The Fiddler (23 page)

“Did ya sleep well in this ol’ house?” Joanna asked while they set the table.

“Very well, thanks. How about you?”

Joanna smiled her answer. “Honestly, I had quite a lot on my mind, though . . . late into the night.”

“Perhaps your beau?” Amelia whispered.

Joanna’s eyes grew wide, and she shook her head. “Daresn’t say.”

Amelia carried the butter and jam for the toast to the table, interested to know more about Joanna’s boyfriend.

———

When the table was filled with people, Nate Kurtz bowed his head and silently gave thanks. It didn’t take long for everyone to eat the small portions of food—just enough to satisfy any hunger pangs before the larger breakfast later.

After washing her hands, Amelia followed Joanna out to the barn. When the heavy door was slid open, she smelled the aroma of straw and feed, and anticipated plenty of fresh, raw milk from the herd. She recalled what Michael had explained about the diesel-powered milking machines the Amish now used.

Joanna cautioned her to keep her distance. “The cows won’t give milk as readily if they sense a stranger near. They’re awful tetchy—all thirty-five of ’em.”

Amelia recalled her own grandfather’s concern on the rare occasion that a visitor was present during milking. Although not a stranger per se, Great Uncle Cleo, her grandfather’s oldest brother, sometimes stopped by during the morning milking. Cleo was known to mumble to himself while he carried milk in a bucket to the milk house, where he poured it into the large cooling tank. Amelia remembered her grandmother as being incredibly patient and kind to Cleo, who had served time in World War II and never recovered.

One by one, the cows began to stand up in their stalls, prodded by hunger and their swollen udders, which hung like enormous balloons between their legs.

Joanna pointed out the propane barn lights to Amelia—and the automatic barn cleaner with slats to remove the cow dung. “Is this anything like your grandparents’ milking parlor?” she asked.

“Not much.” Amelia shook her head. “And my grandparents always had a radio playing during milking. Papa said soft music, especially baroque, soothed the cows and helped them let down their milk.”

Joanna chuckled at that. “Maybe you could play a milkin’ serenade on your fiddle for the herd . . . jah?”

“You’re so funny.” She smiled.

Amelia hung back as Joanna crouched in her long dress beside the first cow. She sprayed each udder with a special solution that she said contained one percent iodine, then wiped it down with old newspaper, starting the twice-daily ritual while her married brothers did the same to the next cows.

Joanna’s father mixed the feed under one of the silos, glancing over at Amelia with Joanna. He nodded and gave a faint smile when he caught Amelia’s eye.

“How can I help?” Amelia asked.

Joanna looked at her father, who was pushing a wheelbarrow of feed their way. “Do ya really want to?”

Amelia nodded. “However you think’s best, of course. I don’t want to startle the herd.”

“Well, it’d be fun for you to give the calves their bottles. How ’bout that?”

“Perfect.” Amelia couldn’t help smiling. “I’ll feel like I’m nine all over again!”

———

After hanging out in the straw with the calves, Amelia was ready to get cleaned up. First, though, she went with Joanna to the end of the stanchions, where her friend showed her the lever to pull to open the tie rails that kept the cows inside their stalls.

She was glad when Joanna suggested she head in to shower and change clothes. Although Amelia had enjoyed the barn—all the smells and sounds—she was not as enamored with the whole process of milking as she had been as a little girl. That fascination was tucked into the past, along with the days when her grandparents were living.

By the time Joanna arrived inside, Amelia was ready to help start cooking. Evidently it would just be the two of them again, as Joanna’s mother had gone over to the Dawdi Haus to help her own mother make a hot breakfast.

Once Joanna had thoroughly scrubbed up, she prepared the batter for blueberry pancakes. Amelia agreed to create the egg mixture for the scrambled eggs, which included onions, ham, and milk.

“Ach, this is such fun,” Amelia teased, smiling over at Joanna, who worked across the counter.

“Next thing, you’ll be talkin’ Deitsch.”

“You yuscht never know,” Amelia replied.

Joanna giggled. “Do ya make a big breakfast every day back home?”

“Oh, now and then,” Amelia replied. “Most of the time, though, I have some fresh fruit and cereal or toast. It’s just me, you know.”

“You don’t stay with your parents?” Her eyes were suddenly wide. “You live . . . on your own?”

“I have for several years.”

Joanna frowned a little.

“Why? Do you consider it wrong?”

“Maybe not so much wrong, as . . .” Joanna stared at the large stainless steel bowl in front of her. “It’s just that an unmarried woman round here is expected to live with her parents, under her father’s roof, ya know.”

“The Amish way, no doubt,” Amelia said without thinking.

“It’s part of God’s covering over a single girl,” Joanna added, her eyes still fixed on the pancake batter.

So, if you live apart from your parents, God won’t look after you?
Amelia finished dicing the ham, then dropped it into the eggs. “I hear what you’re saying about the way you were raised. But do
you
honestly believe it’s wrong for a single woman to live alone?” She was curious, knowing Joanna interacted with Englishers at market and other places.

Joanna didn’t answer right away, which seemed to be a clue. “It’s not for me to say what you should or shouldn’t do, Amelia.” She glanced at the ceiling. “I’m not your judge. That position’s already taken.” She paused. “Hope you’re not upset.”

Amelia pushed her hair back. This most delightful Sunday morning didn’t have to be tarnished by a difference of opinion. There was no way on the planet she and an Amish girl could expect to see eye to eye, even about inconsequential matters. “We come from such different cultures,” Amelia said. Yet she appreciated Joanna’s willingness to share her opinions. Certainly her views reflected the life stream of Amish tradition.

“No hard feelings, then?” Joanna looked truly worried.

“Not at all.”

Relief registered on Joanna’s face—even her shoulders relaxed. “Ever so
gut.
” Joanna stopped her work and looked at Amelia. “Ya know, this might sound peculiar, but not long ago I prayed, askin’ God to send someone along to fill up the emptiness in the upstairs bedroom. Honestly, I did.”

“That’s amazing—and very nice to know.” Amelia meant it with all of her heart.

“I hope you’re having a refreshing time here.”

“Oh definitely!” Amelia reassured her. “Last night in bed, hearing the crickets and seeing the moon rise, I actually wished I could stay longer. . . .”

“Well, why not?” Joanna urged.

“Thanks . . . you’ve been such a wonderful hostess. But I really do need to drive back to Columbus tomorrow.”

“Well, I certainly mean it.”

Conscious of the sincerity in Joanna’s clear eyes, Amelia wondered if her new friend was so readily accepting of other Englishers . . . their foreign ways aside. Was it just Joanna’s friendly nature . . . or had Joanna been influenced by Michael?

A
melia followed Joanna’s lead and helped carry a platter of scrambled eggs with crisp bacon along the side, while Joanna brought over the equally large plate of stacked pancakes. Joanna’s brothers had returned to their own families for the morning, so it was only Amelia, Joanna, and her parents at the table for the more substantial second breakfast of the day.

After Nate offered the silent prayer, Joanna’s mother brought up the neighboring church district, saying they were having their Preaching service today. “The Amish youth from that district will be hosting a barn Singing at dusk,” Rhoda added.

Amelia had heard of such gatherings but had never had the opportunity to listen in on the unison voices.

But her first priority was to see Ella Mae Zook again. Something tugged at her heart when she thought about visiting the charming woman, and it was all Amelia could do
not
to tell Joanna what she had planned while they worked to clean up the kitchen.

The minute I’m free, I’ll head over to Ella Mae’s with my fiddle!

Lillianne happily gave her granddaughter the undivided attention she seemed to crave both before and after breakfast. Elizabeth told how very difficult her schoolwork had been and later mentioned her waitressing work and two other girls who shared the rent with her. It was as if the poor thing hadn’t had anyone to talk to all these months.

Elizabeth followed Lillianne around like a shadow, sitting smack-dab next to her during morning prayers and Bible reading. Lillianne hoped she would say something about wanting to visit her parents. Truth was, Lillianne worried that if Paul or Michael didn’t take her over there soon, Elizabeth’s apparent hesitation might cause even more strife in the family.
Jah, for sure and for certain.

Lillianne’s heart also ached for her husband as she observed how hard it was for Paul to get around, although he did not grumble. Each step had to be excruciating, and he’d nearly fallen in the night when he’d gotten up to use the bathroom. She just did not understand such stubbornness or resistance to seeing a doctor. He insisted he was fine with the makeshift crutch he’d created out of wood, with several old towels wrapped at the top for cushioning.

As for having her granddaughter back, Lillianne was mighty thankful after months of beseeching God for protection . . . and divine mercy. But despite her relief, she still could not get over how very strange her granddaughter looked, attired as she was in Amelia’s fancy getup. Lillianne feared Lizzie might not stick around for long.

———

Around midmorning, Michael left the house by way of the back door, heading off to parts unknown. If Lillianne wasn’t mistaken—seeing the glint in his eyes—their son was making his way even now over to Nate Kurtz’s place.
Where Amelia is staying.

And for how long?
Lillianne mused.

Elizabeth, too, had asked about the slender English girl even before breakfast, while the coffee was brewing. Sure seemed like Amelia’s name was buzzing round Hickory Hollow. And since she was ever so grateful Elizabeth was safely home . . . well, Lillianne couldn’t fault anyone for that, now, could she?

Michael set off for the Kurtz farm, hoping to visit with Amelia, this being an off-Sunday from church. He didn’t even think twice how it might look, his going to see the fiddler. Elizabeth had also hinted, after Amelia stopped by last evening with an outfit for her to wear, that she’d like to see her again.
“Wouldn’t you rather spend time with your parents?”
he’d asked her. Incredibly, Elizabeth simply stared back at him. What would he do if she pleaded with him to take her back to Harrisburg?