Plain City Bridesmaids

by Dianne Christner

  Hurrying across the kitchen, Megan felt her heart pound. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “Just a minute, Vernon.” Mom lowered the phone and whispered, “It’s about Brother Troyer. He went into sudden cardiac arrest.”

  “Will he be all right?”

  Mom shook her head and dabbed her eyes again then returned to her phone conversation. Stunned, Megan dropped into the closest chair. Her mom ended the call by saying, “Such a shock. Yes, I’ll tell Bill the meeting is cancelled.” Mom stepped away from the phone toward Megan. “Barbara went with the quilters to buy some fabric, and when she came home, she found him. I just can’t believe it. He died weeding their garden.”

  “How awful.” Megan rose and slipped her arms around her mom’s waist. Tears stung her eyes. The last time she’d seen Brother Troyer was at the Memorial Day potluck. He’d told Megan he was going fishing on the Big Darby the next day. He’d seemed cheerful and spry. Normal.

  “It’s shocking. Poor Barbara. No one suspected anything like this,” Mom whispered.

  Megan stepped away. “What will we do? Surely Dad won’t have to preach?”

  Mom’s red-rimmed eyes widened.

  CHAPTER 2

  Megan stood next to her mom. Her nostrils filled with the pungent aroma of mowed grass as she stared at the brown mound of dirt and the freshly dug hole, trying to imagine her life-long preacher actually being laid to rest in it. The grim thought was paradoxical, with his soul alive in heaven. Megan found it hard to release him to God. Her thoughts and prayers remained argumentative, reminding God that they still needed Brother Troyer on earth.

  Beyond the road across the pristine, rolling, cemetery lawn studded with neat rows of plain gray headstones—some adorned with flowers—a tributary of the Big Darby gently swirled and cut through the Plain City farmlands. Brother Troyer had spent a lot of time on that river. She tried to picture him fishing in heaven, but it was hard with that pile of dirt and rectangular hole. Yet Christian faith was all about eternal life. That’s what Brother Troyer spent his life proclaiming to his humble followers.

  The preacher had often turned soil in search of worms for his bait bucket. Megan’s mind turned hard ground, poking at this death-life issue, but there was nothing under the clods of her mind besides the image of dead bones and the stark call to faith regarding things unseen.

  The soft, even whir of the hearse’s engine drew her attention, and she saw it park near the grave.

  “They’re here,” Mom whispered.

  Megan watched Dad join the pallbearers and carry the plain casket. Off to her left, she heard Barbara’s soft gasp and faint whisper, though it was only meant for Barbara’s sister. Megan strained to catch the widow’s painful words.

  “I’ll never let the weeds grow on his grave … the least I can do. Eli hated weeding. If only I’d not been so proud of my garden.” Her voice broke. “He might still be alive.”

  Megan dipped her head and stared at the ground. By her mom’s flinch, she’d caught the pitiful conversation, too.

  Barbara’s sister, who’d driven in from Indiana, softly replied, “You did for him, too. That’s how love is. God must’ve planned it this way. Eli met his maker in a beautiful garden. Quickly. With no lingering sickness.”

  Megan was grateful for Clara’s calm reassurance, but aye, yi, yi, surely the bean patch wasn’t Eli’s place of choice. It would’ve been the riverbank or even the pulpit. Yet he was a kind leader. Devoted husband. Maybe Clara was right.

  This was hard. Way too hard to think about. Nothing like when Jake Byler’s grandma passed away last winter. Everybody called that a blessing because she was in the last throes of Alzheimer’s, not even recognizing her family. But Eli had been so alive. Vital and needed. Megan’s heart rebelled against the death and the changes it would bring.

  At least Barbara had one living sister who was able to come and be with her during her grief. Mom had pointed out that some elderly people didn’t have living siblings. Megan wondered how she could support Barbara in her journey of loneliness. She wished she could weed her garden, but weeds were Megan’s dire enemies. Her allergies would never permit it.

  “Friends and family. We are here to remember Brother Troyer.”

  Bishop Heinlein, an overseer of several Ohio churches, had come to help the congregation. Standing between the grave and those gathered, he wore a plain, black, collarless coat. His head was hatless, as was the custom of Mennonite men during worship. In his right hand he held a large black Bible. He cleared his throat and looked out over the mourners, a mixture of black coats and caped dresses. But Megan noticed that prayer coverings and doilies were intermixed with ties and high heels. Amish people and even some outsiders gathered because Brother Troyer was loved and known in the community.

  “Psalm forty-six reminds us that God is our refuge and strength.”

  Earlier at the funeral held inside the meetinghouse, Bishop Heinlein had preached a somber message on righteous living, making the point that nobody knows the hour when they will be called home. But thankfully, now at the graveside, the bishop was quoting a scripture about seeking comfort in the Lord’s arms.

  “When he will wipe every tear from our eyes. Death will be no more….”

  A huge flock of starlings fluttered in and landed nearby, hunting insects in the graveyard’s lush lawn. Ugly birds. Megan had a sudden image of rotting flesh and birds pecking Brother Troyer’s eyes. She quickly quelled the image.

  The bishop didn’t heed the birds. “But thanks to God who gives us victory.”

  The burial ground was just down the road from the church. It was purchased after the original cemetery, adjacent to the church property, had been filled. This one was spacious enough to provide the resting place for several future generations. Megan watched the flock of speckled scavengers. Nobody liked starlings. And she was discovering she didn’t like graveyards much, either.

  “It’s still lonely.” The comment drifted to Megan, and she glanced at the quilters to her right. Their group numbered three to ten and included some widows. The core members were Susanna, Mae Delegrange, and Ann Byler. Although her comment had sounded sympathetic, Susanna Schlagel had her brown, hawk-like gaze riveted on Barbara’s back. No doubt the young widow planned to swoop down and snatch Barbara into their group, befriend her as only another widow could. But something about the thought of those two women together made a hard lump in Megan’s stomach, about the size of one of their thimbles.

  Beyond the quilters stood the young single women. As Megan watched Ruthie Ropp, Lori Longacre, and Joy Ann Beitzel, her thoughts continued on the dark side, wondering how long it would be until she’d wind up in their group. Her two best friends, Katy and Lil, were both married now. And Megan didn’t even have a boyfriend. Never had, really. Would there come a time when she would be considered an old maid like Lori, the church librarian who wore too much perfume?

  Bishop Heinlein prayed; then Ray Eversole stepped to the front of the mourners and passed out hymnals.

  Mom took one to share with Megan. “Surely, we don’t need these?”

  “It’s something to do,” Megan whispered. “There’s a few outsiders here.”

  “Then let’s pass our book back to them.” Mom snatched the book away and turned, motioning for it to be passed back to the visitors.

  Frowning at her mom, Megan rubbed her thumb.

  The song leader led them in a cappella, four-part singing. And Mom was right—they did know all the words. A beautiful song, surely an angel’s song, sweet and melodious. She felt her spirit lift. She’d always felt as if congregational singing was a hug or the Holy Spirit’s wings around her. A safe place where she was loved.

  “When we all get to heaven,

  What a day of rejoicing that will be!

  When we all see Jesus,

  We’ll sing and shout the victory!”

  While the message was amazing and stirring, so was Megan’s visual. The casket was lowered into the hole. Severa
l strong men discarded their Sunday coats and picked up shovels. Dad helped. Her friend Katy’s dad, Vernon Yoder, too. Wrong, somehow, to see them sweat and bunch their muscles in their white dress shirts. They went about their task with somber reverence. As they worked, dust tickled Megan’s nose and filled her sinus cavity. With the singing, she couldn’t actually hear the dirt hitting the casket.

  Each shovelful added to Megan’s concern. What would the congregation do without their leader? Would everybody work together, or would this cause the type of conflict that soured Megan’s stomach? How would it affect her dad and the rest of her family? Brother Troyer had been the one who united his flock, especially over the past three years when they had experienced so many changes—the seating issue, the revision of the prayer-covering ordinance. And more issues were brewing. She’d overheard Dad talk to Mom after elders meetings. What would happen once the funeral was over?

  Megan swiped her wet cheeks. Sniffing, she thankfully accepted the tissue Mom pressed into her hand.

  They sang “Amazing Grace.” A breeze soughed through the hickory trees that graced the cemetery and lifted the corner of Ruthie’s covering. The thin, single brunette reached up a hand to secure her straight pins. The singing waned, and a red-tailed hawk gave a raspy cry and circled above the mourners. Megan wished, like that bird, she could board one of her company’s planes and rise above the grief and confusion surrounding her.

  Getting a hold of herself, she thought, Up there somewhere is God. He will see us through this. Bishop Heinlein just preached it.

  The bishop said, “The women have prepared a dinner back at the church. Sister Barbara thanks you for coming. You’re all invited to the meal.”

  Food. What else could take their minds off their despair and the thin veil separating heaven and earth? The men quit shoveling. They weren’t finished with the task, but it was time to end the service and escort Barbara and the women back to the church.

  “Let’s go,” Mom whispered, her voice holding the same desire as Megan’s.

  Megan took a final look at the partly filled hole that reminded them all of their own mortality. They started toward the car. “That was hard. Poor Dad.”

  “He wanted to do it for Brother Troyer. Helps him deal with it.”

  “I don’t like cemeteries much.”

  “Yeah well, Brother Troyer’s in heaven now. That’s just his body’s resting place. Until he gets a new one.”

  Megan’s gaze shifted from the grass, where she had been taking care not to walk across any other graves, to the road. Buggies, black cars, and colorful cars made a parade along the narrow country road. Her next inhale was wheezy, probably from the pollen of the tansy and reeds that grew along the creek on the far side of the road. She coughed, trying to clear her throat.

  “You all right?”

  Megan nodded as she withdrew an inhaler from her black purse. She released medicine twice then returned it to its silky pocket. After several breaths, she replied, “Better.”

  “That’s good.”

  They neared their car, and Megan heard her name. “It’s Katy. I’ll just be a moment.”

  “Take your time.”

  Megan nodded and turned to wait for her friend.

  “Where’s little Jacob?”

  Katy smiled, and her large, dark eyes lit. “Oh, my mom has him. She’s helping to set up the meal.” She pursed her full lips. “I hope he’s napping for her. He’s such a nix nootz right now, always squirming to get out of our arms. There’s no way we could have kept him quiet.”

  Megan thought that if Jacob had his dad’s ornery ways and was a handful at two months, Katy was in real trouble.

  “I’m sure Lil’s helping with the meal, too.” The third friend in their tight trio attended a different Mennonite church now but had grown up under Brother Troyer’s preaching. She was a chef by occupation. Katy was a housecleaner, but wasn’t working outside the home since Jacob had been born. Jake’s carpentry business was prosperous, and they had settled into a happy marriage.

  “I’m sure she is. This is so sad.” Katy lowered her voice to a whisper. “I hope working with the search committee won’t be too hard on our dads. Mine’s still adjusting to his insulin shots.”

  Megan touched Katy’s arm. “I didn’t hear about a search committee.”

  “Mom told me they have no choice but to find somebody quick.”

  “How?”

  “The way she explained it, first the elders elect people to serve on the committee. Then the committee takes suggestions from the congregation and the bishop. Once they narrow down the candidates, they invite them to come and meet the congregation.”

  “So much is happening. I’ve spent too much time in my room this week or I would have heard about this sooner.” At Katy’s curious expression, Megan reminded her, “My boss is getting ready to go on a leave of absence.” Katy nodded, her expression filled with concern. “There’s been so much to do, that I brought some work home.”

  “I worry about you.”

  Katy had always disapproved of Megan’s attraction for her boss. Her friend had some bad experiences working for outsiders, and although she’d become more tolerant, she was still skeptical of Megan’s position.

  “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

  Jake stepped up and touched Katy’s elbow. Ever since Megan had known them—for Jake had been chasing Katy since they were kids—he’d pulled Katy’s black ponytail. But after Jacob had been born, Katy started wearing her hair up. Subtle changes, him touching her elbow, them acting like a married couple. “You ’bout ready, Cinderella?”

  As she watched her friends head to their vehicle, Megan wished she could have told Katy the truth, that she didn’t feel like anything was fine. But she’d always made it her job to make life easier for everybody around her, and she didn’t have the heart to trouble Katy now that she’d found her fairytale life.

  That night in her room, Megan grew nostalgic, thinking about life and friendships. She even found herself on her knees at the foot end of her bed, digging through her hope chest, looking for an old journal. That first one she’d gotten on her tenth birthday. Standing, she wiped her hand across the solid blue cover, though it bore no dust. Her first journal was actually a diary with a key. She lowered the lid to her hope chest and sat on it, leafing through the small book, reading bits of entries long forgotten. Her mouth curved into a smile, and she laughed once until she cried. She paused to read an entry from summer camp:

  Dear Journal,

  Alone in the cabin, but I gotta write quick before the others come back. They’re busy for a few minutes because a spark from the campfire burned a hole in Lil’s jeans, and our camp counselor is outside trying to patch things up with the girl who loaned them to her in the first place. Katy told Lil that the spark probably came from hell because she’s sneaking and wearing those jeans. That’s what made Lil cry in the first place.

  At the campfire, we made a vow. Now I’m sorry I made it. I only did it to keep peace. Lil wanted us to move in together when we grow up and to vow to be each other’s bridesmaids. Katy said Mennonites don’t make vows, and they don’t. But it made Lil sad, so I smoothed it over and got them to agree. That’s how I ended up being part of the vow.

  Katy wants to marry Jake Byler. Yuck. If I get married, at least, it will be to a missionary or a preacher. Not Lil’s cousin!

  By the way, I’m going to name you, so you don’t have to be a plain old, dear journal anymore. I got the idea when our counselor made us name our group. We call it Three Bean Salad. Katy’s the kidney bean, I’m the green bean, and Lil is the garbanzo bean. Lil even made up a garbanzo dance to go with it. But Mennonites don’t dance. Maybe Katy’s right and that spark was from hell. I hope not.

  Here’s the names I’ve thought up so far:

  Jo. That’s short for journal. It was Katy’s idea. Lil thinks I should make up a name that nobody ever heard of before, but it’s hard enough to think of ones I have heard of.
r />   Sharon. Because I share stuff with you.

  Djibouti. That’s a place in Africa. It’s fun to say, and I think it would be fun to write.

  Maisy. It was my doll’s name, but I don’t play with her anymore because I’m ten.

  Hope Marie. But I really should save that name because it’s my favorite.

  Phooey, here they come!

  CHAPTER 3

  Chance Campbell was better at steering the nose of a Cessna through mountains and thunderstorms at zero visibility and landing safely on a runway carved out of the jungle than he was at sitting in a plush leather office chair and pushing a Char Air pencil. He stared at his computer screen with bored eyes, and he’d only been at it a couple of hours.

  He’d arrived early, hoping to get in before the other employees arrived since it was his first day filling in for Randy. Only two hours into the job, and he was regretting being persuaded to do his brother this favor. He glanced at the calendar pad that took up the center of his desk. Sixty days. He’d just have to make the best of it. And if he was lucky, Randy would get his act together and return sooner.

  But his big brother, normally the reliable one, had gotten himself into trouble and needed rescuing. Usually Chance was the one who took risks and got into scrapes. He hadn’t been able to turn down the opportunity to pay his brother back for all the help he’d received from him over the years. Mostly his teen years, but help was help. Randy had intervened many times to keep their dad from finding out about his misdemeanors, even took the rap for him occasionally.

  Chance gloated inwardly. It felt satisfying to be the good one for a change. And for the sake of his nephews, he wanted Randy to save his marriage. He was especially partial to the youngest.

  A younger brother was in constant competition. Sometimes it took manhood to finally catch up. Chance had. He’d found his glory in the air force. He had even been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross. But that mission in Iraq, back in 2003, had also been the one that changed his career direction—piercing his heart and bringing his fighter pilot days to a sputter. After that, he had not reenlisted.