The Rescued (12 page)

Levi's gaze slid away from hers. “I know,” he muttered finally.

“You know what?” Her heart was aching for him, but she kept her voice calm.

“I know that the farm won't be mine!” The words came out
quickly now, in a high-pitched flow that startled her. “I know what Daadi says. The farm will be Joseph's. But it's not fair. I love the farm. I love every one of the cows. And Joseph doesn't even want it.” He stopped, his eyes wide, and clapped his hand over his lips.

So. She should have realized. For that matter, Isaac should have realized.

“It's all right.” She drew Levi close against her, holding him as if he were a baby again. “I know.” How could she defend a decision she didn't even agree with? “Listen, Levi. Daadi knows how much you love farming. He will provide for each one of you boys. There will be a farm for you.”

Was she right? She prayed so. But if the dairy dropped its contract with them, money would be tight. What would the future hold for any of them? The question frightened her, but right now it was more important to comfort her son than to think about trouble that might or might not come.

“You shouldn't keep something like that to yourself,” she said, stroking his back and feeling the fragile bones under her hand. “You can always talk to me or Daadi about your worries. Daadi knows what a fine farmer you're becoming. You can trust him to see that you have what is right for you, ain't so?”

Levi nodded, probably as much relieved by speaking as by any reassurance she had offered.

She kissed him lightly on his forehead. “Now you must lie down and go to sleep. There will be plenty of clean-up work to do tomorrow, so you must be rested.”

And she must figure out how she was going to tell Isaac about this—yet another thing that he wouldn't want to hear.

A slight movement caught her eye, and she looked toward
the door. Isaac stood in the hallway, looking in through the gap where she'd left the door ajar. She held out her hand to him, wanting him to come in and reassure Levi.

But he ignored her gesture, his face bleak. He turned and disappeared from view, and all she could think was that she was glad Levi hadn't seen him.

•   •   •

Isaac
came out of the phone shanty the next day and stood for a moment in the morning sunlight. He could still smell the ashes where the generator shed had stood, and the acrid scent turned his stomach with its reminders of the past.

Concentrate on the next step—that was all he could do. Don't let his thoughts stray in the direction of the painful past or the uncertain future.

That was easier to say than to do. He'd just spent over an hour on the telephone, trying to find a generator of the size he needed for a price he could afford to pay. No success.

If he hadn't increased the herd this spring, they'd have had enough in the bank for a new generator. He'd taken a chance, and he'd been wrong.

Isaac rubbed the back of his neck, trying to erase the tension there. He could always borrow, of course, but he hated the idea. Daad had never believed in it. If a man couldn't pay cash for what he wanted, he'd have to do without. That had been his belief, and a son should follow his father's principles, ain't so?

That led him straight to Levi, and the painful confidence he'd heard last night. Worse, he'd sensed the truth in what the boy had said. Levi did seem to care more about the dairy herd
than Joseph did. He had to find a way to make things right with his son, but he was caught by his promise to his father.

If he'd rescued Daad first that night . . . He jerked away from the idea as if he'd touched a burning coal.

Judith had tried to talk to him about Levi once the boy had gone to sleep. She didn't seem to understand that he couldn't talk about it. All he could do right now was bury his feelings and cope with the current disaster.

He caught a glimpse of movement out by the tie-stall barn. Joseph? He ought to tell the boy how sorry he was for jumping to the conclusion that he'd been careless with the fire. He should have done it before this.

But Joseph wasn't alone. He spotted another figure disappearing behind the barn. Hadn't all the milking volunteers left long ago?

Striding toward the barn, Isaac realized that a wagon was pulled up at the rear door. A few more steps took him close enough to see that Joseph was helping a couple of other Amish men move a generator into the back of the barn. One man he didn't know. The other was Frederick Yoder.

“What's going on?” He tried to dampen the irritation in his voice that always seemed to appear when he talked to Fred. Foolish, not to be able to forget that Fred had nearly captured Judith's heart before he'd made up his mind that she was for him.

“I heard about the fire.” Fred straightened, his always cheerful face serious for once. “Sorry we didn't get out sooner to help.”

“There were plenty of folks here. We had all the help we needed.” That didn't sound very gracious. “Denke,” he added. He eyed the generator. It was plenty big enough to supply the power they needed, and it looked brand-new.

“That generator—” he began, trying to think of a way to say he couldn't afford it without feeling small.

“You need one to get things up and running, ain't so? This is a spare that we keep at the shop just so we have a backup in case of emergency.” Fred shrugged. “No emergencies lately, thank the gut Lord. I figured we could set it up for you to use until you're able to get one.”

For an instant Isaac couldn't seem to think. The very thing he needed, and it dropped right into his lap without his doing a thing. Isaac's relief at having the problem solved for the moment, at least, battled his reluctance to be beholden to Fred Yoder. If he turned down the loan of the generator—well, the truth was that if he did, he'd probably lose his contract with the dairy. He couldn't afford that, could he?

“I can help set it up,” Joseph said, giving Isaac a sidelong glance as if to ask permission. “I'd keep it in good shape as long as it's here.”

“Ach, I don't doubt that,” Fred said, his usual cheerful tone returning. “This boy of yours has a fine hand with a machine.”

Isaac stared at him, frowning. “It's true enough, but how do you know that?”

“Ach, half the valley knows that about Joseph. Besides, I can see it just by the way he handles a machine,” Fred said quickly. “Just like I suppose you can tell by the way a man approaches a dairy cow whether he knows what he's doing with animals or not.”

The man was trying to do a kind act, and here he was behaving like he had no manners at all. Isaac managed a smile.

“True enough. And Joseph does keep our equipment in order. It's certain-sure a gut thing he does. If something goes wrong with a machine, all I can do is yell at it.”

Fred nodded. “That's about how I am with the animals. My own daad is ashamed of me on that front, but I remind him that the Bible says we all have different talents.”

He was stalling for time, Isaac realized, when he actually had no choice in the matter. He knew it, Joseph knew it, and no doubt Fred Yoder knew it as well.

“Denke, Fred.” He held his hand out to the man. “It's wonderful kind of you. I'll try to get the generator back to you quickly.”

“Don't worry about it,” Fred said, shaking his hand. “We'll have it up and running for you in no time at all.”

No time indeed. Joseph was already helping the other man to set it up, almost before Isaac had voiced his acceptance. The boy's hands were quick and sure as he worked.

Fred leaned over to point something out on the controls, and as he talked, Joseph looked up, nodding in agreement while he listened.

Isaac's throat tightened as he watched them. Joseph was looking up at Fred Yoder the way he'd once looked at his big brother—with a mixture of admiration and devotion that had always touched him and made him aware of his responsibility to be the brother Joseph thought him.

When had Joseph stopped seeing him that way? It almost felt as if Fred were taking Joseph's allegiance away from him, and the feeling left a bad taste in his mouth.

Lancaster County, August 1953

A
s
Nate trundled a wagon holding a basket of apples and one of tomatoes, Mattie walked out the lane the next day to take her turn at the vegetable stand the family shared. With all Ben's family pitching in, as well as Adam's folks, who owned the farm on the other side of Daad Jonah's, they were able to have plenty to sell as well as enough helpers so that no one had to spend much time at the stand.

“Look, there's Grossmammi,” Nate said, waving so vigorously that the wagon ground to a halt. “She'll be glad we came to take over.”

“I'm sure she'll be wonderful glad to see you, too.” Mattie pushed her worries aside to smile at him. “Do you think she might have a treat for you?” Since she knew her mother-in-law had been making whoopie pies today, it was a safe question to ask.

“Yum, I hope so.” Nate's walk turned into a trot, and he and the wagon moved ahead, reaching the stand several yards ahead of her.

Mamm Becky was already counting out whoopie pies. “One for you to eat now, but the rest are for later, ja? Make sure that everybody has one, and be sure to ask your mamm before you help yourself.”

“I will.” Nate's voice was muffled by the huge bite of chocolate and cream he'd stuffed in his mouth.

Mattie resigned herself to the fact that he wouldn't get any work done until he'd finished. “You are spoiling them, Mamm Becky.” She gave her mother-in-law a quick hug.

“That's my job, ain't so?” Mamm Becky held her at arm's length for a moment to take a long look at her face. “Are you getting enough sleep, Mattie? You look tired.”

There was no point in trying to evade the question. Ben's mother was too wise for such a move.

Mattie sent a glance toward her son, but he was absorbed in what he was doing. “Worrying too much, I'm afraid.” She kept her voice low. “I try to turn the burden over to the Lord, but then I find I'm picking it up again.”

The nights were the worst, alone in the bed she'd shared with Ben. That was when she felt most strongly the burden of making decisions without him.

“I know.” Mamm Becky patted her shoulder. “Sometimes it's hard to trust that the Lord is in control.” She glanced at Nate, who had finished his whoopie pie and was busy arranging the baskets according to some plan of his own. “You didn't bring Rachel to help you today?”

“I thought she'd be better off watching the young ones.” Mattie hesitated, but the need to share the burden was too great. “I heard that some of the older scholars have been called names when they were in town among the Englisch. I didn't want Rachel upset.”

Her mother-in-law nodded. “I heard the story as well. You did the right thing, I think. Rachel is a sensible child, but girls that age can be easily hurt.”

They both watched Nate for a moment, and Mattie wondered if her mother-in-law was thinking the same thing she was—that Nate was so like his daad, both in the way he looked and in his disposition. Patient and sturdy, he was stolid, not easily ruffled by people or things.

If it were Nate who was faced with the possibility of being sent to the big Englisch high school, she might not feel quite so apprehensive. Nate, like Ben, could present that firm, expressionless face to the world which made folks use the phrase
dumb Dutch
, even though there was nothing dumb about either of them.

Shaking her head, Mattie tried to chase off the clustering worries that were like a cloud of gnats around her head. “Have you sold much this morning?” A quick look at the stand showed her that most of the stacks of tomatoes, peppers, eggplants, and late corn seemed untouched.

“Not much. People don't seem to be buying.”

Her mother-in-law didn't say anything more, but they both knew that in all probability, the Englisch weren't supporting the farm stand in part because of the school controversy. Things that pointed up the differences between Amish and Englisch often had that effect on folks.

“Ach, well, we'll have to eat it all ourselves,” Mattie said, with a lightness she didn't feel. “You should go on home and have a little rest before the men come in for their lunch. Nate and I will be fine.”

“I know you will. Nate is such a gut helper.” Mamm Becky turned away, then turned back again. She reached out to clasp
Mattie's hand in a quick grip. “Whatever you decide about Rachel and the school, you know we support you, ain't so?”

Tears stung Mattie's eyes. “I know. Denke.” She watched her mother-in-law's sturdy figure walk off along the road toward her house, feeling a wave of gratitude. They wouldn't try to convince her of anything, and she appreciated it. Only sometimes, she found herself longing for someone else to make the decisions for her.

Traffic was light, and none of the few cars stopped. Mamm Becky had long since disappeared into her house before Mattie noticed a car slowing as it approached the farm stand.

“Looks like we finally have a customer,” she said, distracting Nate from his search through a patch of clover, probably for a four-leaf lucky one. He scrambled to his feet and hurried back to her.

The car slowed still more, pulling onto the gravel verge. Nate moved, as if to go and greet the customers, but Mattie pulled him back, a sense of unease fluttering in her belly. Why had the car pulled off so far away? Normally people drew right up—

The car accelerated with a roar of the engine. Gravel spun out from the tires. It rocketed along the verge, seeming to head straight toward them, and all Mattie could do was wrap her arms around Nate and utter a wordless prayer.

At what seemed to her the last possible moment, the driver veered back onto the blacktop, missing a basket of apples by inches, and sped off down the road.

“Mammi, you're choking me.” Nate's protest shook Mattie from her paralyzed state.

“Sorry.” She let go of him, trying to smile. “That car scared me. It came too close.”

“Bad driver,” Nate said, with the slightly superior tone of one who had mastered the art of driving the pony cart.

“He was, wasn't he?” She didn't want her son to think that action had been deliberate.

Car doors slammed, and Mattie realized that a second car had pulled up. A woman approached, clutching a little girl by the hand.

“That driver shouldn't be allowed on the road,” the Englisch woman declared. “If I'd been closer I could have gotten his license number. I'm sorry.”

The woman was small, with pleasant features and softly curling brown hair. She wore a print dress, belted at the waist. The child was very like her mother, with pigtails tied with pink ribbons. Mattie guessed her to be about seven or eight. They had been regular visitors to the farm stand this summer—Mrs. Graham, she was, and Mattie had learned that she was indeed the wife of the school board president. This must be his daughter.

Mattie felt as if she'd forgotten to breathe for a moment. “It's all right. He didn't cause any damage.”

Had it been simple carelessness on the part of the driver? Somehow she didn't think so, and her arms tightened around Nate until he squirmed.

“Ouch, Mammi, you're hugging too tight again.”

Nate had spoken in dialect, but Mrs. Graham seemed to gather the meaning. Her eyes met Mattie's, mother to mother, and she smiled.

A daring thought slipped into Mattie's head. The woman seemed friendly. Open, unlike her husband. Perhaps if Mattie spoke to her about the problem . . .

She couldn't. Could she?

Mrs. Graham picked up a paper bag from the shelf and began to sort through the corn. “The white corn I bought the other day was so sweet, I decided to come back for more. Alice and I might freeze some to enjoy this winter, right?” She smiled at her daughter. “Alice, why don't you pick out some nice apples for us? Maybe this young man will help you.”

Nate straightened his shoulders, remembering his importance, and led the way to the basket of apples.

“His name is Nate,” Mattie said. “Well, Nathaniel, but that always seemed too long for him.”

“Especially when you're calling the children in for supper, I'd guess.” Mrs. Graham set aside one bag of a dozen ears and started on another. “You have an older daughter who sometimes works at the stand, don't you?”

Mattie nodded, studying her warily. “That's Rachel. She's watching the little ones today.”

“She's about fourteen, isn't she?” The question was carefully polite, but Mattie thought she sensed something behind it.

“Ja, fourteen.” Mattie hesitated. Here was a chance to speak, if she could manage to take it. “She is one of the children who is supposed to be sent to ninth grade at the new high school.”

Mrs. Graham seemed to study an ear of corn for a moment. “I'm afraid I don't quite understand why you people object to the idea. I mean, isn't it a good thing for children to have an education?”

Mattie's heart was pounding so loudly she felt sure the other woman would hear it. Here was an opportunity, handed to her when she hadn't even been able to ask for it.

“The Amish live the way we believe God wants us to live—not concerned with what the world wants or with earthly things, but
simply and humbly. We want our kinder to be taught, of course, but to be taught to live an Amish life, not an Englisch one.”

She wanted so much to be understood. Could the woman possibly look at it from her viewpoint?

Frowning a little, the woman finally nodded. “I'm a person of faith, too.” She glanced over to where Nate was sharing a whoopie pie with her daughter. “I suppose I want my daughter educated according to my beliefs.”

“You understand what we feel, then.”

“Perhaps. A little.” Her pleasant face was troubled, but sympathetic.

Mattie caught at her fleeing courage. “If you could speak to your husband—”

“I couldn't do that.” The words were quick and definite, and Mrs. Graham took a step back. “I couldn't interfere with what he does as the school board president.”

“I see.” Mattie had to blink back tears of disappointment. “Of course you must do what you feel is right.”
As we must.

Mrs. Graham fumbled with her bags. Then, quite unexpectedly, she reached out to clasp Mattie's hand. “I wish you well,” she said, and Mattie saw that there were tears in her eyes, as well.

In another moment she had paid what she owed, hustled her daughter into the car, and driven off.

•   •   •

Judith
gripped the worn wooden handle of the pastry blender as she cut shortening into the flour for another pie crust. At the counter next to her, Grossmammi slid the skin deftly from the peaches she'd brought when she'd come to visit this morning.

“These Red Havens are wonderful sweet.” Grossmammi
popped a juicy slice into her mouth and offered one to Judith, who took it with floury fingers and bit into it. Sweetness seemed to explode in her mouth.

“Wonderful,” Judith agreed, glad to be distracted from the thoughts that went round and round in her mind lately. “Has Rebecca already finished canning enough for her family?”

“All done, and still the peaches keep coming. I can't remember when we've had them for so long.” Her grandmother measured the amount of peaches in the bowl with the ease of long experience and began to stir in the sugar and cornstarch mixture that she always said was the best way to thicken peach pie filling.

“You're getting ahead of me.” Judith began rolling out the dough on the smooth, floured surface of the bread board her daad had made for her years ago.

“No matter.” Grossmammi rinsed her hands at the sink, surveying the three pies ready to go in the oven. “This will be a nice treat for Isaac and the boys.” She glanced out the kitchen window, obviously looking to the spot where the generator shed had been. “I see you have things all cleaned up since the fire.”

Judith nodded. “Isaac couldn't rest until every sign of it had been wiped away.” Her heart twisted a little. “It reminded him, you see.”

“Poor Isaac. We can never really forget the tragedies of our lives, even when we're rejoicing in the happy memories.” Grossmammi's eyes seemed to be seeing something Judith couldn't. “Anything—a sight or a smell or a sound—can bring the pain of the moment back, it seems.”

Judith tried to concentrate on fitting the top crust in place, but her fingers shook so that the center design she'd cut ended up a little to one side. “He had to get rid of the burned smell.
He said it was because it upset the cows, but I think it was more for himself.”

“Most likely.” Her grandmother held the oven door open while Judith slid the pies onto the racks. “I remember how the scent of burning seemed to hang over the whole valley the night the farmhouse went.” She shook her head. “At least this time no one was hurt, and I hear the business is back to normal with the new generator.”

Setting the teakettle on the stove was an automatic movement for Judith. Her grandmother never turned down a cup of tea, and this morning the air had been chilly when the boys set out for school, with a low mist hanging in the valley.

“Fred Yoder brought a generator over for us to use. It was wonderful kind of him.” She paused, but the need to share her concerns was too great. “Isaac has been . . . well, kind of odd about it. He's never really liked Fred for some reason, and it bothers him to feel beholden to him.”

Grossmammi tilted her head on one side and surveyed Judith, smiling a little. “Are you telling me you're the only person in the valley who doesn't know what Isaac has against Frederick Yoder? It's you, you silly goose.”

Judith could only stare at her grandmother. “What are you talking about? There was never anything between us.” She could feel the heat coming up in her face. “Maybe Fred paid me a little attention and took me home from a singing, but if you're saying Isaac is jealous . . .”