amanda Brubaker’s pottery? Something new and cheerful for the kitchen—”
“Jah, new and cheerful would be improvements.”
“—or we have some of Zanna’s braided rugs. Or maybe a dress,” Abby suggested. “I could sew up a couple before then, if you’d like.”
“I’ll take a quick look at that pottery, before anybody realizes I’m not tending the horses,” he whispered, as though his absence was a secret between him and Abby. “Might have to come back a few times to finally decide, you know.”
Abby smiled at his wily idea. “I can wrap your gift and keep it in the back room for you. That way Eunice won’t find it.”
“Gut idea. If she thinks I’m not getting her anything, she’ll be madder than a wet hen, saying I forgot again.”
As Merle ambled toward the pottery display, Abby hoped that, come time for presenting his wife’s gift, he would remember that he’d bought her one. She went back to stocking her frozen food, occasionally glancing Merle’s way. It was something to see, the way his face lit up as he lifted each pitcher, bowl, and pie plate. Amanda had a true gift for raising peoples’ spirits with her bright colors, and several of her pieces had already sold.
“I’ve narrowed it down to three,” he called to her a few minutes later. “I’d best get on home now, Abby. Denki for your help.”
“Have a wonderful-gut day, Merle.”
Abby went upstairs to her Stitch in Time nook to do some sewing before any more customers came in. It felt good to focus on the easy straight stitching for the tablecloths she was making for a banquet center in Kirksville. She heard the back door open and close.
“I’m going to fill bags of pasta and spices, Abby,” her niece Gail called out. “I’ll work in the supply room.”
“Is Sam coming in this morning?”
“He went over to Vernon’s. No telling how long he’ll be.”
That was the way of it for Plain preachers, no matter how they made their living. As Abby eased another length of the linenlike fabric beneath the needle of her sewing machine, her body swayed with the rhythm of pumping the treadle. When the bell above the door tinkled, she was focused on finishing the last few inches of a hem.
“Dat! Nobody’s in the store!” a child’s voice echoed in the high-ceilinged room.
Abby looked over the railing, and then spoke in a spooky voice. “Siiimon Bruuuuubaker! I seeee you!”
The little boy’s head bobbed until he caught sight of her. “Whatcha doin’ way up there, Abby? Dat and Eddie and me, we came for lumber and pipes to build us boys a new bathroom, out in the barn!”
Abby rose from her chair, not surprised at this news. “That sounds like quite a project, and I bet you’re going to help with it,” she replied. “I’m on my way down.”
“Don’t leave your sewing, Abby,” Wyman said. “We’ll find Sam—”
“Not this morning you won’t.” Most men preferred to deal with her brother, so Abby hoped to show the Brubakers that she was almost as proficient in the hardware and plumbing departments as Sam was. Once downstairs, she found Wyman studying the display of Amanda’s ceramics with an odd look on his face. “Your wife’s pieces are selling fast. We’re happy to have them,” she remarked.
“The bishop has told her to stop making her pottery,” he said sadly. “Says her pieces are too worldly—and he wants them taken off your shelves, too.”
That explained why Uriah Schmucker had been in such a sour mood last time he’d been here. “I’m sorry to hear that,” Abby murmured. “We’re really blessed that Vernon Gingerich isn’t averse to bright colors.”
“Could you possibly box up her pieces this morning, Abby? It’ll save Amanda the disappointment of having to do it herself.”
With a sigh, Abby went to the checkout counter where they kept the inventory notebook. As she’d thought, nearly half of Amanda’s pieces had already sold. “I suppose we’d better pack the wind chimes and necklaces Vera made, too, and—”
Abby frowned. What should she do about Merle’s birthday present for Eunice? She did not want to deprive that dear man of the joy Amanda’s pottery would bring . . . even if it meant defying Clearwater’s bishop. “May I keep her pottery in the back room until a customer decides on a gift? I’d feel bad for him—and for Amanda—if he couldn’t choose what he wants.”
Wyman’s eyebrows rose. “So, folks really like her pottery?”
“Oh, they’re snapping it up! I can’t tell you how happy I feel, looking at those pretty pieces whenever I pass the display,” she added ruefully. “It’s troublesome that God created the flowers and the sky and the rainbow, yet so many Old Order folks believe those colors are too showy.”
“You said that just right, Abby,” Wyman said. “Meanwhile, I’ve got a list of supplies so Eddie can start on our new, um, men’s room. The upstairs bathroom is a busy place with five extra women.”
“I can believe that,” she agreed as they walked past the gardening tools.
“We were nearly late to church Sunday,” Wyman went on. “And when you consider the bishop’s surprise visit after the service, when the breakfast dishes were still in the sink—plus the black marks Mildred Schmucker tallied in her imaginary book, about Amanda’s pottery and Lizzie’s shorter dresses—it wasn’t one of our better days.”
“Oooh, that’s not gut,” Abby said with a commiserating grimace. “Let’s get you fixed up and on your way.”
“I’ll tell Amanda what you’ve said about her pottery. And denki so much for listening, Abby,” Wyman said. “It’s gut to have a friend in the faith who understands how folks get pulled in opposite directions sometimes.”
“Jah, gut isn’t always white and evil isn’t always black, ain’t so?”
Eddie had loaded pipes, a faucet, and a sink into a pull cart, so it didn’t take much longer to find the rest of the items on their list. “This should build us a simple shower stall and a place to wash—”
“Dat!” Simon piped up from the other side of the aisle. “You can’t forget this!”
Abby fought a grin. She had a feeling Simon was being his busy, curious, funny self—and indeed, he was sitting on the model toilet in the plumbing display, grinning as he swung his legs.
Wyman snatched him off the seat. “Simon, if you can’t behave I’m going to—”
“But, Dat! Why would we shower in the barn but then go out to the stinky old privy to—”
As Wyman clapped a hand over his youngest son’s mouth, Eddie snickered. “He’s got a point, Dat. This winter, we’ll be wishing al
l the fixtures were indoors.”
“And that was my intent all along, but I forgot to write it on the list. I don’t have anything on my mind these days.” As the two boys hefted a new toilet onto the cart, he leaned closer to Abby. “At least Simon hadn’t dropped his drawers to use your model.”
“Jah, there’s that,” she replied with a chuckle. “No harm done. Anything else you might need?”
“I’m sure Eddie’ll be making another trip for things we didn’t think of, but for now we’re gut to go.”
By the time Wyman paid his bill, other folks were coming in to shop. Adah Ropp picked up a box of granola bars on her way to work at the Fisher Cheese Factory. The Coblentz twins chatted excitedly as they fingered the colorful necklaces Vera Brubaker had made, and both girls decided to buy one.
“Might as well have some fun wearing these while we can,” Mary said as she fished money from her apron pocket.
“Jah, our rumspringa won’t last forever,” Martha replied as she dropped her necklace over her head. “Just you wait. All the girls in our buddy bunch’ll be wanting one when they see ours.”
Abby smiled at their youthful exuberance. When the twins left, the silence in the store gave her time to think about events at the Brubaker place. What an awful weekend it must have been for Amanda. Abby regretted having to box up the pottery pieces and jewelry, but Uriah Schmucker would make things more unpleasant for the whole Brubaker family if Amanda didn’t comply with his instructions.
After she carefully placed the pitchers, bowls, and pie plates in a couple of boxes, she carried them to the back room where Gail was working. “When Merle comes looking for these, we’ll let him choose what he wants. Otherwise, we’re not supposed to sell them anymore.”
“Jah, I heard Wyman talking about that.” Gail was seventeen, and she’d gotten to be good friends with Vera lately. She looked up from the barrel of rolled oats she was scooping into gallon plastic bags. “Do you suppose Amanda and the girls will do all right in Clearwater? They’re off to a rough start.”