by Beth Wiseman
“Ya, well, it smells gut.” Abram pushed his sandwich aside.
“Dig in.” She spooned some onto her plate and took a bite right away. Abram put a large spoonful on his plate, then bowed in prayer. Brenda was staring at him when he looked up.
“Oops,” she said. “I forgot you people pray before meals. I really need to be better about that.”
Abram wasn’t sure how to respond. Mr. Hinkle’s other four employees ate out every day, and occasionally Mr. Hinkle would eat in the break room, but he mostly went home to eat lunch with his wife. Abram would do that if he lived closer.
“You know . . .” Brenda tapped her fingernail against the table, her head tilted to one side. “I take back what I said. There are a few nights I don’t cook. I don’t have much of a life now that David and I aren’t seeing each other, but sometimes I go out to eat with friends or something unexpected comes up. Why don’t you just give me your phone number and I can text you on the days you need to bring a lunch, which will most likely be few and far between.”
“Uh . . .” He rubbed his chin.
“I know you people have cell phones. I see Amish talking on them all the time.”
“Ya, it’s just supposed to be for emergencies.”
She laughed. “As much as you like to eat, I’m guessing it would be an emergency if you didn’t have a lunch one day.” She shrugged. “Or I guess you could just grab a burger or something.”
That costs money. And that thought sent him to another point. “It costs money to cook something like this.” He nodded at his plate, which was nearly empty. “I don’t feel right about you bringing me lunches very often.”
She sighed heavily. “It’s no biggie. I hate to eat alone.” She snapped a finger. “Is your wife a good baker?”
“The best,” Abram said with a mouthful. Although, there hadn’t been much proof of that lately.
“I love sweets, and I rarely bake. Just bring me a dessert every now and then, and we’ll call it even.”
He smiled. “I’m not sure if that’s fair or not, but okay.”
Brenda reached for a pen that was on the table, then ripped her napkin in half. “What’s your phone number?” When Abram hesitated, she blew out an exaggerated puff of air. “I’ll only text if I’m not bringing lunch. And we already established that it would be an emergency for you to miss a meal.” She giggled.
Abram gave her his phone number, finished his beef-and-cheddar casserole, and thanked her for the meal.
“No problem.” She winked at him. Again.
CHAPTER SEVEN
SARAH SMOOTHED THE WRINKLES FROM HER DRESS AS best she could, and when she heard Abram coming up the driveway, she slipped on her kitchen mitts, opened the oven, and pulled out a chicken casserole. She set it on a thick towel in her lap and then carried it to the table, placing it next to a loaf of bread and bowls of chowchow and rhubarb jam. If she couldn’t give her husband what he longed for in the bedroom, she was going to double her efforts in the kitchen. She glanced at the cherry streusel on top of the stove and smiled.
“Something smells mighty gut in here,” Abram said as he crossed the living room and met her in the kitchen. It seemed odd that such a small accomplishment filled her with pride, whether such an emotion was forbidden or not.
“Danki. I’m sure you’re tired of scrounging for food and taking sandwiches that you had to make for lunch.” She waved a hand across the table. “I made plenty so that you’ll have something to take for lunch tomorrow. You might as well take advantage of the microwave at your work.”
“Uh, ya. I reckon I should.” Abram took off his hat and hung it on the back of a kitchen chair. “It looks great.” He walked toward her, leaned down, and kissed her. “But even better is how beautiful mei fraa looks.”
Sarah was proud of herself for learning to function in her new environment. But as Abram leaned in to kiss her again, she leaned back a little, not wanting to lead him in a direction she wasn’t ready to go. “Let’s eat while it’s hot.”
Abram straightened and walked around to his side of the table, and after they’d bowed their heads in prayer, Sarah spooned some casserole onto his plate and asked about his day.
“Just another day,” Abram said as he avoided his wife’s eyes. No need to mention the phone call he got from Bill, reminding Abram about his loan payment, which was now fifty dollars higher this week. And he wasn’t sure Sarah would take kindly to Brenda bringing him lunches at work. Since Sarah seemed like she was adapting to her new way of life, hopefully these meals would become a regular thing and he’d take his own leftovers to work. And if not, he was okay with that too. But the more he’d thought about it, it didn’t really seem right for Brenda to bring him lunches on most days, whether he brought dessert or not.
Abram slathered butter on a slice of the warm bread. “Did you know there is a duck on the porch?” he asked when she’d finished serving him.
His wife nodded. “Ya. I think he must be lost or something. Maybe from all the rain.”
“Seems odd that he’d take up residence on our porch.” Abram finished off his bread and reached for another slice.
“He only has part of one leg, so he doesn’t get around very good.” She paused, taking a sip of iced tea. “And he’s hungry.”
“How’s he getting up on the porch with one leg?”
Sarah shrugged, her fork halfway to her mouth. “I’m not sure. But ducks fly, so maybe he flies up there.” She sighed. “I wish I could fly.”
Abram grinned as he visualized his wife with wings, soaring through the air. “Well, that would be something.”
Sarah smiled a little, too, and they were quiet as droplets of rain clinked against the metal roof. “More rain,” she whispered.
Abram nodded. “More rain,” he echoed. As the clouds moved in, darkness fell outside, and inside only the lanterns shone, enough that he could see the pain etched across his wife’s face.
He wondered if she would ever be truly happy again.
Sarah wheeled herself onto the porch the next morning as the sun struggled to shed light through the gray clouds. The steady rain that had started at suppertime kept up through the night. Her visiting duck was underneath the rocker, his eyes wide as he stared at her.
“No worries, my friend. I brought you breakfast.” She set the plate of leftover bacon, more lettuce, sunflower seeds, and apple chunks next to her on the porch. Smiling, she watched him hop toward her. “You are learning to get around much better,” she said as the duck took a final hop her way, putting him less than a foot from her, the closest he’d ever come. She reached down to attempt to pet the bird, but he fell backward, so she withdrew her hand and stayed still. He managed to get back up, glancing at her several times before he began to nibble from the plate.
“If you’re going to hang around, I suppose you need a name.” She poured from a bag of sunflower seeds in her lap, filling her palm. Slowly, she lowered her hand, and when her new feathery friend ate from it, she smiled again. She hand-fed him several more times before he retreated back to his spot behind the rocking chair.
Sarah watched the rain as the dark clouds took over, leaving no hope for even a ray of sunshine to peek through. “I’m going to call you Henry.” She coaxed her new pet from behind the rocker and was still trying to feed him when her father turned in to her driveway, his buggy and horse covered in mud.
“I’m not staying long,” he said as he rushed up the ramp and onto the porch, blocking his face with a paper bag he was holding. His quick actions sent Henry fluttering back to his spot behind the rocker. Her father lowered the bag, peering at the bird. “What is a duck doing on your porch?”
“He’s missing part of a leg,” Sarah said as she watched the bird grow calm, nestled beneath the rocker as if safe from the world.
“But what’s he doing on your porch?”
Sarah shrugged. “I don’t know. Displaced by all the rain?”
“Ya, ya. Probably.” Her father handed S
arah the bag. “Your mamm said to drop this off. It’s your share from the bake sale, uh . . . that you had with your mudder . . . before the accident. She keeps forgetting to give it to you.” He took off his straw hat and ran a sleeve along his wet forehead. “There’s a hundred dollars, give or take, in there.”
“Danki. But you didn’t have to bring it in this weather.” Sarah opened the bag and saw loose bills. “We had a gut sale that day.”
Her father didn’t seem to hear her as he moved closer to where the duck sat. “His name is Henry.”
Daed inched closer, until the bird’s feathers ruffled, then he backed up. “It’s a shame about his leg.”
“But he can fly,” Sarah quickly said. “And I’ve been feeding him—lettuce, apples, and nuts mostly.”
“No nuts.” Her father straightened and walked to where Sarah was sitting. “Not gut for Pekin ducks, or any ducks for that matter.”
“Ach, I didn’t know that. He’s not a mallard?”
Her father waved his arms a few times, shaking beads of water from his sleeves. “Nee. Mallards are filled with color, not white like this fellow.” He waved an arm toward the door, then headed in that direction. “I could use a cup of coffee.”
Sarah followed her father, and once inside, he pushed her wheelchair to the kitchen table, and he poured them each a cup of coffee and sat down across from her.
“So . . .” Daed took a sip of coffee. “Why weren’t you at worship service Sunday?”
“Same reason as you, I suppose.” Sarah threw the comment out there as a fishing venture, curious if her father had been completely truthful about his reason for not attending church.
“You’re mad at the bishop too?” He raised a dark, bushy eyebrow, then stroked his beard.
Sarah raised her shoulders and lowered them slowly, sighing. “Nee. I’m not mad at the bishop. But is that really why you aren’t going to worship?”
Her father frowned, narrowing his eyebrows. “I didn’t come here to talk about me. I came here to make sure you were all right.”
“I’m fine.” Sarah brought her cup to her lips, keeping her eyes on her father.
“That’s gut to know.” Her father reached for a peanut butter cookie on a nearby plate, took a bite, and put it back. “Store-bought.” Sarah rolled her eyes, but before she could tell him they weren’t from the store, he said, “I was worried that maybe you’d taken issue with the Lord about your accident. God always has a plan, although sometimes we don’t understand it.”
Sarah forced herself calm by taking a deep breath. If one more person told her God always has a plan, she might explode. “I know. But is your issue with the bishop reason enough for you to stop going to church?”
Her father huffed. “Quit turning this around and making it about me.” He blew out a long breath of frustration. “You women must learn how to do that at an early age, like you train for it or something.”
Sarah grinned. “Ya, we meet weekly and conjure up ways to trick the men in our lives.”
“Ha, ha,” her daed grumbled as he changed his mind and reached for the half-eaten cookie.
“Don’t you think it’s time for you to make up with the bishop? And if not, your anger at Bishop Yoder shouldn’t keep you from church.”
“My business with the bishop and the Lord is my business.”
“Such is the case with me.” Sarah sat taller in her wheelchair as she folded her hands in her lap.
Her father pushed his chair back from the table, grabbed another cookie, then pointed a finger at her. “Don’t fall into a pit of despair, mei maedel. You can’t blame God for what has happened to you.”
“I never said I did.”
Daed stared at her for a while, squinting one eye. “You never said you didn’t either.”
Sarah swallowed hard. Parents had a keen instinct that seemed borrowed from God, a knowingness that was on loan while they raised their children.
“I’m going home. And report back to your mamm that you’re okay. But I’d like to hear that you are in church Sunday after next.”
“Maybe I’ll see you there?” Sarah offered up a challenging tight-lipped smile while lifting one of her eyebrows.
Her father grunted as he turned his back and made his way through the living room and to the front door. “And quit feeding that duck nuts,” he said over his shoulder before he walked onto the porch.
Sarah waited until he was gone before she wheeled herself onto the porch. Henry was curled up in his spot with one wing halfway covering his face. When she leaned down to touch the bird, he uncovered his face and locked eyes with her. “We are both damaged,” she whispered. “And if God wanted to, He could fix both of us.”
Abram opened the refrigerator and eyed the leftover chicken casserole Sarah had packed for lunch. Then his eyes drifted over to a large container nearby.
“Oh my, what a conundrum you have. Two lunches to choose from.”
He turned quickly when he felt Brenda’s breath on his neck. “Uh . . . ya. I guess.”
She leaned around him and pulled out her blue Tupperware box, her blond hair brushing against his arm. Her hair, normally straight, was curled today. He was tempted to tell her he liked it that way, that it looked pretty. But he wasn’t sure if that would be flirting.
“So . . .” Brenda put the container in the microwave and set the timer for two minutes. “I see your wife packed you a lunch. What is it?”
“Chicken casserole.” He inhaled the aroma of whatever was in the microwave. “What did you bring?”
“Smothered steaks with mushroom gravy and a generous side of mashed potatoes.”
Abram’s mouth watered as he weighed his options. “I guess we could each have a little of both?”
Brenda chuckled. “Well, that seems like the diplomatic thing to do. If you choose my steaks over your wife’s chicken, that wouldn’t be good. And you’re surely afraid that if you don’t eat my steak, that you’ll hurt my feelings.”
“Are you always so honest and forthright about things?”
She laughed again. “That sounds odd coming from one of you religious types. Isn’t honesty always the best policy?”
“I reckon,” he said softly as she took her steaks from the microwave, then retrieved the casserole from the refrigerator to heat up.
“So, no more sandwiches? Your wife is cooking for you now?” Brenda leaned against the counter and picked at one of her pink fingernails.
“Well, she cooked last night.” Abram didn’t know what to expect from one day to the next.
When the microwave dinged, Brenda pulled out the casserole and set it on the table alongside the smothered steaks, then she fetched them each a plate and silverware.
“I need a guy’s point of view about something,” she said as she sat down.
Abram lowered his head and said the blessing as fast as he could, anxious to eat. When he looked up, she was spooning casserole onto her plate. “Uh, okay,” he said as he stabbed one of the steaks and brought it to his plate, noticing her hair again.
“James asked me out.” Brenda took a big bite of Sarah’s chicken casserole. “Oh, wow. This is great.” She chewed for a while before swallowing. “Anyway, I’m not sure whether I should go out with him or not. You know . . . the whole don’t eat where you . . .” She paused and cleared her throat. “You get what I mean, right?”
“Our James? The guy who runs the register up front?”
“That would be the one. I’m not sure if dating someone that I work with is a good idea.”
Abram felt a wave of relief wash over him, and he felt silly to think that Brenda might have been flirting with him. Apparently, she was just a nice girl. “Do you like him? I mean, as a boyfriend prospect?”
Smiling while she chewed, she shrugged. “I don’t know. He’s nice enough. And he’s kind of cute. But we work together, so that’s setting off some alarms in my head. And . . .” She paused. “I see him talking to Mr. Hinkle a lot—and laughing. He seems
like he’s brownnosing to me.”
Abram wasn’t sure what the color of someone’s nose had to do with anything, and he wasn’t sure what was proper in a situation like this. “I guess whether or not you date him depends how much you like him.”
“Exactly.” She pointed her fork at him. “We could start dating, then break up, then it could affect our jobs. I’m not sure it’s worth the risk.”
“This steak is great,” Abram said as he stuffed another piece into his mouth.
Brenda grunted, but grinned. “Glad you like it, but, uh . . . what should I do about James?”
Abram shrugged. “I already told you. Depends how much you like him.”
“You’re not much help.”
They both turned when they heard footsteps.
“No help about what?” James grinned as he rounded the table and leaned against the counter, folding his arms across his chest.
Brenda cleared her throat again. “Well, as a matter of fact, I was just asking Abram if he thought it was a good idea to date someone you work with.”
Abram almost choked on a bite of steak. Doesn’t this woman have any kind of filter? She was young. Maybe nineteen or twenty. But Abram couldn’t help but think she’d make a good wife someday, knowing how to cook so well.
“Really?” James’s mouth lifted up on one side as he arched an eyebrow. “And what words of wisdom does our Amish friend have regarding this?”
Abram didn’t think James had ever called him by his actual name.
Brenda scraped the last bite of chicken casserole from her plate, then stood up and carried her paper plate to the trash can. She spun around, faced James, and said, “He hasn’t answered yet.” They both turned to Abram, and Brenda asked, “So, what’s the good word? Go out with him or not?”
Abram swallowed his bite. “Uh . . . I guess . . . go out with him?” He posed his answer as a question, hoping to get let off the hook.