“That’s why we need to give him more practical experiences. More chances for him to learn skills.”
“That’s not what I meant. He’s small for his age. He can’t do the kind of work you and Zach do. It isn’t fair to expect so much.”
“That’s not what I’m saying. It’s time that we give him more responsibility. More independence.”
This wasn’t a new conversation between them. It went round and round, like a loop. It was the same discussion that they’d been having for two years now. Sol said their boy was trying hard to grow up and she shamed him with her fussing. She felt he didn’t understand the way Danny was. The way she felt.
Sol turned her around to face him and pulled her close. She felt the press of his beard against her neck.
“I know you’re hurting, Mattie. I know how much you want to fill this house with children. But we still need to raise the boy we have into a man.”
Mattie was still for a long time, listening to the wind, her head resting on Sol’s chest. She knew, deep down, that he was right. He was a good husband to her, a good father to Danny. But her desire to be a mother was a physical, painful hunger. She could think of nothing else. Tears pricked her eyes, and her throat ached. A deep sense of loss rose up in her, so forceful, woven from month after month of spoiled dreams for a baby. Tears were slipping down her cheeks. “It’s not fair,” she whispered.
“It’s not fair,” Sol agreed.
He kissed her then, full on the lips, and pulled her close. She pressed her cheek against his, taking in his scent and warmth.
“Come to bed,” he invited.
She nodded and put her hand in his.
Christmas Eve
Zach woke with a start and jumped out of bed. He had promised Sol he would check on that laboring ewe before dawn. He threw on his clothes, shivering as the cold fabric touched his body. He tried to creep quietly down the stairs so he wouldn’t wake Sol. Mattie’s husband liked to think that they were cut from the same cloth, but Zach knew better. Sol acted more like a father to him than a cousin. He didn’t want to risk a disapproving look from Sol if he forgot that ewe. He got plenty of those dark looks from his own dad.
When he reached the bottom step, he was surprised to find Queen Bee sitting at the kitchen table, fully dressed, with the yellow dog sitting beside her. The lantern on the table created a glowing circle around her. Queen Bee’s hair, which had been loose yesterday, was now held in a stubby ponytail, and little ringlets fell around her neck. Wide blue eyes the color of a summer sky. He had definitely admired her looks—as soon as he recovered from the dip in the pond—but this morning, she looked different. Cheerful and sweet and pretty. And pretty old, he guessed. Maybe twenty-five or thirty.
“Uh, we won’t be having breakfast for a while,” he told her.
She shrugged. “I couldn’t sleep. Thought I’d just come downstairs and read for a while. It’s warmer down here.”
Zach glanced at the grandfather clock. “I need to go out to the barn and check on the animals.” He headed to the door, then turned back. “There’s a ewe that might be lambing soon.” He noticed Jaime’s camera, left on the table. “If you want to take a picture of something special, a lamb born on Christmas Eve . . . I wouldn’t object.” He reached for her red coat, plucked it off the wall peg, and held it out for her. He wasn’t really sure why he thought she might like to see the newborn lamb. He supposed it was Mattie’s comment that Queen Bee seemed like a lost little sheep herself.
The delighted look on Jaime’s face warmed him. Ah—he was a sucker for attractive women. It was one of the complaints he had about being Amish—the women were just so bland looking. His thoughts drifted to Susie Blank, his particular friend, and he felt a twinge of guilt. Susie wasn’t bland. She was pretty, with thick chestnut hair and emerald green eyes. And she had an effect on him that could make his thoughts travel down dangerous and wicked paths. He stole a glance in Jaime’s direction as she put on her coat and hat and gloves, then tucked her camera inside her jacket.
She looked up at him and gave him a dazzling smile. “Ready?”
Nope. Cute as she was, even Susie Blank did not hold a candle to this English woman.
A blast of cold air shocked Jaime when Zach opened the door. The cold stung like needles on her face. She debated if she really wanted to bother venturing out in that bitter, black cold only to end up in a bitter, black, and cold barn.
When she started to complain, Zach turned to her and said, “Are you always this whiny?”
Pretty much, she thought. At least this past year. But that was going to change, starting now.
Tucker didn’t seem to mind the cold at all. He bolted out of the door and disappeared into the dark to find a private place to relieve himself. Zach paid no mind to either of them. Suddenly remembering Jaime, he pointed out the holes he made with his boots so she could follow in his tracks. The flashlight he held in front of him cast a bright circle onto the snow.
Just trying to walk across the yard to the barn felt like climbing a mountain, the wind was pushing that hard against them. Finally, Zach pulled open the barn door, yanked Jaime in, and shut it tightly just as Tucker slipped around his feet and into the barn.
At the sound of someone coming, the animals stirred in their stalls, murmuring and huffing. It was pitch black inside, as dark as if they were in a box. Zach pulled off a glove and lit a match against the wall. He shielded the flame with his other hand and took a few steps to where a lantern hung on the wall. The match blew out before he had time to light the wick, so he set the lantern down, crouched next to it, and lit another match. The wick sputtered, then caught, splaying light into the shadows.
Jaime’s eyes watered at the sour stink of sheep and cows and horses and pigs and hay and manure. She nearly gagged but fought it back; she was eager to photograph the birth of a lamb. Zach laughed when he saw her pinch her nostrils together. His smile, she thought, was like the sun coming from behind clouds. It was a dazzling smile. She watched Tucker, delighted by rich layers of earthy smells, make his way around the barn by sniffing the perimeters. A dog’s paradise!
Zach walked over to the ewe’s pen and motioned to Jaime to follow him. The two of them stood side by side, watching the ewe. Their breath came out in puffs of cloud, though Jaime felt better without the wind slicing through her coat.
“There,” Zach said, pointing his chin toward the ewe. “See the shudder that runs through her belly? That’s a labor pain.”
The ewe’s water had broken some time ago; the straw was littered with blood and birth mucus. The ewe dropped down on her front knees and lifted her bottom in the air. Her lips slipped back over her teeth, grimacing in pain.
“Can’t you help her?” Jaime asked.
Zach picked up a piece of timothy hay. He dangled it from his lower lip and leaned against the rough boards of the lambing shed, crossing one foot over the other. “Nope. She’s no amateur. She knows what she’s doing.”
The ewe raised her head to look at them with such a serene, gentle look despite her suffering that the sight took Jaime’s breath away. She snapped a few shots of the ewe, hoping to capture the deep look in her eyes. It was haunting! She felt tears sting her eyes but fought them back. Lately her moods teetered precariously. They felt like a basket of fruit balancing on her head.
Zach plucked the hay out of his mouth and pushed himself off the shed wall. He took another flashlight and headed down the aisle of the barn, checking on each animal. Jaime remained transfixed by the ewe’s stall, watching her body still as she prepared for each contraction that rippled through her body.
The ewe let out a deep moan and Jaime said, “Can’t you do something to ease her pain?”
Zach emerged out of the shadows and looked at the ewe. “Pain isn’t always a bad thing.”
Oh, you’re so wrong about that. Pain is a terrible thing. It chews up your insides and tears you apart.
He glanced at Jaime. “This kind of pain—this bir
thing pain—this is right and natural. It may hurt for a while, but soon, you’ll see—she won’t even remember it.” His attention riveted back to the ewe. “Better get your camera.”
Almost as if on cue, the ewe knelt down again and started to push. Jaime took picture after picture as the birthing sac pushed through the opening. Each time the ewe labored, a little black nose appeared—only an inch or two—and then disappeared. Finally, she gave a mighty heave and the lamb slid, bloody and sticky, into the straw. Zach jumped over the small railing and was right there to cradle the lamb. His fingers tore away the membrane from the tiny black nose. Jaime snapped frame after frame.
He picked up some hay to tickle the lamb’s nose. The lamb sneezed, then gasped, then let out a loud, indignant baa! The ewe came around to sniff it, to make sure it was hers, Zach explained. Laughing, he collapsed into the straw, cuddling the bawling lamb in his lap. His mouth broke into a smile that blazed across his face like the explosion of light from a photographer’s flash. He motioned to Jaime to come inside the stall, so she did as she continued to take pictures. She only stopped for a second when he asked if she was going to run out of film.
“It’s digital,” she said. “I have a huge card.”
She was just about to show him how to view the pictures when the ewe decided the lamb must be hers and she let out some pleased-sounding bleats, nuzzling with her baby, nose to nose.
Lost in the moment, Jaime took more pictures. Finally, as the lamb settled in to nurse, she put her camera away. “Amazing, how white the lamb is and how dark the ewe is.”
“That’s dirt on the old ewe. Sheep don’t clean themselves off like other animals do. A cat can clean itself. So can a dog. A bird gets into a birdbath. But sheep? They get dirty and stay that way. They don’t mind being filthy. They’re not the brightest creatures.” He gave a short laugh. “Probably why the Bible often refers to us feeble-minded humans as sheep.” He leaned his back against the stall. “The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want. He leadeth me beside still waters, he maketh me lie down in green pastures, he restoreth my soul.” He gave her a shy grin. “Do more beloved words exist?”
Jaime didn’t know how to respond. She was startled—floored—to hear words of Scripture spill from this teenager’s mouth as easily and naturally as if he was talking about the weather. She had heard those words all of her life, yet they seemed so alive, so real, here in an Amish barn.
Zach didn’t seem to be expecting a response, which was good because she didn’t have one. She wasn’t on speaking terms with God at the moment. For over six months now. She hadn’t been, ever since her mother’s random, senseless death.
Sol woke at dawn when he heard someone thundering down the stairs. He recognized Zach’s loud footsteps—the boy would have insisted he was being quiet. Sol thought about getting up to go into the barn with him, but then thought better of it. Zach was up and would check on the ewe and the other stock, his own bed was warm, his wife was sleeping next to him. Why get up? He had woken often during the night, restless, hearing the wind that battered the house and shook the windows. He couldn’t remember a blizzard like this one. Every hour, the temperature dropped a few more degrees and the windchill stirred the air to make it even colder.
But then he heard a loud bang. It would be just like Zach to leave a barn door unlatched. Just last week, he left the sliding door to the barn wide open and two horses wandered out and down the driveway. Mattie stirred as he swung his feet out of bed onto the cold wooden floor.
“Go back to sleep. I just want to check that a barn door didn’t fly open.” He leaned back to bundle her up in the covers and kissed her on the forehead. He grabbed his shirt and pants, threw them over his shoulder, and quietly left the room. He looked through the hallway window at the barn and saw light from a lantern shining through a small window. No door seemed to be open. Still, he was wide awake now, and it was chore time.
He went into Danny’s room and shook him gently on the shoulder to wake up. “We’ve got choring to do, son.” Danny groaned and Sol smiled. That boy of his could sleep through a tornado. “Up. I mean it.” He waited until he saw Danny’s feet slip out of bed and onto the floor.
Danny followed Sol into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, rubbing his eyes and yawning, while Sol shaved. It was their morning routine. Then, like always, one question spilled out of Danny: “What makes soap start to bubble?” It was followed by another unanswerable question, then another and another. Sol craned his head around to look at him. Danny and his questions! Soon, Danny was talking in that excited way of his and kicking his heels against the tub. Sol lathered his cheeks with soap from the soft brush, taking pleasure in listening to his son. The razor blade slid in smooth, clean strokes against his cheeks.
For a moment the whole world seemed to be held, suspended: the start of a new day, the sharp scent of laurel soap, and the animated voice of his son.
Zach and Jaime stood there for a while, gazing at the ewe and the lamb. Tucker trotted up to investigate, sniff, and get a pat on the head from Jaime. Satisfied all was well, he disappeared into the recesses of the barn for more sniffing.
It was Zach who broke the silence. “What do you want to name the lamb?”
“Can I?” Jaime said. “Hmmm . . . let’s name her Noel. It’s French for Christmas.”
“Noel it is.” He pronounced it as a man’s name. “She’s a he.” Grinning, he rose to his feet.
She flipped the switch on her camera. “Here, look at these.” She showed him the pictures through the screen. He was fascinated by it and stood right behind her shoulder. There was one picture where he was holding the lamb and laughing. She looked up at him, wondering if he would object. “I can delete it if you’d prefer.”
Zach only grinned. “What a good looker that fellow is.” He wiggled his eyebrows. “Just don’t go showing that one around at church on Sunday.”
“Oh, we won’t be here on Sunday,” she said. “Later this morning, we’ll be on our way.”
“Think so?” Zach asked, in a tone that implied she was kidding herself.
She spun to face him. “Absolutely. This storm can’t last forever.”
“Maybe not, but the Almanac says another one is right on its heels.” He puffed out a big white cloud of breath to illustrate his point.
“What’s the Almanac?”
Zach cocked his head. “The Farmer’s Almanac. A book. Comes out every year. Something we rely on to tell us the weather.”
“You’re kidding, right?” She started to laugh, but then her face grew serious. “There are satellites out there, taking pictures of moving jet streams.”
Zach shrugged. “I know about satellites. Amish aren’t stupid, you know.”
Jaime looked embarrassed. “I didn’t mean—I just . . . I just can’t believe that a book printed long ago could be more accurate than a satellite.”
“Do they always get it right? Your weathermen.”
A smile spread over Jaime’s face. “No. They’re right about half the time.”
“Well, then, I guess the Farmer’s Almanac isn’t such a bad risk.”
“So you really think another storm is on its way?” Her eyebrows knit together. “My father is expecting us. He planned this trip to the Caribbean for Christmas to help me through that first holiday without my mother.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“She died in a car accident about six months ago.” She frowned. “My folks divorced when I was a baby. My father has been married and divorced . . . uh, let’s see,” she looked to the rafters, “four times now.”
Zach’s eyebrows arched, his mouth formed a silent O. She had shocked him and he didn’t shock easily. It’s not that all Plain marriages were perfect. Most were pretty happy, but he knew of a few couples who had troubles. Money troubles, usually. But they didn’t just give up. Every couple knew what kind of commitment they faced when they wanted to marry. They married for life.
The ewe lay down
on her side and the lamb cuddled in close beside her, practically disappearing under her woolly fleece.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this.”
Zach filled with warmth. He liked that she was confiding in him. “Maybe my cousin was right. Mattie usually is.”
“Right about what?”
“Maybe the Lord brought you here this weekend for a reason.”
“You make me smile—the way you talk.”
“Good. You need to smile more.”
She laughed and linked her arm through his. This, Zach decided, would forever be the moment in his life when he first felt like a man. Standing with a beautiful girl, with her arm entwined through his. Zach felt a sort of thrill when she touched him, and on the heels of that thrill was a worry. What was he thinking? She was married!
This was also when Jaime asked, “Zach, why aren’t you living at home?” in a grave way, as though she knew there was more to the story than met the eye. And instead of giving his usual brush-off: “Just working for Sol,” Zach expelled what felt like all the air from his lungs. “It’s a long, boring story about a father and son.”
She smiled gently. “I’ve got just enough time for a long and boring story.”
It was the sincere and interested look in Jaime’s face that opened the floodgates for him. He told Jaime things about the last year that he would never think of sharing with anyone else. About feeling so invisible to his father, so insignificant. She seemed fascinated by what he was telling her. He had grown up as the middle boy in a family of eight children; no one had paid close attention to him, ever. He told her thoughts he had never shared with another, not even with his friends. They had all been raised to not stand out—how could anyone understand his need to be noticed?
Zach explained how he and his friends had been caught by the police with alcohol, and his father blew up. “He didn’t even ask me if I had been drinking. He just told me to get out. Told me I would sour my younger siblings like a bad apple. Soft and rotted.”
A Lancaster County Christmas Page 8