He would have to make inquiries soon about other work—before Dale had opportunity to spread an opinion that disparaged Yonnie. Several Amish farms were large enough that he might be able to hire himself out as a field hand. Most likely, he would not receive any salary until after the harvest and the work might be temporary, but it would be a start. Or the Amish furniture store in Springs might need help in its workshop at the edge of town. Yonnie was not much of a carpenter, but he could clean up and make deliveries.
By the time the milk wagon clattered out of the dairy, Yonnie was formulating the precise wording of his inquiries. He would have to be certain a new employer planned to properly respect Bishop Yoder’s authority.
Sweat tickled Fannie’s ear along a fine line from the roots of her hair down to the side of her neck, and she raised a shoulder to swipe at the irritation. Lifting a hand from her task would have been a vain effort. Tenacious humidity overpowered the air. Fannie had no thermometer, but she had lived through enough Julys not to put false hope in the notion that the weather would break into a stream of tolerable temperatures. If anything, the sweltering days would grow more intense before the turn of the earth yielded relief. Systematically, Fannie pushed a dust rag across the neglected wood surfaces of her front room. She did not much care whether the dust piled up. She only knew that keeping herself in constant motion was the most likely cure for the profound urge to go back to bed that had trailed through the hours since breakfast. Perhaps if her house was tidier, her mind would feel less cluttered as well.
At the dining room table, Sadie banged her heels against the legs of the chair and the pencil in her hand against the tabletop.
“Have you finished copying your letters?” Fannie asked, though she had only given Sadie the task to keep her from pulling items out of drawers and cupboards faster than Fannie could put them away.
“I don’t want to copy letters.” Sadie leaned her chin into one hand. “I’m not old enough for school yet.”
“You will be soon. You can at least learn to write your name.”
“I want to play. That’s what I’m good at.”
Fannie cocked her head and surprised herself with a smile. “Yes, playing has always been your special talent.”
“Then why can’t I go out and play?”
“You heard Daed at lunch. It’s going to rain.”
“But it’s not raining now.” Sadie’s eyes rounded into solemn pleas.
Fannie tossed the dust rag on a side table. “All right. We’ll both go outside.” At least outdoors a breeze might flutter and divide the damp air into a small space of relief.
They went into the front yard, where Elam had dug the vegetable plot wider and longer this year. Fannie could keep her hands busy weeding and inspecting produce.
Sadie immediately threw herself into a patch of grass and rolled one direction and then the other.
“Watch me!” she called.
“I’m watching.” Fannie wondered if Sadie was old enough to recognize when the expression on her mother’s face was not quite sincere, though she did observe the girl’s glee and remembered how cool grass close to the earth could refresh a day with little other promise. The caution that formed in Fannie’s mind went unspoken. She should have reminded Sadie to take care with her dress and to roll only in the grass and not in dirt, but she lacked energy to enforce a warning so she supposed there was no point in voicing one. Needle and thread and a cool bath would remedy any damage. Fannie turned to the garden, kneeling in the loamy soil and wishing she had thought to pick up the basket on the front porch. She glanced at the sky and judged that they would not be outside for long. Elam was right. Rain seemed inevitable, and Fannie would have to persuade Sadie to go back inside.
Sadie popped up. “Look! It’s Grossmuder.”
Stone formed in Fannie’s stomach. Her mother struggled for a moment with the latch at the gate.
Pull it up, Fannie thought. Martha always seemed to try twice to open the latch by pulling it down before resorting to the opposite motion. Why didn’t her mother bring a buggy? She should not have walked in this heat in her condition.
Her condition.
Martha had a definite sway now. Her waistline had seemed to explode in the last few weeks, making it impossible for Fannie to avoid thinking about the child in her womb.
Fannie might be able to hide her feelings from a five-year-old, but her mother would be a steeper challenge. She stood and smiled.
“Hello, Mamm.” Not since Fannie had begun going to Singings on her own had she wished this hard that her mother would go away.
“Are you feeling better?” Martha said, dabbing an apron corner at the sweat on her forehead.
Fannie had no desire to lie to her mother. Neither could she tell the truth.
Sadie tugged at Martha’s hand. “Do you want strudel? We have a lot.”
“Yes,” Fannie said quickly, “why don’t you go get Grossmuder a piece of strudel? Wrap it in a napkin and don’t squeeze it.”
Sadie skipped toward the house. Fannie felt the first widely spaced drops of rain as she turned to face her mother.
“I know why you didn’t come to supper last night,” Martha said softly.
Fannie said nothing.
“I prayed for years that God would give you another child,” her mother said. “I still do. I never asked for this for myself. I have a house and a heart full of children, and after twelve years I was content to think that the days of new babes were over for me.”
“I know.” Fannie forced out the reply. She did know. Other than her husband, her mother was the one to soak up Fannie’s heartache month after month as if it were her own.
The rain spattered with sudden force, and thunder rumbled. Sadie stood on the porch cradling a napkin, unsure what to do.
“Stay there!” Fannie called to Sadie. Raindrops splotched her apron, coming faster and harder like a certain birth.
“This child will be your brother or sister.” Martha raised her pitch above the thrumming shower. “I hope you will love it as much as you do the others.”
Fannie nodded, if only to bring the conversation to a close. She could not keep her mother standing out in the rain, and neither could she expect Martha to begin the walk home in a thunderstorm. She would have to invite her inside. Sadie, at least, would be delighted.
“I’ll find you a cold drink to have with your strudel.”
The remains of a barn that stood for fifty years had been removed. Melvin Mast had been talking about a new barn, with more and bigger cow stalls, for close to ten years. Now, instead of a rickety weathered structure, the space beside the Mast house featured precise stacks of beams, joists, rafters, siding, and shingles. The foundation, laid last week, was already covered with floorboards. Clara could see the clear shape of the barn.
“I understand Young Dave is the boss of the raising today.” Hiram Kuhn guided the family buggy to a clear spot along a pasture fence and pulled on the reins.
“His first time,” Rhoda said. “I’m sure he has learned well from his father.”
Clara got out and then raised her hands for little Mari. Hannah would insist she could get down on her own. Josiah was already helping Hiram unhitch the horse, and Rhoda gripped the handles of two baskets of food. Clara welcomed Mari into her arms, giving the three-year-old a quick hug and a kiss on the top of her head without looking at Rhoda.
“I want to really help this time.” Josiah straightened his eight-year-old height. “I’m old enough.”
“We’ll see,” Hiram said.
“I don’t want to go with the kinner.” Josiah’s face set with his mother’s determination. “I want to learn to build a barn.”
Clara watched the glance that passed between Hiram and Rhoda.
“Come with me,” Hiram said, “but you must obey carefully today.” They walked away.
Mari tugged Clara’s skirt. “Is this a frolic?”
“Yes, it is,” Clara said. A hundred people or more wou
ld turn out. Glancing around, she could see most of the church families were already present.
“I like frolics, don’t I?” Mari, standing beside the buggy, looked up at Clara for confirmation.
Clara smiled. “You are the best frolicker I know.”
Rhoda cleared her throat. “Please don’t fill her head with pride.”
Clara cupped her hand around the back of Mari’s head but said nothing.
“Come along, Mari,” Rhoda said. “You, too, Hannah. Let’s let Clara enjoy her day.”
“I’ll keep the girls,” Clara said, gesturing at the baskets Rhoda carried. “You have other things to do.”
“Thank you,” Rhoda said, “but I’ve already spoken with Hannah. It’s time she took on more responsibility. She’s old enough to keep Mari occupied.”
Once Rhoda turned her back, leading the girls away, Clara let out her sigh. Clara would have enjoyed her day very well with her little sisters in tow. Even when her father first married Rhoda, Clara knew she had a determined personality. Her penchant for order served the household well after Hiram’s years of limited cooking skills and uncertainty about what a little girl needed. But now, the way Rhoda drew lines around her stepdaughter without ever being rude—this was something Clara would not have predicted.
Clara turned her eyes to the bustling scene. Men clustered around supplies, women unwrapped food at a series of tables, and children scooted off to find friends and have the run of the farm. Young people old enough to go to Singings would eye each other.
She would enjoy the day. As a motherless little girl, she loved any sort of frolic that brought her into the arms and attention of the church. No one today would have reason to think anything was wrong between Clara and Rhoda. She could be with people she had known all her life, doing something no one would disagree about.
Clara caught Andrew’s eye across the farmyard cleared for the day of the chickens that normally occupied it. He would be working hard. She had seen Andrew’s contribution to a barn raising before. He let older men lean into the poles that would raise the first bent to an upright position, while nearly two dozen others held it with ropes from falling over. As soon as the second bent was raised, Andrew would lead the scramble of agile young men up to jiggle and fit the crossbeams into place and drive in the locking pins. He had never been afraid of heights or of standing on surfaces more narrow than his boots. The men were already arranging themselves, awaiting Young Dave’s call to begin raising the skeleton.
Clara decided to be useful by helping to set up a water station. It was already after eight o’clock, and in the middle of July, temperatures would soar by midmorning. A large dispenser was positioned on a table, no doubt well chilled in spring water. Clara pulled out one of several crates under the table and found glasses, which she began to set out in rows.
“Clara!”
The voice came from behind her. Clara pivoted to see Priscilla Schrock a few feet away.
“I was hoping you would be here.” Priscilla bounced on her heels.
“And here I am,” Clara said.
“I’m going to tell Naomi and Lillian you’re here. We can have a story class.”
“Priscilla, I don’t think—”
The girl was already in motion, unhearing of Clara’s gentle protest. As she looked round, Clara wondered if she appeared as furtive as she felt.
Young Dave strode past her, positioned himself in a central location among the supplies, and gave the first call.
Yonnie joined the crew framing doorways and windows. Uncomfortable with climbing the rising form of a barn, he was consistent in his choice of tasks that kept both feet on the ground with little risk that any sudden movement would endanger his balance. Now he wished he had paid more attention over the years to the details. If he had learned to frame a window rather than simply hand tools to the carpenter, he might have a skill to offer a new employer.
Mose Beachy turned a palm up, and Yonnie laid a tiny awl in it. At least he knew which tool was needed, even if he hadn’t learned to use it himself. He watched carefully, though. The barn would have several doors and a bank of windows letting in daylight.
Bending his wide girth, Mose finished an adjustment and signaled that Yonnie should help him lift the window frame into the space left for it in the side of the barn. Outside the barn, older men marked with chalk where siding boards would cross a beam before handing the boards off to others who carried them, three at a time, and passed them to younger men stationed among the framing. The sound of swinging hammers striking nails would not abate for hours as siding boards went onto the frame in a rolling wave.
Younger boys, old enough to help but not yet trusted with tools or heights, moved around the barn and yard collecting waste wood to pile out of the way. One of them trailed Mose and Yonnie now. It was the Kuhn boy, Yonnie thought, though he never could remember the boy’s name. Joshua. Jeremiah. Something like that.
Mose worked with few words. Suddenly he shouted over Yonnie’s shoulder. “Watch out.”
A thud launched a clatter, followed by a yelp.
“Put the window down.” Mose swiftly lowered his end to the barn floor. Yonnie set his end down carefully and balanced the frame against an interior post, irritated that Mose had left him with the weight of the fragile window.
Mose knelt beside the boy, who had fallen and dropped the waste wood balanced in his arms.
“Josiah, are you all right?”
Josiah. That was the Kuhn boy’s name. His eyes were closed, and he made no sound.
“Josiah?” Mose said again.
“My head hurts.” Josiah raised a hand to one temple, his eyes still closed.
“It’s all right. You can open your eyes.” Mose pulled out a shirttail and gently wiped sawdust from the boy’s face. “It’s only a small cut.”
“Is it bleeding?” Josiah’s eyes popped wide open.
Yonnie rolled his gaze at the boy’s fright. “You should have been more careful.”
The boy’s face crumpled.
Mose looked up through the unfinished slope of the rear portion of the barn. Yonnie followed his view and saw Andrew peering down.
“Anybody hurt?” Andrew said. “A board got away from somebody up here.”
Mose looked at Josiah. The boy was startled and on the brink of tears.
“We’re fine,” Yonnie told Andrew.
“I think Josiah will want to go find his mother.” Mose helped the boy to his feet.
“You should have been paying more attention,” Yonnie said. “It’s dangerous to have children in the way of the men while they’re working.”
“I’m helping,” Josiah said.
“Look at the mess you’ve made.” Yonnie pointed to the strewn waste wood.
“I’ll pick it up again.” Josiah’s voice trembled.
Mose put a hand on the boy’s shoulder. “The important thing is you’re safe. But maybe you’d like some water or a pastry before you get back to work.”
Josiah nodded.
When the boy had left the barn, Mose began picking up the spilled wood and stacking it against the wall. “You were harsh with the boy. It wasn’t his fault one of the men above dropped a board.”
“If fathers want to let their sons work,” Yonnie said, “they should supervise more closely.”
“I have fourteen children,” Mose said. “Not a one of them would fail to look around and see what needs doing when the church community is together. They want to belong. Your parents taught you the same way. I can remember when you were a boy picking up waste wood.”
“He has to be aware of what’s happening around him.” Yonnie mumbled now. “He could have been hurt.”
“And if he had been, we would have taken care of him. That’s what we do. Jesus teaches us to do unto others as we would have them do unto us.”
The admonishment, though delivered with gentleness, stung.
Yonnie returned to the window frame. “Let’s get back to work.”
> The men ate lunch in two shifts, selecting food from the women’s offerings and findings seats at tables inside the Mast house or in the shade of trees in the yard. After the men were fed, the women and children would eat. Women shuttled around refilling water glasses and clearing plates to wash quickly for the next wave of diners. Finishing his meal with the second shift, Andrew watched Clara amble back toward the water table where she had spent most of the day so far. Stopping to greet others who spoke to him, Andrew followed Clara in a vague way. On a day like this, a working man could always use another glass of water.
On the verge of speaking, Andrew held his words when Hannah Kuhn whizzed past him and grinned at her big sister.
“I thought you were watching Mari,” he heard Clara say.
“Nap time!” Hannah answered. “Mamm said I could go play.”
“Then you should go find your friends.”
“Priscilla said I should come here.”
“She did?”
“Yes. She has a surprise for me!”
Priscilla, Naomi, and Lillian arrived in tangled unison.
“I told you she was here,” Priscilla announced. She turned to Clara. “You don’t have to stay here every minute, do you?”
Andrew’s soft steps took him closer, still behind Clara. His curiosity piqued.
“No,” Clara said. “I don’t suppose so.”
“Grown-ups can get their own water,” Naomi said. “But they won’t tell us a story like you will.”
Andrew saw Clara’s frame stiffen. Pride rose through his chest, though he did not allow it to form on his lips.
“A story?” Hannah said.
“That’s the surprise,” Priscilla said.
Clara’s nervous glance swept the farmyard. “I’m not sure that’s a good idea right now.”
“It is! It is!” Lillian said. “We’ve been waiting all day for Mari to go to sleep so Hannah could come, too.”
Andrew recognized the shift in her posture as Clara embraced the notion. His mind’s eye saw again lines jumping from her sheaf of papers. He glanced at the barn, where the side boarding continued on one end and the roofing began on the other. He judged there were enough young men willing to scale the heights and do the work, and he might not have another opportunity to hear Clara tell a story.
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