Rebecca's Return (7 page)

Rachel hurried through her supper preparations, already behind schedule, pondering the situation. It came to her rather quickly. Her mind sized up the offered thought. It was perfect. She moved even faster now that she knew the solution. Endued as if with holy zeal, she believed the letter’s contents were no longer about lowly concerns of money. She was laying her hands on information regarding the lofty laws of the church. She knew the money itself was as dirt in the eyes of her husband, not worthy of mention in the hallowed halls of his sanctified mind. But the law of the church—well, that was something Reuben wouldn’t be able to ignore.

Was Reuben, as deacon, not charged with their enforcement and held accountable for holding their place? Did not the wheels of his buggy travel miles on many a Saturday afternoon and evening, all while there were duties to be done on the farm? Didn’t Reuben take his duty seriously to seek out those who strayed—rebuking, calling, exhorting them back to the fold? For once, what had been a chafing in her life turned into pleasantness.

How like God,
she thought,
to supply a way of escape in time of trouble.
She, who desperately needed to find sin in the church, was married to a deacon.

Rachel sat the finished salad on the counter, hope swirling in her for the first time since reading the letter Luke had brought home. Maybe this would be easier than she had figured. Reuben—who would have thought it—was now her best hope.

What to do with the letter though? Should I keep it? Do I need it now? Why not just mail it as Luke wanted and do away with the risk?

Pondering the option, Rachel wanted to be certain. What was right or wrong did not enter her calculations, only what was best for her. She would keep the letter, she decided. Emma would think the letter got lost in the mail. Never being the wiser for it, this might buy some time before the lawyer began his work.

After going to the basement, she returned with cans of beef and corn, the corn from the summer prior, the beef from a steer they raised on the farm and butchered that fall. Tonight’s supper would be simple. The salad was made, but there would be no dessert. They would survive.

By the time Luke came in, with Reuben not far behind him, everything was ready. The beef was steaming in its own juice, and the corn was hot. Luke said nothing as he came in from the utility room, leaving his shoes as well as his boots outside. She saw his eyes searching for the letter.
Surely the boy didn’t expect to find the letter in plain sight. Does he think I’m stupid?

“Supper ready?” Reuben asked, not waiting for an answer as he went to wash up. Rachel didn’t respond as the steaming items on the table were an obvious answer. Luke, drying his hands on a towel, tried his best to look comfortable and then found his usual place at the table.

“No dessert?” Reuben asked, pulling out his chair, scraping the legs on the hardwood floor as he sat down.

“Not tonight,” Rachel stated simply. “I’ll make—oh, maybe pies for Sunday. Did you fix the water pipe?”

“I’ll dig it up,” Reuben said, “maybe tomorrow. At least the hardware store had the parts. You never know nowadays. Stores don’t like to keep things in stock.”

“Isn’t it a bad leak?” Rachel asked, seeing Reuben stiffen.
Probably expecting me to badger him.

“Let’s pray,” Reuben said quickly.

Trying to put off the lecture,
she thought as they bowed their heads.

Reuben led out in a German prayer. Rarely did he pray in silence anymore. Rachel figured this came from knowing many of the German prayers by heart because he read them in church so many times. That Reuben might like the words or their meaning had not occurred to her. This frequent, out loud praying had not been practiced in their early years of marriage. It began soon after the deacon ordination and so was only explainable in her mind as driven by the ego of his office.

Reuben lifted his head from prayer, letting that be his answer for now, she figured, since what else was there to say. The water line was not dug out, and Reuben sure wasn’t going back out in the dark to do it.

“It’ll wait—I suppose,” Rachel said. “Luke might be able to help you in the morning.”

“I suppose,” Reuben allowed. He took the spoon and helped himself to a generous portion of meat before passing the bowl on to Luke.

C
HAPTER
N
INE

J
ohn pushed himself away from the table, his plate scraped clean of his mother’s Friday night tradition, meatball stew. It came from a recipe that had been in the family for years.

Dessert was Pennsylvania-style Hustle Cake. It must have been baked today because John had not seen it last night. He looked at the cake’s appealing freshness, contemplating a large piece.

“
Goot essas
as usual,” John’s father, Isaac Miller, commented to no one in particular.

Miriam only nodded her head, not expecting anything less from herself or more from Isaac. After all these years, her husband didn’t always voice his thoughts, but they knew each other’s roles at suppertime. She, her good cooking, and he, that it was to be enjoyed.

To Isaac bad cooking was only a faint and rare memory from his 1-W service in the late sixties. Before and since then, he had been surrounded by his mother’s and now his wife’s excellent touch in the kitchen.

Age had left his body round in the middle, the work in his harness shop not supplying much physical exercise. His forceful Sunday sermons, which he had been delivering since his ordination in his early thirties, were his only form of exercise.

Isaac’s weight worried Miriam, although why she didn’t worry about her own tendencies in that direction was not certain. It could have been that Miriam’s family had little history of heart trouble, while Isaac’s did. To be left alone, to spend her remaining years without Isaac, was often on her mind.

“Go easy on the cake, Isaac,” Miriam told him. “You’re getting older.”

“
Ach, du denkcht zu feel,
” he told her, smiling broadly. “The good Lord has many years for me yet. Don’t worry so much.”

“I can’t help it. Heart trouble runs in your family.”

“One little piece of cake won’t change that,” he allowed, cutting himself a generous portion.

“If that is a little one,” she said dryly, “what would a big one be like?”

“Big,” he said, still smiling.

“John at least knows better,” she retorted, glancing at the smaller piece John was transferring to his plate.

“He looks thin,” Isaac said, not looking at his son. “Underfed.”

“You should think about exercising,” she said. “The bishop just got himself a walking cane, so he can go out in the evenings. I think you ought to try it yourself.”

“That’s because he doesn’t preach as hard as I do. It’s easier for him. I have to work on my Sundays. Why preach and walk too?”

“So,” Miriam asked, “you think your preaching hard gets you special favor with
Da Hah?
”

“Well,” he said, as he cut a small piece of cake to fit his mouth and lifted it reverently upward. The spoon was steady, but the piece wobbled under its own weight, toppling back onto his plate.

“See,” she exclaimed gleefully, “even
Da Hah
thinks so. He’s on my side.”

“It just fell off,” he retorted, pretending indignation, getting the piece into his mouth on the second try, chewing it carefully, and savoring its sweetness.

“What’s wrong with you, John?” she asked, abruptly changing the subject, turning toward her son. “Your piece is so small—don’t like it?”

He shook his head. “No, it’s not that.”

“You don’t look well.” She studied him, placing her hand on his forehead.

He knew the familiar gesture, but wished his mother would stop it. He was a grown man now.

“You worried?” she asked.

“She hasn’t written,” John said, thinking that was explanation enough. “Or called,” he added, just in case it wasn’t.

“She’s fine, John,” his father told him, getting in on the conversation, the last of his cake heading toward his mouth. “Babies take time.”

John figured now was the time to tell his parents his news.

“I asked her a few weeks ago to marry me.”

“Oh?” was all his mother said.

“Said yes?” was Isaac’s response.

John nodded.

“It’s good you do have the eighty acres then.” Isaac pushed his plate away. “When will you start remodeling?”

“This summer maybe…” His parents’ confidence was disconcerting to him, making him certain his present fears were best left unsaid.

“She’s a nice girl,” Miriam added. “Always thought so. Good family too. Set a date yet?”

“Next spring—maybe.” John said it easily enough, even with how he was feeling.

“Our only boy,” Isaac commented, nostalgia in his voice. “Even they grow up.”

“Makes us all old,” Miriam said. “Exercising holds it off…a little at least.”

Isaac refused to take the bait. “So she’s not let you know when she’s coming back.”

John shook his head, not trusting the sound of his own voice. It was embarrassing how this girl was getting to him, and he wished not to show it. He should be confident and not so worried.

“It’s all the work,” Miriam said, as if reading his thoughts. “Rebecca had a lot of things to do. Women work hard when babies come.”

Isaac pretended to glare at her. “We men do nothing?”

“Scarce little—
afterward.
” She squinted her eyes at him.

“I did change a few diapers though,” he reminded her, unoffended.

“I suppose so,” she allowed. “So what should John do?”

“Ah. She’ll be around soon,” Isaac said, his voice reassuring.

The comfort did little for John.

Miriam must have noticed. “Have you thought of going over to her parents’ place?”

“Now?” he asked, trying to keep the feeling out of his voice.

“Well, why not?” She shrugged her shoulders. “They might know something.”

“Maybe she’s already home,” Isaac said, adding his opinion.

“How would that look?” John asked. “Home and not letting me know.”

John waited for Miriam’s response, trusting his mother more when it came to these matters. His father was a good preacher, holding the congregation spellbound with one of his Sunday morning stem-winders, but here his mother was the knowledgeable one.

“I think you should go and find out,” she said. “That is, if you have to know.”

Isaac, noting his son’s face, said with a grin, “Glad my time of courting is over.”

“Don’t want to do it again?” Miriam asked, pretending she wasn’t listening for his answer.

“Nope. You’re staying with me till the end.”

“
Da Hah
told you that too?”

“No,” he allowed, “I just need you.”

Miriam smiled at that.

John cleared his throat. “Maybe I’ll run over. It’s almost dark, but it’s still early.”

“Whatever you think,” Miriam told him, getting up to clear the table.

“I’ll go now,” John said and got up to leave.