Heritage of Lancaster County 03 The Reckoning (15 page)

"What if there was something we could do? What if l, her best friend, could do that something to bring her back to the fold?"

She felt him reach under the blankets and find her mit- tened hands, taking one of them in his own and bringing it out into the air. He held it against his heart. "Are ya askin' for special treatment for Samuel Lapp's daughter?"

Now was her chance; it might be her only one. Yet she didn't want to tie her acceptance of his marriage proposal to her request for leniency on Katie's behalf. 'Twas a ticklish situation, and she had to be mighty careful what she said. "I'm thinking of a way to admonish her.., instruct her, ya know."

"It was a harsh thing I did, not allowing the People to speak to her." He fell silent and let her hand go.

Quickly, she put it back under the lap robe, thankful that there was no real breeze to speak of tonight. "What if some of us could write her, speak to her in love about her rebellion?"

He wrapped his arms around her. "If this is what you wish, Mary, I will allow it."

She relaxed in his arms. "I want it more than almost anything."

"Then let it be so," he said. "I will lift the speech ban... because your heart is pure. And mine was filled with anger,

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wrongly so." His confession surprised her.

"Oh, thank you... John. Thank you ever so much!" They embraced, and she felt as if her worries were far behind her as he leaned down to kiss her cheek, then her

lips. "I do love ya, Mary," he whispered.

"And I love you."

With one arm around her, the other holding the reins, John drove through the night, her head on his strong shoulder. Ach, she was more than happy and could hardly wait to write and tell Katie the good news.

As for Rebecca, well . . . Katie's Mam would just have to wait and hear about this wonderful-gut turn of events at the membership meeting after Preachin' come Sunday. Jah, that was the best way.

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The hospice was especially quiet on Monday morning. Katherine had gone early, taking her guitar along, hoping to play soft music to entertain the patients as they ate their breakfast in the family-style eating area.

First, as was the procedure each time she came, she was given the update on all the inpatients. Two patients had passed away since her last visit, sadly enough. Willy, however, had remained the same.

When she asked permission to play, Natalie was thrilled with the idea. "Feel free to bring your guitar anytime you come, Katherine. Music is good therapy for the patients."

One of the nurse's aides took her back to the dining room and introduced her to the patients. "This is Katherine Mayfield, and she would like to play some breakfast music for you."

Some of the patients clapped, but most of them just smiled up at her. For a moment, she wondered if maybe this was the reason she had come to Canandaigua. Maybe this, in God's providence, had been the real purpose for her search so far from home.

Willy's eyes lit up when he saw her, and she played

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several old tunes from Hickory Hollow days, then got brave and actually sang along.

The boy's face beamed with approval and afterward he

asked about the songs. "How'd you learn to play like that?" "Oh, I had a little help, I guess you could say." "From your daddy, maybe?"

She chuckled. "No, my father didn't help me play music."

"Then who?"

"A good friend of mine."

A broad smile broke out on his face. "Your boyfriend, right?"

He had her, but she wouldn't admit it.

"What's his name?" Willy probed.

This conversation was going too far, too fast. But, looking into his curious eyes, she decided it wouldn't hurt to share a bit with the boy. "Dan. That was his nickname."

"What happened to your Dan? Did he help other people learn to play, too, besides you?"

She hadn't ever thought of that, really--had never wondered about it, come to think of it. "I don't know, .but maybe he did. Dan was like that . . . always enjoyed being around lots of people, eating and talking, and sometimes just being quiet with a good friend."

"I think you must've loved him," Willy said softly.

She was startled by the comment. But she wouldn't deceive this wonderful boy, this adorable child who was dying a little bit every day before her very eyes. "Yes, I loved Dan very much."

"Then why didn't you marry him?"

"He went away.., for a long, long time."

"Too long?" He stared at her, waiting for an answer. "Maybe so." It was surprising that she'd allowed herself to be pulled into such a conversation. But there was something innocent and sweet--trustworthy, too--about Willy.

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And each time she had come to visit, to cheer him with her presence, she was aware that he had encouraged her. Yet, sadly enough, his determined spirit, his will to live, seemed to be fading. She could see the light slowly going out of his eyes.

Today, though, while she played the guitar, she'd noticed a flicker of vitality in him. She hoped her eyes weren't playing tricks merely because she longed to see him improve, growing stronger instead of weaker. Natalie had suggested in passing that music possesses a healing power. She wondered if Dan had ever heard such a thing. Thinking about it now, she was startled that her former love had come to mind at all.

She remembered Dan's postscript at the end of the unexpected letter. He was still thinking of the guitar, it seemed, inquiring of it, pondering the past firm connection between them. Was their mutual love of music still weaving their lives together, like an ancient tapestry loom?

She glanced at her watch. "It's almost time for me to leave," she told Willy.

"Aw, do you have to go?"

"My ride is probably here." She didn't want to mention that she was a lady of means, that she had a private chauffeur who took her anywhere she pleased. None of that was important to her friendship with the boy. Or to any of the other precious patients in this secluded retreat, where they came to spend their last months, weeks, and days being nurtured and loved, even by volunteers who had more than just time to give.

"Before you go, can I hold your guitar?" Willy asked, trying to scoot forward on his chair.

"Sure." She positioned it carefully on his lap, steadying the instrument in his hands. "Would you like to pluck a string?"

He nodded his head up and down. "Wait'll I tell my

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brother... Josh will be so jealous."

Katherine put the pick in his right hand, pressed his thumb over it, and guided his hand to the middle string. The string hummed softly. "You have a nice touch, Willy James Lee," she said, grinning at him.

His face was filled with surprise and delight. "You remembered?"

"Of course I did. How could I forget such wonderful-gut names?"

"You think they're wonderful . . . really?"

She looked at him, his hair catching the light as it swirled in ringlets at the nape of his neck. And his sweet countenance. "You're wonderful, Willy," she replied.

He reached for her hand and clutched it. "I thinkyou are . . just plain Katherine."

They burst into laughter, although Willy had no idea why it was that she was so tickled at his comment.

Later she read to him from the Bible at his request and afterward recounted several of the many old tales from Rebecca's storytelling repertoire.

As she was preparing to leave he asked, "Do you think I could learn to play the way you do?"

"I don't see why not. I'll do my very best to teach you, all right?" Her heart was warmed by his reaction, and once again she saw the faint sparkle of energy in his eyes.

"Why are you so nice to me?" he surprised her by asking. "Well, I'd like to think I'm nice to just about everyone." "Everyone? Even Dan?" he asked without blinking.

She waved her hand at him. "I was always nice to Dan... yes."

On this day especially, it was difficult to say good-bye, and she wondered if this was what it might've been like having a little brother. An English brother with two middle names ....

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On the ride home, Katherine had a yearning for Theodore to drive her to the outskirts of town. "To see the landscape," she said, hoping to stumble upon Mr. Esler's farmhouse. She'd hired the Amishman to construct the quilt frame, and the day he delivered the pieces and put it together, he'd mentioned that his wife sold homemade preserves.

"Do you think we might be able to find the Eslers' pace, she asked Theodore.

"I'll certainly do my best." He pulled over, stopped the car, and took a map out of the glove box. "Where is it these folks live?"

She told him as best she could, from having heard Mr. Esler describe the rural location. Theodore pinpointed the spot on his map and folded it so the specific section was visible. Then, sitting tall and proper in his black overcoat and hat, he signaled for the left turn and pulled away from the shoulder and onto the highway.

They rode past several miles of sweeping fields, covered with snow, and she thought of the many times Samuel or her oldest brother, Elam, had taken her and Rebecca on sleigh rides down across the glen and up over the high meadows of Hickory Hollow. And there were several times, too, when she and Mary had taken the pony, Tobias--before she'd changed his name to Satin Boy--out on a snowy day, going from farm to farm, loading up the pung sleigh with schoolchildren.

She squeaked a chuckle in the back of her throat, realizing that they had never once missed school for bad weather while growing up in Lancaster County. Public schools often had to close due to drifted roads, but never Amish schools. Outsiders might scoff at the Old Ways, wondering why Plain folk didn't seem to care about "catching

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up" with modern technology, but when it came right down to it, the horse-drawn sleighs came out way ahead of the snowplows and the street crews during the worst of winters.

Katherine had to smile at her memories. Sentimental, perhaps, though she cared not to admit it to anyone who knew her here in New York. Not when she had every possible convenience at her disposal. Fancy and modern.

When they arrived at the Amish farmhouse, she instructed Theodore to pull in to the barnyard. The layout of house, barn, and sheds seemed all too familiar, and for a moment she wondered if these folk might be related to some of her own Plain relatives.

"I won't be long." She reached for the door handle before Theodore could jump out of the driver's seat and come around to assist her.

"Katherine, please, let me help," Theodore argued.

"No ... no, I'm perfectly fine." But she thanked him, nevertheless.

A sign that read "Tourists Are Welcome" invited her to ring the bell at the back door, connected to a screened-in porch just off the kitchen area, similar to the long utility room she was accustomed to in Hickory Hollow.

The plump woman who came to the door and greeted her reminded her of the old Wise Woman, only about forty years or so younger and maybe the same number of pounds heavier. She was rosy-cheeked and smiling, wearing a long blue dress and a black pinafore-style apron over it. The veiled head covering was only a slight bit different--a few less pleats sewn in--but otherwise, the woman might've been part of Katherine's former church district in the Hol-

"I'd like to buy some jellies," she said politely, trying not to gawk, for she was keenly aware of how it felt to be stared at, up one side and down the other.

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"Kumm mit," the woman said, sporting a cheery smile and inviting Katherine inside.

The kitchen was large with a checkered pattern on the linoleum floor, a black woodstove in the corner, and a trestle table surrounded by long wooden benches. The room was very much like the one she'd grown up in--baking, cooking, and canning with Rebecca and, oftentimes, with many other women from the community. A scenic calendar hanging from a door that surely led to a cold cellar caught her eye. She felt a rush of overwhelming feelings. Mixed emotions, true. Yet a surprisingly strong tug that she could not deny.

"Do you make strawberry rhubarb jam?" One of her favorites. "And apple butter, too?"

"Jab, I have plenty of those on hand. How many jars do you want?"

She had to stop and think. "Oh, I'd say three of each. That'll be enough for now."

The portly woman scurried over to a corner cupboard there in the kitchen and opened it to reveal fifty or more jars of preserves. She counted them out, placing them in a sturdy brown produce bag, similar to the ones Rebecca gave to summer tourists who purchased her delicious fruit preserves and jellies.

"Thank you ever so much," Katherine said, taking a fifty- dollar bill out of her wallet.

"Oh, goodness me. Don't ya wanna write me a checkin- stead?"

"No... is cash all right?" she asked, fearful of offending with her show of wealth.

The woman grinned. "Ach, you'd be awful surprised how many folk ask to pay with check. Never seem to have much cash, them locals."

She remembered, all right. "Well, have a nice day." Then, before she left--"Go ahead and keep the change."

"Oh my, no... wouldn't think of it."

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"Well, just remember all those customers' checks that never cleared the bank," Katherine said, observing the sudden odd expression on the woman's face.

"How would you know about such as that?"

Katherine touched the woman's elbow. "Please... just save it for a rainy day." And with that, she left.

The drive home wasn't half as exciting, although she told Theodore all about the Amishwoman and her reaction to getting the extra money for her jellies.

"Sounds as if some folk take advantage of the gentle peo-

ple," he said, referring to the Amish.

"Sadly, they do."

"It's troubling, to say the least. Why aren't people more considerate of each other?"

Her feelings exactly. But she was no longer thinking of the many cheap tourists roaming about. Her thoughts were on the most considerate person she had ever known. Mary Stoltzfus.

She longed to hear from Mary, though if she'd had better sense, she might've guessed that her friend wouldn't risk her good standing in the community to write a reply to a letter written by a stranger. Maybe Katherine herself should've written directly. But, no, if that had been the right thing to do, she would have done it in the first place.