The Mercy (2 page)

A
brutal blizzard howled across Lancaster County in the night, dumping nearly a foot of snow on Salem Road and the surrounding farmland. The heavy snowfall quickly concealed the existing banks of crust and grime along the roadside. Icy ruts that ran between the stable and the barnyard were now hidden.

Rose Ann’s oldest brothers, Joshua and Enos, hurried into the house from the barn along with Dat as snowflakes flew thick early Friday morning. The brims of their black felt hats were nearly white as the men came inside for hot coffee, red-faced, their eyes alight at the aroma. Eagerly they warmed their big, callused hands around the cups, chattering in
Deitsch
about the upcoming Gordonville Spring Mud Sale.

Mamm sat primly in her wheelchair, wearing a green choring dress and long black apron, her brownish-blond hair pulled back into a perfect round bun at the nape of her neck. Her
Kapp
was perched on her head, the strings draped over her shoulders. From time to time, she gazed lovingly at Dat where he sat beside the gas lamp on this dreary day.

The winter solstice had brought with it exceptionally cold temperatures and plenty of snow, as foretold by the neighbors’ chickens, which last fall had shed their feathers from the front of their bodies before the rest. Corn husks had been mighty thick at the harvest, too, and Aaron and Barbara Petersheim reported spotting caterpillars that were inky-black at both ends last summer. All of that had indicated a severe start to the bleakest season.

Quite unexpectedly, a bolt of lightning crisscrossed the snowy backyard from the west, ripping through the bitter storm. The smell of sulfur instantly pervaded the atmosphere, making Rose tremble.
Ach, such a rare thing in the wintertime. Is it an omen?

“Did ya see that?” She rushed to the window.

The wind howled noisily, too loud for her to hear the rumble of thunder sure to follow.

“Never point at lightning,” Josh told her, a twinkle in his eyes as he came to stand beside her.

“That’s silly.” Rose stared through the tufts of snow that clung to the window, looking out into the swirling world of white.

Enos chuckled. “Most superstitions are just that.”

But nothing could have predicted what Rose saw while standing at the icy window, peering out in the direction of the lightning strike. It was the unmistakable plume of . . .

Could it be?

Smoke was rising from the roof of the woodshed. She squinted and frowned.
How can this be, in the middle of winter?

Then suddenly, as if in answer to her unspoken question, the shingles on the woodshed burst into flames. “Ach, boys! Dat . . . oh, hurry, Dat!” Rose waved at the flames, stumbling for words. “Fire!”

Josh and Enos grabbed their black winter hats and darted out the back door, not bothering to put on work coats or woolen scarves. Dat hurried along, too, instructing them to dump buckets of snow onto the flaming roof, although they already seemed to know what to do.

“Rosie,” Mamm called, her small voice high pitched. “Stay right here with me, won’t ya, dear?”

Quickly, Rose moved to her side and took hold of her trembling hand. “Thank goodness it wasn’t the barn.”

“Or the house,” Mamm added, eyes wide.

“
Jah,
’tis just the ol’ woodshed,” Rose said. “They’ll have it out in no time.”

“But the fire’s so high,” Mamm said. “How will they—”

“Don’t fret, now.” Rose bowed her head and folded her hands. In another moment she heard Mamm’s soft murmurings as she asked the Lord God and heavenly Father to protect her sons and husband.

Rose stayed right next to her mother. Just the thought of not being able to walk and being trapped near—or in—a fire gave Rose the shivers.

After she’d added her own silent prayer, Rose raised her head to watch her brothers and Dat form a small line to douse the woodshed roof with snow. Josh was up on the tall ladder, but Rose could tell by the look on Dat’s face that he was not fearful.

A dozen or more buckets were filled with the heavy snow and thrown onto the woodshed roof as the wind wailed and snow flew in all directions.

Rose and Mamm watched anxiously as the men dumped even more snow than was necessary on the now-smoking roof, just to be sure. Or perhaps, was it for fun?

Then, of all things, Enos threw a snowball at Joshua, who ducked, then leaned down and scooped a handful of snow as the boys laughed and carried on rambunctiously.

“Ach, such silliness.” Mamm gave a relieved sigh, her hands no longer shaking.

“Thank goodness the fire’s out.”

“Praise be,” Mamm said softly.

Rose moved the wheelchair away from the window. She observed her mother more closely.
Dear long-suffering Mamm.
It wouldn’t be much longer before she and Dat would travel over the Susquehanna River to York for Mamm’s back surgery. Only another thirteen days. Mamm seemed rather stoic about her situation as she counted the hours, hoping the constant pain from her buggy accident years ago could be alleviated soon. She had been given an epidural pain medication to decrease inflammation in the nerve endings, but the relief lasted mere days, so the doctor had dismissed such treatment as unsuccessful. In a case like Mamm’s, he said, surgery was warranted.

“Folks daresn’t ever use wood struck by lightning to build a barn or house, ya know,” Mamm said, a glint in her golden-brown eyes. “Lest that building be struck by lightning, too.”

Another superstition,
thought Rose, wondering about all the strange sayings she’d heard as a girl. Her sister, Hen, had mocked such Amish old wives’ tales in her teens. Now, however, Hen had come nearly full circle, realizing too late that there was more to the Old Ways than superstition. Her sister wished with all of her heart for her English husband to join church with her. Far as Rose could tell, that seemed downright hopeless.

As if sensing whom she was thinking about, Mamm asked how Brandon was feeling today. “Hen says he still can’t see a stitch.” Rose paraphrased her sister’s remark from earlier that morning, when Rose was over in the
Dawdi Haus
where her sister lived, helping make bread. The small house was attached to their father’s large home.

“Isn’t it odd?” Mamm replied. “Whoever heard of a man goin’ blind after a blow to the head?”

“According to the doctor, Brandon had some swelling in his brain.”
It is strange for the blindness to go on this long,
Rose thought.
But these are strange times. . . .

“You and Hen seem to be getting along nicely, ain’t?” Mamm said. “Like when you were girls.”

“Jah, I missed her something awful when she lived in town.”

Mamm dipped her head. “We all did.”

Rose told her Brandon was itching to talk to his business partner again. “Land development is booming, Hen says. And with Brandon still out of the office, he and his partner have discussed that they might have to hire someone to cover for him. Just till he can return to work.”

Till his sight returns . . .

A little frown crossed Mamm’s brow. “Surely that won’t be long.”

Rose wondered what would happen when Brandon could see well enough to drive a car once more . . . and to live on his own in the house he and Hen had once shared.
Separated again.
She shuddered.

“He must have cabin fever after all this time in the Dawdi Haus.” Mamm sighed. “I won’t stop prayin’ for him.”

“Might still be weeks yet,” Rose reminded her of the original doctor’s assessment. She stared outside and watched the snow continue to fall. “It’s surprising he’s not as outspoken against stayin’ here as Hen first thought.”

Mamm’s face brightened. “Could it be he’s getting accustomed to our ways?”

“Not to discourage ya, Mamm, but I doubt it. He seems pretty low, almost despairing. More so each time I visit Hen and Mattie Sue.”

“Poor man. Who can blame him?”

It was odd hearing Mamm speak so sympathetically about Brandon when he had chosen not to have any contact with their family during the years of his marriage to Hen. But since he was Hen’s husband, what else
could
Mamm say?

Abruptly, Mamm said, “I hope you’re plannin’ to attend the next Singing, dear.”

Rose hesitated. “Haven’t decided, really.” She felt sure Dat had told Mamm about the parting of ways between her and Silas Good. Close as Dat was to Silas’s father, he must have been one of the first to know, particularly when he had helped to encourage their relationship.

“I understand your reluctance.” Mamm paused and glanced at her. “But ya might want to think about going . . . you know, make yourself available right away.”

For a new fella, she means.

Thoughtfully, Rose nodded her head. “Just wouldn’t be the same.”

“Rosie . . . honey-girl, you’ll get over Silas soon enough,” Mamm surprised her by saying right out.

“Well, it’s not Silas I was thinkin’ about.” Rose caught herself too late, and Mamm’s astonished eyes held Rose’s gaze.

Rose looked away and wheeled her mother closer to the cookstove, to ward off the chill of the room . . . not all of it from the cold.

Just that quick, Mamm changed the subject. “It’s the second time that ol’ shed’s been hit.”

“I thought lightning didn’t strike twice in the same spot.” But as soon as she said it, Rose knew better. Where people’s lives were concerned, lightning sometimes struck repeatedly. Bishop Aaron and Barbara had to know this, bless their hearts. Their family had been struck nigh unto
three
times now, including the loss of their only sons: Christian, their natural-born son, who’d died in a so-called accident, and Nick, who ran off to the world not long afterward. And Aaron himself had suffered a direct blow, as well, when his divine calling was taken away from him as a punishment for Nick’s refusal to join church—a sign of his foster son’s willfulness against God and the People.

So much pain . . .

Rose disliked thinking about all that had happened since Christian’s untimely death . . . and Nick’s sudden leaving.

Only the dear Lord knows what may befall us, just around the bend.

H
en finished smoothing her light brown hair and reached for the white prayer Kapp on the hook near the sink mirror that morning. She placed it reverently on her head and pinned it near the back with bobby pins, thankful all the while for the cozy bathroom but a few feet from the kitchen. Her father and several of her brothers had gotten permission from Bishop Aaron to add it some years back, most likely in preparation for her parents to live here someday, once Rose Ann married and occupied the main farmhouse. Or if one of Hen’s married brothers agreed to take over the farm and live next door with his wife and children.

Had it not been for the indoor facilities, Brandon would never have consented to convalesce here after his hospital release following his recent accident. An outhouse would be intolerable to a worldly man such as Brandon Orringer.

Hen glanced at the bathtub-shower combination, smiling.
All the comforts of home.
Her eyes came to rest on the gas lantern set on the wooden shelf.
Well . . . almost.

As it was, her wounded husband complained about the lack of central heat in the drafty house . . . and that not a single telephone could be found inside. He even complained that he had to shave with a razor and shaving cream—
“hit or miss for someone who can’t see,”
he said. Overall, though, he seemed as comfortable as could be expected, given his present situation. And that was her goal: to make Brandon feel at ease until he recovered.

Who would ever guess he would live on an Amish farm?
Hen corrected herself. No, it wasn’t as if Brandon was actually going to live here. That wasn’t his plan at all. He would promptly return to their beautiful modern home in town once his sight returned and his right arm mended.

When he no longer needs me.

Hen shuddered to think about the terrible car accident that had resulted in broken ribs and a serious fracture to his right arm, one that had required two surgeries. And the dangerous concussion and associated brain swelling still caused him some confusion. Yet it was the blindness that plagued him most.

There were times when she found herself watching him rest on the settee in the front room or interact contentedly with their curly-haired Mattie Sue at the kitchen table. Hen was startled by the irony of it all, the three of them thrust back together when on the cusp of divorce.

But how did God view the situation? She contemplated their old conflict regarding modern versus Plain living.
Did the Lord allow the accident to happen?

She had been brought up to believe that God’s sovereignty was to be revered, not questioned. Young fellows like Christian Petersheim suffered untimely deaths; dutiful women like Hen’s own mother encountered unexplained buggy accidents. And too many Amish babies were born with deformities due to genetic disorders, sometimes more than one child in the same family. Yet people like Brandon, and Hen’s friend Diane Perliss, too, would never be convinced that such things were actually permitted by God.
His will.
Yet it was how the People viewed everything that happened in their lives.

Hen heard Brandon calling from the front room and poked her head out. “Be right there.” Quickly, she dried her hands and snuffed out the lantern. Hearing his voice within the confines of these Amish walls still made her heart leap. The sound of it wrapped around the secret hope she carried with her each day that their marriage might still be saved. The inner stirring had moved her forward since he’d agreed to come here, pushing her along like a plow furrowing hard soil.

She made her way to the small room where her husband and four-and-a-half-year-old daughter were snuggled together on the upholstered settee with Mattie Sue’s library book spread across their laps. Wiggles, the cocker spaniel puppy Brandon had purchased last fall, nestled there, too.

Brandon’s light brown hair looked mussed as he raised his head and turned his face toward her. He must’ve heard her come into the room. “I hate to ask you this, Hen, but . . .” He hesitated.

She braced herself.

“I really need to get to the office today.”

Again?
As it was, she’d taken him to Quarryville twice already this week. “By car?” Surely he knew by now how she felt about driving.

“Hen, seriously, I’m never getting into a buggy again. A person could freeze to death!” Brandon paused. “Besides, it’s humiliating.”

She didn’t mean to be difficult. It was just that she had come to resent the modern conveniences that had once taken her away from her Plain lifestyle. Anymore, she resisted anything that smacked of the outside world . . . and she deeply cared what her father thought, too. There was much to make up for with her parents, and she knew her dad was troubled by the presence of her car on his property. So much so that he’d requested Hen park it behind the barn.

“You know . . . maybe it would be better to hire a driver for you, Brandon.”

Appearing surprised, he shook his head. “But you don’t have plans today, right?”

“Not away from the house, no.”

“So couldn’t you drive me to town for a few hours after lunch if the snow lets up? There’s no need to hire anyone.”

Is it my job to see to your every wish?
Almost as soon as the words came to mind, Hen chastised herself. Hadn’t she wanted with all of her heart to help him? She recalled the great relief she’d felt when Brandon consented to let her tend to him here, the day she’d driven him away from the hospital, leaving his nurse and wheelchair behind.

She looked at Mattie Sue, caught up in her picture book, her little pointer finger running under the words she already recognized. Sighing, Hen relented. “All right—I’ll drive you . . . in the car.”

Mattie Sue’s big eyes blinked fast as she glanced first at her daddy, then back up at Hen. “Mattie, honey,” Hen said, “maybe you can go help
Aendi
Rose for a bit.”

“No, Hen,” Brandon protested. “You don’t have to wait for me at the office. Just return here. Or bring Mattie Sue along if you have errands to run.”

“And then return for you later?”

Brandon rubbed the stubble on his chin. It looked as though he’d opted not to shave today. “Whatever works better for you, yes.”

Wiggles whined to get off the settee, and Mattie helped him down, holding him gently as Hen had taught her to do. He scampered up the stairs and Mattie followed, taking her book with her.

Hen looked back at Brandon, sitting there alone on the settee. She wondered what the doctor would say about his progress next Tuesday, when they went to yet another follow-up visit.

Brandon broke into her thoughts. “I can’t believe you had your bishop stop by earlier, Hen.”

“He did? In this weather?” This surprised her. “I knew nothing about it.”

“He came by while you and Mattie Sue were out feeding the mules or whatever.”

“Why did he come?” asked Hen.

Brandon shrugged. “We had some coffee . . . he asked me how I was getting along. Nothing important.” His words were clipped. “He wanted to apologize, I think.”

“About what?”

“He thought we’d gotten off on the wrong foot years ago. Surely you remember how he ran me off when we were dating.”

Hen was shocked. “He said that?”

“In so many words.”

She could hardly believe this.

“A waste of time, if you ask me. His and mine.” Brandon muttered something she couldn’t make out. “So you had nothing to do with the visit?”

“Nothing whatsoever.”

He grimaced. “I’m a sitting duck, Hen. Forced to consort with your—”

“Ach, was it so bad?”

“We have nothing in common. Nothing to talk about.”

She eyed him. “So what did you do after he said those nice things?”

“Drank more coffee.”

“Neither of you talked further?” Hen imagined the awkward scene and found herself smiling a little.

“Not at first,” Brandon said.

She perked up her ears. “Then, one of you must’ve found
something
to say.”

Brandon rose and slowly made his way to the table. He stood there, his back to Hen. “I finally asked him outright something I’ve been thinking about since his preacher pals gave him the boot.”

Hen gasped. “Oh, Brandon, you didn’t.”

“The man’s lost nearly everything—his sons, his job, his standing in the community—everything that matters to folk in Amishville, you know.”

She cringed and lowered herself into a nearby chair, holding her breath. What on earth had Brandon said to their former bishop?

Her husband drew a long breath. “He didn’t seem to mind the question—acted like he didn’t care. Said God could be trusted no matter what happened.”

The response struck Hen as pure Bishop Aaron. “The man is as even-keeled as anyone I’ve known.”

Brandon appeared to consider that. “But if your people here are so patient and kind, why was he treated so badly?”

“We’re not perfect.” She paused. “We make mistakes. And some of us find it more difficult to forgive than others.”

“Then why would you want to be Amish again? There are imperfect people living out in the
real
world, you know. Christians, for one. You don’t have to wear a prayer bonnet or ride around in a horse-drawn buggy to follow God.”

Hen wasn’t sure what to make of hearing her unbelieving husband talk like this. “I was raised this way.”

He shook his head. “Well,
I
wasn’t.”

Hen felt her hackles rising. “So that’s all you got out of Aaron’s visit?”

“I didn’t say that.”

She looked at her handsome husband, his fractured ribs still wrapped in a brace beneath his long-sleeved green-striped shirt, his right arm in a cast and sling.

“I just . . .”

She waited.

“I wanted to understand.”

“And did you?”

“It made me think. That’s all.” Brandon shook his head in frustration and chuckled bitterly. “All I have time to do anymore is think.”

Hen tried to imagine what it would be like, suddenly going from the frenetic pace Brandon had maintained at the office to simply sitting, without a TV or even a radio to listen to.

“Besides . . . I think Aaron might visit again,” Brandon added. “He commented on your wonderful blend of coffee.”

She pondered that. “I could ask him not to come, if you’d rather.”

Another lengthy moment of silence ensued. Finally Brandon shrugged. “You know me and coffee.”

Hen broke into a smile, and she was momentarily glad he couldn’t see her.

Brandon cleared his throat. “I really need your help getting around, Hen.” His tone had changed. It was softer, almost tender—like it used to be.

She recalled his rushing home for lunch between appointments, back before Mattie Sue was born . . . eating soup and sandwiches with her as they talked about ordinary things like getting the lawnmower blades sharpened or making two mortgage payments in a month to get ahead. The memory gave her the same promising feeling as when she’d watched her father take Mattie Sue into his arms and hoist her onto his shoulders as he strode out to the stable their first day here.

She’d been too hard on him. “Just remember that I’m here for you, Brandon. That won’t change,” Hen said, then silently whispered a prayer of gratitude for Aaron Petersheim’s impromptu visit.