Forever Amish (4 page)

His brown eyes held onto mine, and he said, “Hullo, Sally.” Then his stare glommed on to my ring and he seemed to lose interest, as if I'd turned invisible.

“Hi,” I said, but he stabbed his fork into a stalk of broccoli. Which was just as well; I was engaged and had no business flirting with a stranger, even if I were on the verge of a breakup. I had to smile as I envisioned Donald sitting at this table. What was I thinking? He'd refuse to enter the barnyard let alone the home.

“Armin could be living a couple doors down in a fine big house belonging to his Bruder Nathaniel,” Jeremy said. “If he'd just—”

Armin's eyes narrowed, and he set his napkin on the table as if ready to leave.

“Armin's welcome to stay with us as long as he likes,” Reuben said, not looking up from his plate. “He does twice the labor as my sons.” He nodded to Armin, who placed the napkin back in his lap and took a bite of pickled beets.

The older lady, Lizzie's granny, leaned forward. “What brings you this way, dear?” she asked me.

I contemplated describing Lizzie's barrage of emails but figured her father would be furious. He held not a shred of good humor on his craggy, bearded face.

“Someone seemed quite determined I should come,” I said, but the old woman didn't respond.

“
Grossmommy
can't hear very well,” Lizzie said, smearing a muffin with butter. But I had to wonder. My hunch was the old woman caught every word.

“Leah is my mother,” Rhoda said. “Sorry, I was so
verhoodled
when you arrived I clean forgot to introduce my parents properly. And this is my father, Leonard. We go by first names around here.”

From across the table, the aged gent who made me think of Rip Van Winkle said, “Gut ta meet ya.” I recognized the man's gravelly voice as one in the vocal ruckus only minutes ago, but he seemed tame enough now. Maybe I hadn't been the topic after all. Yet I couldn't shake my feeling of unease, like I was standing under the spotlight onstage of a Broadway flop, curtains about to swing close. No applause.

Except Rhoda and Lizzie seemed delighted to have me here, as if I were the guest of honor. Rhoda passed me strawberry jam, a similar red hue staining her cheeks—maybe from hurrying around the kitchen preparing this meal, then coming outside to fetch me.

I heard a jet—no, thunder—rumbling in the distance and was glad to be in a snug kitchen, even if an unconventional one. No need to worry about the lights going off; a gas lamp hung above the table and another, its base housed in a wooden cabinet, stood in the corner next to a rocking chair.

I sampled tasty items I'd never heard of before. According to Rhoda, all the preserves—beets, pickles, and a tasty relish called chow-chow—were jarred in this kitchen or at a neighbor's. I should get the recipes; Pops would love them. But not Donald. He'd described himself as having a discerning, sophisticated palate and boasted he'd never eaten at McDonald's.

“Down in our cellar, we had enough to last us through the winter and longer should we need it,” Leah said, wrinkles fanning around her eyes. “Until our garden and trees ripen this summer.” Aha, Lizzie's grandma could hear when she wanted to.

After I'd finished eating, Rhoda stood and motioned to a lattice-topped pie resting on a cooling rack on a side counter. “May I serve you blackberry pie or butterscotch pudding?” she asked me.

“Sounds delish, but I'm about to burst. I can't eat another bite.” I watched the others accept dessert. How did they manage to stay so trim? I thought about Pops, who'd dropped ten or twenty pounds over the last few months. He claimed nothing tasted good to him anymore. I'd looked up kidney disease online and found both weight loss and a nasty metallic taste were common symptoms. I recalled the old saying, “You can lead a horse to water but you can't make him drink.” More and more, Pops acted ornery.

I spoke to Rhoda. “I feel rude for asking, but I'd like to see my room when you're done eating.”

“Of course you would.” Rhoda folded her napkin and set it aside. “Let's get that out of the way right now, then you can rest easy knowing where you're gonna spend the night.”

“Before after-dinner prayer?” Reuben said in a harsh tone and rapped his fork's handle on the table.

“We can pray when we get back,” Rhoda said.

“You pray twice?” I had to wonder what they'd pray about. I should be concentrating my prayers on Pops's health. Why did he have to become sick, of all people? He'd centered his life on raising me, tried to be two parents in one.

“Yah,” she said. “It never hurts to thank the Lord too often.” She got to her feet, then spoke to Lizzie. “In the meantime, offer the men more dessert and then start cleaning up.”

“I was planning to.” A pout formed on Lizzie's lips. “I did last night, didn't I? And this morning I helped with breakfast. And brought in the eggs.”

“Doesn't make up for your bein' gone most of the time, hurrying off to that store or tending to Nathaniel's vacant house.” Reuben let out another belch.

“Glad ya liked the meal,” Rhoda said to Reuben. Guess I wouldn't give Pops such a bad time about his less-than-stellar table manners in the future.

“This way, Sally.” Rhoda led me out of the kitchen and across the living room's wooden floor, past a couch, a low coffee table, a recliner, and an assortment of other chairs. Embers glowed in a stone fireplace. She stopped for a moment to toss in a chunk of split timber, then led me up a steep, uncarpeted staircase. The temperature dropped as we ascended. I couldn't rid myself of the prickly feeling I shouldn't be here. But a rumbling storm was brewing closer. I heard rain rattling against windowpanes and branches scritching the side of the house.

Rhoda tipped her head to the first door on the right. “This is our Lizzie's bedroom.” She continued a few yards and opened the second door. “Here ya go.” She lit a lamp with a Bic lighter, illuminating a double bed covered with a vibrantly hued quilt. The buttermilk-yellow walls looked recently scrubbed. An unadorned bureau, a straight-backed chair, wooden pegs on the wall, and a small closet with a couple hangers. Sparse but clean. Not so bad.

“The bathroom's across the hall,” she said, snagging my attention. “Recently installed, so now we have two.”

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.”

“You're more than welcome. We're glad you're here.”

What was the catch? Nothing came without a price—as Pops would say. I didn't carry much cash.

“How much does the room usually cost?” I asked.

“Nothing for you to worry about, Sally. You're our guest.”

“Thanks. That's generous of you.” I'd be gone in the morning anyway. First thing.

 

CHAPTER 5

Rhoda moved to the bed and folded the quilt's corner down to expose white sheets with a sweet fresh-off-the-line fragrance. She fluffed the pillows, a welcoming invitation to burrow into dreamland. Exhaustion blanketed me, but I couldn't go to bed yet. The battery-operated clock on the bureau informed me the time was only seven thirty.

“I thought it was later.” I stifled a yawn.

“Seems that way tonight to me, too. Reuben and I usually turn in early, but our schedule's off.” She let out a weary sigh. “I got a late start preparing dinner. We had a couple of unexpected visitors. First a Mennonite neighbor we often hire to drive us and then our bishop. Perhaps you'll meet them while you're here.”

“I might have run into the bishop already.” I recalled the man's piercing glare.

“Ya met him?”

“Not exactly.” My throat tightened at the thought of seeing him up close, then I assured myself he wouldn't recognize me—unless he spotted the Mustang. “We passed him on the road.” No need to reveal the hair-raising circumstance.

A flash of lightning brightened the bedroom, casting stark shadows. Thunder snapped like a lion tamer's whip slashing the air. My skin prickled. Electrical storms often clambered through New Milford, but I'd never felt so exposed, as if standing on a golf course toting a metal club. Did Amish erect lightning rods? I was afraid to ask for fear the answer would be no. Between the brewing storm and the bickering family, I'd suffer from nightmares all night.

“Did ya bring luggage?” Rhoda asked, corralling my thoughts.

“Yes, a small carry-on—still in my trunk, unfortunately.” Rain pelted against the bedroom windows. “I'll wait until the storm lets up so I don't get soaked.”

“Nee, we'll send one of the men to fetch it.” Her gaze searched my face. “Come downstairs and have hot apple cider or
Kaffi
—coffee. If the pie doesn't suit you, I made snickerdoodles and peanut butter cookies this afternoon.”

When had I met a more gracious woman?

Thoughts of my mom permeated my mind—as they often did. As a little girl, I'd been headstrong and sassy, according to Pops. Had I whined and scared Mom away? She'd left when I'd turned one. The image of a brunette in a flowered apron coagulated in my brain; she'd stood in our basement where Pops and I stored canned food and extras. Was I remembering a neighbor? An elementary teacher? I owned no photograph of my mother. Had Pops burned them or ripped them to shreds? I only knew her first name: Mavis.

Well, I refused to allow the woman who'd deserted me like rotten week-old sardines disrupt my day. I had enough worries.

“A cookie sounds yummy.” I gave my stomach a pat, glad I was wearing jeans with a bit of stretch in them. “Lizzie was right about your cooking. Dinner was delicious.”

“Thank you, but every woman in the county cooks as well. It's the least we can do for the men who work hard all day. And to feed our guests, like you.”

She was humble too. I wondered if Lizzie appreciated her good fortune. They shared the same oval face, high forehead, and pale skin, although Rhoda stood taller—my height plus a couple inches—but the two women owned opposite personalities. And Rhoda's movements were methodical and graceful while Lizzie flitted.

I didn't yet have a handle on the purpose of Lizzie's emails and was more mystified by her contacting me than ever. Tonight the occasion to pry the truth from her would present itself even if it meant knocking on her bedroom door at midnight.

I followed Rhoda into the long hallway and glanced to my right to see a polished wooden floor smelling of wax, several closed doors, no ornaments on the walls. “The size of your home makes my father's and my house look like a cottage,” I said, envisioning our weathered shingled saltbox: two stories in the front, a pitched roof to the one-story in the back of the house, a central chimney. “You get many lodgers staying with you?” I asked.

“Now and then. We need a big house to hold Sunday service once or twice a year. And maybe someday a wedding.”

“For Lizzie? She has a boyfriend?”

“Not that we know of. We pray if she has a beau he's one of us.” She shifted her weight, as if hesitating to descend to the first floor. I figured she was used to serving patrons, but she seemed anxious.

“Should we get back to the kitchen?” I asked.

“Yah. When he's done with his meal, Reuben reads Scripture to the family. Some evenings he works in his shop after supper, but as I said, we're behind on our schedule.”

I could hear Jeremy and Peter chuckling in the room below. Jeremy sounded like a full-grown man, but Peter's voice hadn't yet completely dropped to a man's octave.

“Lizzie and the boys often play board games. My
Kinner
—children—would enjoy it should you care to join them.” She moved to the top step. “And we have books checked out of the library if you prefer reading.”

“I'm a slowpoke. I'd never have time to finish a whole book.” I couldn't imagine what type of literature this family liked reading. About agriculture and milking cows? “Do you have magazines?” I asked.

“Yah,
Family Life
and
The Connection
, and a newspaper—
The Budget
.” Rhoda's eyes were much the same color as Lizzie's, a pale blue like faded denim. “You're welcome to stay two nights.” The corners of her mouth lifted. “Like I said, no charge.”

“You're kind, but I couldn't accept.” I wanted to ask why she was acting so charitably but didn't wish to be disrespectful. “Is there somewhere I could plug my cell phone in to recharge the battery?”

“Yah, but not in the house.”

“Oh, yeah.” I chided myself, recalling I hadn't seen electric appliances or lightbulbs. “I don't dare turn it off. My father's ill.”

Her hand wrapped the bottom of her throat. “Nothing serious, I hope.”

“Most likely his kidneys, although he's being stubborn and delaying treatment.” Why was I blathering? Not like me to reveal private information. But I figured Rhoda would never meet Pops.

“How long has he been ailing?” she asked.

“I'm not sure. A steady decline for a couple of years. He ignored his symptoms until I insisted he see his physician, who ran a battery of tests, then referred him to a specialist. Pops shrugged off his fatigue, swollen ankles and fingers, and lack of appetite as age related, but I've reminded him forty-eight isn't old.” I couldn't afford to lose another parent, I'd teased. But I wasn't joking. Since graduating from college—well, most of my life—I'd felt disconnected, even when at the car lot or showing and grooming my dogs. I needed him.

“I have a cousin who had kidney disease,” she said, moving closer. “He's doing fine again, working his farm.”

“That's wonderful. So far I've only heard about years of costly and timely dialysis followed by a transplant.”

Pops and I had reversed roles—when it came to his health, I was acting like the parent. Maybe my absence would spur him into taking action. I'd never known him to be so apathetic. Except when it came to my mom.

“And your mother?” Rhoda said, her voice strained. “Does she take gut care of him?”

My molars clamped and my chest sank, but I slogged along with the least offensive version of the truth. “Mom split when I was a one-year-old.” Always painful for me to admit: my mother didn't love or want me.

Rhoda took a quick breath, more a gasp. “Ya don't mean it.”

“You think I'd make something like that up?”

“No. I'm sorry, truly. I didn't mean anything.” She leaned against the wall.

“I'm the one who's sorry, Rhoda. I shouldn't be so defensive.” When would apathy be my first reaction?

“Did your father remarry?” she asked.

“No, he's single.”

“All those years, a single man. I'll keep both of you in my prayers, if ya don't mind.”

“Okay, if you like. His name's Ed Bingham.”

Sucking in her lips, she looked disappointed. It struck me as odd. Why would she care?

“Honest Ed, everyone calls him.” I fabricated my fake perky facade. “He owns a used car lot. No horses and buggies in Connecticut that I know of.”

“I see.” But I could detect confusion on her face, her gaze lowering to the floor.

Rhoda pivoted toward the staircase. “I must get back to Reuben,” she said. I tailed her down the steps.

Jeremy and Peter sat playing checkers in front of the fireplace—Jeremy on a couch, Peter on a chair, a low coffee table between them.

“Ya want to join us?” Jeremy said to me. “I'm beatin' the pants off my little brother.”

Peter coughed a laugh. “You are not, you braggart.”

“Maybe later,” I said. With nothing else to occupy my time, I wouldn't mind playing a board game.

I entered the kitchen and saw Lizzie bending to kiss her father's hairy cheek—evoking a toothy grin. “You're the best dat ever,” she said.

I expected the grouchy coot to swat her away, but his grin widened. Moving behind him, she draped her slender arms across his chest and gave him a hug. It appeared Lizzie's infectious good humor had rubbed off on Reuben. I shouldn't have felt a round of envy, but I did. Or was she conning all of us? I needed to keep up my guard.

“Yah, okay, you can work at the store tomorrow,” he said. “But don't think of workin' on Sunday or any other day after that, no matter what. I already have the bishop on my back.”

“Yah, for more things than one.”

He stiffened and she stepped away.

“Dat, the store isn't even open on Sundays.” She straightened her cap and tossed its strings over her shoulders. “No need to be
naerfich
about that or anything else.”

“I ain't nervous,” he said. She served him another wedge of blackberry pie. “Doesn't your Mrs. Martin have any Englisch girls working for her?” he asked.

“She did, but Peggy moved with her family to Maryland.” Lizzie let out a wistful sigh. “I'll miss her ever so much.”

“Ain't our problem your Mrs. Martin didn't think to hire a replacement.” He forked into the pie. “You did tell her you were quitting, didn't you?”

“Yah, but she didn't know she was going to fall off the stepping stool this morning and hurt her ankle, now, did she?”

I noticed Armin was gone, as was the sweet older couple, Rhoda's parents. Lizzie darted about the room gathering plates, flatware, and glasses, and slid them into sudsy water. My first impulse was to offer to help since I wasn't paying for my room.

As if hearing my thoughts, Rhoda said, “Sally, please have a seat and try one of my cookies, won't ya?” She steered me toward a rocking chair near a black, four-legged, cast-iron cook stove not in use.

“You have two stoves?” I said.

“I couldn't bear to give my Mudder's up when we replaced it with our new gas oven.” She stroked its cool surface. “We use it when cooking for large groups, like church service and work frolics and barn raisings. And it warms this room in winter.”

No central heating? Great, I'd freeze tonight. I noticed a stack of split wood sitting at its side.

“Kumm right here.” She straightened the cushioned seat.

As I lowered myself onto the rocker, I felt comforted and swathed in warmth, like a baby being lulled to sleep. My father and I didn't own a rocking chair. I should buy him one for his birthday, I decided. I set my purse at my feet and pushed myself into motion with my toes.

I wondered if Mom had cradled me in her arms when I was a newborn. My past was as blurry as fog hovering above a swamp. No memories of my parents hugging or kissing each other. But they'd had me. An act of love, or was I an accident conceived in the backseat of a car? Mom was out there somewhere—or had she died? Did Pops harbor a dream she'd return to us—as I did? And she'd love me, her darling, dearest daughter. Or had she birthed five other children and forgotten I existed? Why wouldn't Pops give me the real scoop?

Lizzie set a cup of coffee on a small table at my elbow.

“No, thanks. I don't dare drink caffeine before bedtime.” Especially tonight while my mind squirmed with troubling thoughts.

Lizzie removed the coffee cup and slurped down the brown liquid. “I'll make you herbal tea.” She flushed water into a kettle and placed it on the stovetop. “Mommy Leah's special blend for a good night's sleep.”

“Yah,” Rhoda said. She laid a peanut butter cookie atop a plate, on the small table. “My mamm drinks it every evening. You can stay put while Reuben reads the Bible, if you like, or come join us when we go in the living room. You're most welcome.”

I felt another sliver of jealousy as I watched Lizzie and Rhoda exchange loving glances. And Lizzie had grandparents practically living with them somewhere in this sprawling house. I'd never met my grandparents. I'd asked Pops about his folks, but he said they'd died years ago—which didn't explain why he never visited their graves. When I got home, I'd demand he tell me where the cemetery was; I should be more persistent.

“If you worked all day, you'd have no trouble with sleep,” Reuben said to me. He licked his fork, then bellowed out a yawn. “Jeremy and Peter, get in here and thank the Lord.” The two young men strode into the kitchen.

After a throaty noise, Reuben initiated a quick silent prayer. Rhoda, Lizzie, Jeremy, and Peter sat with him, their heads bowed. I had to wonder what was weighing on their minds, then reminded myself farming was an exhausting occupation. The wind and rain could be flattening their newly planted alfalfa or removing the chicken coop's roof.

When finished, Reuben aimed his voice at me again. “I'll be reading the Bible in German,” he said.

Was he trying to humiliate me? I smothered a chuckle. German was the one foreign language I halfway understood. Not that I wanted to listen to him pontificate.