Forever Amish (16 page)

CHAPTER 19

Reuben bowed his head for an abbreviated minute, then I listened to his footsteps tromp out the back door, followed by a slam.

Armin got to his feet. “I'd better help with the livestock.” He swatted Peter's shoulder with the back of his hand. “You two come with me.”

“But I haven't had dessert yet,” Jeremy said.

“I'm sure your mother will save you a slice of pie.” He jostled Jeremy's chair.

“Yah, of course I will,” Rhoda said. “And I'll make ya hot spiced cider or cocoa. Be sure to wear your winter coat.”

Peter sulked. “Mamm, I ain't a little boy anymore.”

“Then, why aren't you out helping your father?” Armin said. I figured he was taking Jeremy and Peter with him for my benefit, so I could talk to Pops and my grandparents with more privacy.

Like a sprite, Lizzie helped Rhoda clear the table, and then the two of them brought out chocolate pie, a plate of cookies, and a stack of dessert plates.

“Please, won't ya sit down here by us?” Grandpa Leonard said to me. His gnarled finger pointed to Peter's now-empty chair. I wanted to speak to him so very much, but my father—just yesterday my beloved Pops—smelled like a stinkbug. And I had to take into consideration: I might not be related to my grandparents. Unless they'd adopt me. Nah, who would adopt a grown woman?

Pops guzzled his glass of water. “Never mind.” Practically his first words at the table—not his usual talkative self. Using his arms, he pushed his chair away from the table. “I'd better split, for everyone's sake.”

“Nee, please don't leave.” Rhoda's voice turned urgent. “You hardly touched your supper.”

I almost jumped in to explain that Pops had declared he no longer had an appetite; a metallic taste like a tarnished spoon had pervaded his mouth. But he was a grown man. He could talk for himself. Rhoda brought a bowl of whipped cream from the refrigerator and set it on the table. “You have yet to taste my pie, Ezekiel. Chocolate used to be your favorite when you were a boy. I made it 'specially for you.”

“You shouldn't have gone to all that trouble.” His eyes were sunken.

“Are ya kidding? You're mei Bruder.”

“You're kind, Rhodie, but then you always were.” Pops stood, a sluggish process. “I don't deserve your hospitality.”

Rhoda's voice rose to a ferocious pitch. “We must forgive those who harm us.”

“Yah, 'tis a sin to bear malice,” Grandma Leah said, her face a road map of fine lines. “Especially against your own child.” Her hand trembled as she reached out to touch Pops's forearm. “Please sit. Reuben won't be in again for at least an hour.”

I listened and watched them as if I were in the audience of a movie theater—a spectator. Which was how I wanted to be: in the shadows, unseen. I wondered if they'd be so distracted they wouldn't notice if I left the table. But the moment my knee swung to the side, Rhoda caught sight of me.

“Sally, don't ya want to speak to your father?”

I couldn't even shake my head; my shoulders were as hard as concrete. “I've said all I have to say to him. There's no point.”

“But, Sally—” Pops leaned closer to me.

“Ezekiel, we want you to spend the night here,” Rhoda said.

“You mustn't disobey your husband, Rhodie.” Pops's hands grasped the back of a chair, as if it were a pair of crutches. His complexion was murky—maybe from the dim gas lighting. No, his skin was definitely darker. He looked wobbly, ready to keel over. It took all my willpower to remain seated and not rush over to help him.

“Please,” Lizzie said, “don't leave us, Uncle Ed.”

“Yah, we can call you anything you like,” Rhoda said.

“Ed is fine,” my grandfather said, then wagged his finger. “But it's
greislich
—terrible—for a man to change his last name, to discard his ancestors. Our heritage is very important. We must never forget it.”

“But for tonight,” my grandma said, “we can accept Ezekiel as he is.” She was practically pleading, a pitiful whimper. “We don't want him on the road in this storm.”

With everyone talking, I decided this was the opportune moment for me to leave. Rhoda glanced at me for a moment but didn't protest.

Minutes later, wearing the borrowed rubber boots, I practically skated across the frozen snow to Armin's cabin. The sky seemed to be clearing and flakes drifted down lazily. Armin's front porch was dark, but I noticed a dim light inside and heard Ginger's yip. I knocked, then let myself in. When Ginger saw me, she jumped for joy, as only dogs do.

“Looks like you're spending the night in this cabin,” I told her. My gaze stole over to Armin's bed, which looked comfy, a refuge, what I'd hoped to find at the bed and breakfast yesterday. If things got too weird around here, when the weekend was over and the tourists returned to the city, I might just drive over to that B&B to see if they had a vacancy.

What was I thinking? I had Ginger with me.

Donald's alligator billfold always bulged with an array of credit cards and hundred-dollar bills. He could afford to stay at a pricey pet-friendly hotel, but I couldn't. I asked myself, frankly, if his financial standing—that sense of security—hadn't played a role in my falling for him. No, he'd sent flowers, opened doors, paid me compliments, wooed me. Except when it came to Pops.

I draped my jacket over the back of a wooden chair. My annoyance and frustration had seemed to warm me from the inside on my walk here, but now I realized the cabin had cooled down. I added wood to the fire and used the poker to nudge the glowing embers toward the center. In a swoosh, the wood ignited. I felt pleased with my accomplishment. Silly that such a minor task brought me joy I so desperately needed.

Armin had left a lantern burning on a side table next to his sofa. I dug into my purse and found the preowned Amish novel I'd borrowed from the store today. With a plaid wool lap blanket covering my legs, I settled onto the couch and opened the paperback and started reading. After spending the day selling books like this, I was surprised to find the story intriguing. I could relate to several of the characters. Yet my lids grew heavy, and I set it aside, rested my head on a pillow, and closed my eyes.

I must have dozed, because the opening door jarred me to consciousness.

“Taking a cat nap?” Armin said.

“Uh, I guess working today was harder than I thought.” I didn't know why I was so flustered and embarrassed by his sudden appearance.

“Are you sure you don't want to sleep out here?” He removed his jacket, gave it a shake out the door, then hung it on a peg. He yanked off his boots and stepped into his slippers.

“Thanks for the offer,” I said. “But I'd better go back to the house.” I could only imagine what Reuben would conclude if I slept out here. Talk about wagging tongues. And this place would be freezing in the morning, not that the big house wouldn't get cold, with no central heating.

The saying about March coming in like a lion and going out like a lamb somersaulted through my mind. Well, not true this year. I recalled a brutal March in Connecticut, as a child. We kids in the neighborhood had thoroughly enjoyed the snow. Or was it February? My past seemed like a hazy morning without a horizon.

“I hate to leave Ginger,” I told Armin.

“She'll be fine.”

“I worry about if she needs to go out. She's not used to wandering around a farm.”

“I'll keep a gut eye on her.”

A light rapping on the door caught Ginger's attention. She hurried over to it.

“Coming.” Armin opened the door. “Rhoda.”

She ducked her head in and spotted me, then turned to Armin and paused. I sat up straighter and lay the blanket aside—not that I was doing anything wrong.

“Sally, your father's staying in the extra bedroom on the first floor.” She moved just inside the doorway. “I helped him into bed and was concerned to see how swollen his feet and ankles are.”

“I've been concerned about that too. Did he explain what's wrong with him?”

“Nee, he didn't have to. Ach, his foul breath told me everything. My cousin had the same problem. I wonder how long before he goes into renal failure.”

“I've tried to get Pops to return to the doctor's, but he won't listen.” I felt guilty for my glib reply, but the truth was I had no power to make my father do anything he didn't want to do.

“Please come sleep in your room,” Rhoda said. “The men will get up as usual to milk the cows and feed the livestock, then we're off to church service, a day of rest to reflect upon the Lord.”

“Leaving me alone with Pops.” I recollected the two-headed pushmi-pullyu in the Doctor Dolittle book Pops read to me when I was a kid. Half of me worried about Pops's health while the other half wished to avoid further confrontation with him.

“Could I come to church with you?” I assumed Lizzie wouldn't disappear during the night, not in this weather. “Do you have room in your buggy for everyone?”

“Armin can drive you.” She turned to him. “Can you do that for our Sally?”

Armin looked ill at ease, his lower lip tightened. “Yah, I can, even if it means running into my brother.”

“Can't you just sit on the other side of the church?” I asked.

“Nee, the men sit on one side, the women on the other.” Rhoda gestured with her hands. “Sally, you may sit with Lizzie.”

“But I can't go to church dressed like this.” I glanced down at my sweats.

“We'll lend you a dress, a long wool coat, and a wool bonnet to cover your head. You'll need it tomorrow. Even if the snow lets up, it'll be a mighty cold ride.”

Armin crossed his arms. “I don't think this is such a good idea. No telling what the bishop might do. Your family has troubles enough.”

 

CHAPTER 20

The next morning by seven, I felt as trussed up as a turkey on Thanksgiving, including the long straight pins fastening the back of Rhoda's sapphire-blue dress—as if holding in my stuffing. I also wore a delicate white apron that reminded me of Alice in Wonderland.

How had I allowed Rhoda to talk me into wearing an Amish outfit? Because Lizzie's waist was two inches slimmer than mine, I borrowed a dress and apron from Rhoda, who'd said the dress was too small for her—still on the loose side for me but at least I could breathe. If I wanted to go unnoticed, I'd better don a white prayer cap, Lizzie had informed me. My fault for voicing my concerns about staying home all day with Pops, who still hadn't gotten up. Maybe he'd slept even more fitfully than I had. Or maybe his kidneys had given out, and he'd never wake up again.

A pitchfork seemed to stab into my belly as I considered the possibility, but I dismissed the gruesome image and reminded myself it was time for tough love. I had to get him to agree to see a doctor.

Grandma Leah and Grandpa Leonard opted to stay home and care for him. The poor things; they were clinging on to every moment of seeing their wayward son. I took comfort from it, knowing I wasn't leaving him completely without care.

Shivering in Armin's open buggy fifteen minutes later, I pulled the black wool bonnet down over my ears and held the coat's collar around my neck. Today, the azure-blue sky was as vast as an ocean and hard as polished chrome. The snow from last night—a couple inches—was pristine, cloaking the blemishes of the earth. The sun's intensity reflecting off the snow made me squint. I reached into my purse and found sunglasses, then slid them back away. I hoped I wouldn't stand out too much; I wanted to fade into the woodwork, be anonymous.

“I'll tell everyone you're my cousin visiting from far away,” Lizzie called to me as she hurried to the family carriage. “They might think your bishop allows you to wear your hair this away.”

She was referring to the fact that I hadn't parted my hair exactly down the center as instructed. But I'd slicked back my bangs, gathered my disorderly locks with a rubber band, and tucked the ends up under the cap. My hair had been such a mess this morning; it needed taming.

Armin climbed into the open buggy, his weight making the rig shift. I couldn't help noticing how good-looking Armin was in his black felt hat and black coat. His boots were polished and he was cleanly shaved. I bet every eligible woman at church would flirt with him. None of my concern, I told myself, but I wondered how he'd escaped matrimony so long.

Minutes later, Reuben drove his covered buggy, carrying Rhoda, Jeremy, Peter, and Lizzie, out of the barnyard, and Armin followed. Thunder wasn't as feisty on the icy ground. I guessed the temperature to be in the mid-thirties. We followed Reuben's buggy for ten minutes to a three-story home standing beside a barn and several outbuildings, their roofs white. Dozens of carriages—carbon copies of Reuben's—were parked outside. Young men in their teens, about Peter's age, unhitched the horses and led them into the barn.

“You're having church here?” I craned my neck and expected to see a spire.

“Yah, in a home with all the wall partitions removed,” Armin said. “Unless it's got a sizable basement. Rhoda and Reuben's house is built that away—most of the walls on the first floor come down. Every family is expected to host church service at least once a year. During the warmer months and depending on the size of the home, we often meet in barns.”

Ahead, women in black winter coats stood clustered, waiting to enter. I was grateful Rhoda had lent me old-fashioned black leather ankle boots or my feet would've been freezing in the snow. More buggies arrived, mostly driven by bearded men and teeming with children who jumped out and threw snowballs at each other in spite of their parents' admonitions. It was a frolicsome, riotous scene that brought me back to my youth—the sound of their exuberant laughter, their quick movements, all refreshing and endearing.

Oh, I longed for a child of my own, more than I'd realized.

A covered carriage rolled up and I recognized the bishop—his features and copious graying beard were embedded in my brain. As he got out and walked to the front door, the sea of people seemed to part, and several men tailed him inside, followed by the rest of the males, including Reuben and Armin, then Jeremy and Peter.

“Don't ya worry about a thing.” Lizzie slipped her hand through the crook of my elbow. She greeted several young women, who spoke to her in Pennsylvania Dutch.
“Gut Mariye,”
she said to them. I could make out a few words: she was telling them she'd brought her cousin. I smiled and bobbed my head. I figured the longer I kept my mouth shut the better.

The bishop's wife passed by and bestowed a brisk nod upon me. I waited for her to call me an imposter, but she moved on. I wondered if she knew about Lizzie's escapades. Lizzie had stood at the side of the road with Joe last night for all the world to see—or at least this little neck of the woods, anyway. And the bishop's wife had recognized Joe in the bookstore.

“Time to go in.” Lizzie bumped me with her arm. “No worries; I'll show ya how to act,” she told me as we proceeded to the house. “Do everything I do. When we sing—I'll warn you, it's going to move at the speed of a tortoise—you can mouth the words or hum. No one will notice the difference.”

But her statement didn't ring true: every Amish woman who glanced my way gave me a wide-eyed look of doubt. And the older women weren't smiling fondly upon Lizzie, although one or two greeted her. I decided that what they thought of me was the least of my troubles. It would be comforting to sit among strangers who knew nothing of me or my nebulous history. Unless they'd heard about me from the bishop's wife.

Once inside the house, after the men had entered, my nostrils were met with the smell of pine oil. This home was immaculately clean and tidy, and rows of backless wooden benches stood in an orderly fashion, filling every inch. Lizzie explained that the benches belonged to the district; they'd been delivered and set up yesterday, as they were every other week and at weddings. The women found seats on the opposite side from the men. Children of all ages, including infants, sat mostly with the women, but a few men held or corralled toddlers. I scanned the room and found Armin—my, he had wide shoulders and good posture—beside Reuben. On Armin's other side sat a tall, bearded man with the same espresso-brown hair as Armin's. Armin seemed to be leaning away from the man, who spoke soberly into his ear.

Armin rotated his head; his eyes scanned the women until he found me. His gaze focused intently on my face and the corners of his mouth lifted. I felt a tingling rush in my chest, like when I drank bubbling 7UP too quickly. I smiled back at him—I couldn't resist. But then I wondered if he found the sight of me, dressed Amish, comical: no makeup, hair hidden under a cap. I hoped not. But then his gaze—like a jolt of electricity—told me he appreciated what he saw.

The other man, seated next to him, seemed to notice Armin and his stare zoomed in on me too. For several moments, both men watched me. I wiped the grin off my face. The other man spoke to Armin soberly, then the man's face lit up as he nodded to a woman sitting somewhere in front of me.

“Who's the guy by Armin?” I asked Lizzie in a subdued voice.

“His older brother, Nathaniel. His wife and mother-in-law are a couple rows in front of us.”

I saw the woman she was referring to: nice looking and a few years Rhoda's senior, making her late fifties, sitting by a wrinkly faced oldster who had her neck craned and was inspecting me through thick glasses. When she saw me eyeing her, her mouth bunched together.

“Ach, 'tis a long story.” Lizzie tipped her head toward me. “Nathaniel was a widower for many years until he re-met Esther, whose daughter moved here from the other side of the country. The family was hoping Esther's daughter would join the church and settle down with Armin, but she wed a Mennonite, Zach Fleming, our veterinarian.”

Several bearded men and Bishop Troyer climbed the home's wooden staircase to the second floor. Lizzie explained the ministers were going upstairs to pray and plan the service while we sang. They didn't even have a sermon in mind? Our pastor back home had mentioned that he prayed, pondered scripture and his sermon all week in preparation.

Hymnbooks appeared and people opened them, but only a few of the adults in the congregation of about two hundred seemed to glance at the words. Lizzie opened a hymnbook and handed it to me. Amid the rustling, a man's baritone voice started a German hymn, then everyone joined in. A cappella: no musical instruments. The song moved slowly, like a rolling ocean wave on a calm day, cresting and falling in a lethargic, comforting manner, the voices blending together, vibrating in my ears and touching me somewhere deep inside. I recalled Pops singing Christmas carols in German and now it made sense. Also why he was so set on my studying German in high school and college. As I picked up some of the lyrics, I felt myself healing from within.