The Judgment (15 page)

But who?

It was hard to watch such a bright young man choose to go his own way . . . making the gathering of riches an imperative. Not caring whom he stepped on or hollered at as he worked so hard to get where he was bent on going.

Pausing to pull out his old pocket watch, Solomon saw that it was time to check on Emma again. With her growing weakness and her pain taking its terrible toll, he wondered if she would even make it to Christmas.

Shivering with dread, he quickened his pace toward the house.
Will I greet the New Year as a widower?

Rose and Barbara stood just on the threshold of Nick’s bedroom.
Is she nervous about what might be found?
Rose wondered, feeling awkward about stepping foot into her dear friend’s private space.

They looked around. The bed was still made and the dresser cleared of everything but a man’s hairbrush and a homespun doily Barbara had no doubt crocheted.

“I’ll go and get some boxes for any giveaways,” Barbara said, leaving the room just that quick.

Rose went to stand at the window. She looked west toward her father’s house and realized Nick had had a clear view of her own distant windows from this vantage point. She was glad she’d never told anyone how close they’d been through the years. Not even Hen knew about the sunny afternoon they’d spent in the ravine by the creek. Try as she might, she could not erase Nick’s startling words from her mind:
“I know you better than anyone. . . . I loved ya first. . . .”

Turning, she stared at the wooden pegs mounted to the wall, where Nick’s dark work shirts still hung, and his black Sunday trousers, vest, and frock coat. “You had it so
gut
here, growin’ up under the bishop’s roof,” she whispered. “Did ya ever stop to think that, Nick?”

And now you might be homeless,
she thought sadly.

Sighing, she remembered the first week Nick had lived here. Mammi Sylvia had declared right off that he was but
“a scamp of a lad.”
Christian had muttered a derogatory remark about his smelling like the devil, even saying he wondered why his father had picked such a runt to help with farm chores. Rose had caught Christian mocking Nick to his sister Verna in the barnyard as Rose came through the meadow on her way to the milk house to get some fresh cream. But she’d always heard from Dat and Mamm that the bishop had chosen Nick precisely
because
he was the most needy of all the available foster children.

Even then, Christian thought little of Nick. . . .

Staring at the large braided rug near the bed, she heard Barbara’s footsteps and turned to face the door.

“Here we are.” Barbara was carrying two large boxes. “This should do it.”

They began with the drawers filled with his pajamas. Barbara emptied the drawer of underwear and socks. At one point, Barbara sniffled loudly, tears welling up. Rose knew it was best not to comment about it, lest the bishop’s wife struggle even more.

How would Nick feel if he knew I was doing this?

After only a few minutes, they were nearly finished. Rose turned to look at Nick’s Sunday clothes on the wooden pegs. She was about to ask if Barbara had someone in mind for those when Levi, the Petersheims’ oldest son-in-law, called up the stairs to Barbara. He was saying something about a neighboring bishop having just stopped by.

Promptly, Barbara excused herself. “I’ll be right back, dear,” she said.

Barbara’s footsteps were hurried on the stairs, and there was the sound of several more male voices in the kitchen below. Rose began to work on the bed, removing the quilts, blanket, and sheets from the mattress. Taking off the cotton mattress pad, she raised the box spring and spotted something drop to the floor beneath.

Rose got down on her hands and knees and stretched to reach for what looked to be a snapshot. She held it up to the light—it was indeed a photograph, torn down the middle, the ragged line falling between a young man and woman. Discoloration indicated the rip had been taped back up some time ago.

Rose suddenly felt shy, as if trespassing on Nick’s personal belongings. Yet she peered into the faces of a dark-headed teenage boy holding hands with a blond girl. Glory be, the boy’s resemblance to Nick at age sixteen or seventeen was downright uncanny. She held the picture closer to make sure it wasn’t him.

Then, turning the picture over, she searched the back for an indication of who this couple might be—but found nothing.

Flipping back to the front, she studied the attractive girl, whose eyes were very much like Nick’s.
Could it be his mother . . . and father, before they married?

The room seemed to close in on her in that moment. She was so taken by the old picture that her hand trembled as she crept into the hallway and listened for Barbara and Levi and the others, but she heard only silence and assumed they’d gone outdoors.

Why would Nick leave this behind?

Surely, Rose assumed, he’d forgotten to take it along.
In his haste.

The minute Rose returned from Petersheims’, Hen planned to take Mattie Sue to see Brandon, despite her protestations yesterday. She should’ve done it before now, but knowing how busy her husband was, she’d put it off. Plus, she had hoped to have him visit them here, just as she’d suggested the day of her packing and leaving. But now she felt bad about keeping Mattie from her daddy. For as long as she could remember, from their first date until now, Hen had felt guilty for some reason when it came to Brandon. Only the reasons had changed.

Before Hen left, though, she wanted to finish cleaning the little Dawdi Haus, as well as prepare food for the Lord’s Day tomorrow. Since her grandmother and mother adhered to the Old Ways of not cooking on Sunday, Hen did the same while living here.
No boisterous play, sewing, cooking, or cleaning . . .

She finished redding up Mattie Sue’s bedroom, then dusted her own room. While rearranging several things on the dresser, her eyes caught the pretty ring holder. How glad she was to have it here, where it could be useful, instead of stuck in a drawer at the house. Since returning to Amish country, she’d stopped wearing her birthstone ring, a brilliant red garnet. Brandon had surprised her with the gift the second year of their marriage, on her twenty-third birthday. Touching the red ring and ring holder now, Hen sighed, then turned to gather up the colorful handmade rag rugs, taking them downstairs to beat on the white porch banister outside.

She noticed several gray buggies parked diagonally at the bishop’s and wondered if his sons-in-law had dropped by. But then she saw a circle of men all in black—unquestionably the ministerial brethren.

What’s happening?

She hoped no one had been hurt, or worse still. Christian’s death had shaken her in many ways, but she hadn’t grasped until recently just how angry she was at Nick Franco—such a troublemaker. To think he’d caused his own brother’s death!

Hen returned indoors. It was wrong to harbor such resentment, yet she had never understood why she’d had such difficulty with Nick. Was it because he reminded her of her own rebellion, late in her teen years? Or was it that she viewed Rose Ann as the flip side of herself—pure and innocent—and had always worried Nick’s friendship with her sister might somehow taint Rose?

Inside, Hen ran the wet mop over the wooden plank floor both up and downstairs, wanting to do a quick yet thorough job. The small space she and Mattie Sue lived in now was but half the size of Brandon’s and her home.
Will I ever live there again?
The thought crept up on her.

But it wasn’t the loss of that home she feared most. Hen worried that their love had faded, more rapidly than she’d thought possible. Brandon had not pursued her the way she’d expected, although at least in part because of his strong aversion to the Plain community.

And here I’ve grown reattached to it. . . .

She rinsed out the mop and hung it up to dry, then went to the main house to see if Rose had returned yet from Barbara’s, where Mammi Sylvia had indicated she’d gone for a short visit. The men in their black wide-brimmed hats, trousers, and coats lingered near the barn, and now it was obvious Bishop Aaron was the focus of their attention.

As Hen stepped into her mother’s kitchen, Dad closed the door to his and Mom’s bedroom behind him, his face pasty white. “Dad . . . is she—?”

“Not well at all.” He shuffled into the kitchen and sat forlornly at the head of the table. “Yet she refuses to see Old Eli . . . or any doctor.” He covered his face with his big, callused hands. “Even if one of them would agree to come to the house, well, she just won’t hear of it. I don’t know what to do. It’s like she’s giving up, and I’m not ready to let her.”

Hen moved closer and sat at her mother’s own spot at the table, absorbing his concern. They sat without speaking for a time. At last she said, “Dad, you’re right—we can’t let her waste away. It’s not right.”

He sighed like a wounded child. “Mamm believes her days are numbered. There’s nothing I can say to make her think otherwise.”

She’s always known her own mind.

The back door opened just then, and Beth and Mattie Sue wandered into the kitchen. Looking sheepish, Mattie Sue asked, “Can we have a cookie . . . or two?”

Hen said they could.

“This is so hard on your mother,” Dad said softly, returning to the subject at hand.

“Well, it’s hard on
you,
too, Dad
.”
She looked at him tenderly, wishing there was a way to lift the anxiety so evident on his countenance.

Beth neared the table, still wearing her jacket and hat. “When can I go in and see your mother again?” she asked Hen. Her eyes shone with expectation.

Hen looked to Dad for his decision.

“ ’ Tis best to leave her be now,” he said.

Beth just stood there. “She needs me,” she whispered.

Hen shook her head and encouraged Beth to go back to play with Mattie Sue. She didn’t want any more stress on her distraught father. Beth’s presence in the house was becoming a complication, although Hen hadn’t voiced this to Rose. “Run along now, honey,” Hen told her. It was strange talking to a young woman as if she were Mattie’s age.

Beth instantly looked sad, but she obediently stepped away from the table to join Mattie Sue, who’d removed her coat and hat and was setting up a game of checkers in the corner of the kitchen floor.

Dad turned to glance at them as the girls mumbled together, then back at Hen. “Were we too harsh with her?”

Hen didn’t think so. Sometimes it was necessary to be firm with an individual like Beth, who didn’t seem to comprehend what was being asked of her. “Not to worry, Dad. She’ll be fine.” Hen wished she could say the same about Mom, if only to cheer up her father. But she sadly feared it was the farthest thing from the truth.

Rose stood at the Petersheims’ back door and noticed several men walking with Levi, who waved to his mother-in-law. It appeared as if the ministers had had a meeting with Bishop Aaron over near the stable. But now they were all getting into their carriages, including Levi, who climbed into his market wagon parked farther down the lane.