The Parting (20 page)
“Oh, but I do.” Rosanna knew she could care for twins. In all truth, she’d care for as many as God saw fit to give her. “I’m ever so glad you stopped by, cousin. You almost missed me.”
“Jah, there’s a quilting, and I’m sorry to keep you from it.”
“No worry.”
Rosanna noticed how Kate cradled her stomach. How must it feel to carry two babies?
“All right, then,” said Kate. “It’s settled.”
They went on to talk of booties and blankets and all the many items of clothing the little ones would be needing. Rosanna mentioned having made one afghan so far; there was ample yarn to make another. “I have plenty of time to get ready, Kate. Don’t fret.”
Kate sighed, looking toward the window. “I don’t know what John will say . . . if they’re both boys.”
“You haven’t discussed that with your husband?”
“Oh jah. He just hasn’t decided what we oughta do, well, ’bout you and Elias getting both of them.”
Rosanna felt as if the wind had been knocked out of her.
What’s Kate saying?
“I know what we talked about, but—”
“Well, I just don’t understand,” Rosanna interrupted, terribly confused. Her cousin seemed befuddled. Was this unique to expectant mothers or had the news of twins somehow addled her? She couldn’t recall Kate behaving like this before—wavering back and forth. No, Kate had always been one to make up her mind and stick to it.
“We’ll talk it over more, John and I.” Kate rose slowly and headed for the door.
Rosanna choked down her emotions and followed her waddling cousin out the back door and down the walkway. “Take good care now, ya hear?”
Kate nodded.
“Come over anytime.”
“I’ll visit again . . . help you sew up some baby clothes.” Kate waved, a half smile on her face.
“That’d be fine.” Rosanna’s heart sank as she wondered how many more times Kate would second-guess her offer.
Reuben never even heard Preacher Manny open the barn door and step inside. He was busy pitching hay to the mules when he looked up and saw the preacher there.
“Well, you almost scared the wits out of me,” Reuben said, trying not to let on how jolting it was.
“I called out to you more than once. Didn’t ya hear me?”
“No.” Then Reuben noticed that Preacher Manny seemed more shaken than he was gruff—as white as if he’d had himself a nightmare.
“Reuben . . . I don’t know who to tell this to,” Manny began.
Leaning on his pitchfork, Reuben observed a twitch in Manny’s jaw. “What’s a-matter, Preacher? You got troubles with your hay crimper again?”
“Naw, ain’t that.” Manny grimaced, rubbing the back of his neck.
“You got yourself some pain? I say get your wife to rub that hot oil on your back and shoulders again.”
Manny removed his felt hat. His bangs were smashed flat against his forehead, and he seemed terribly restless, even troubled. “It’s not a pain in my neck, though it could turn out to be.”
“You all right?”
“In a bit of a quandary, really.” He hemmed and hawed. Looking at Reuben, he asked, “Is there someplace we can go and talk?”
“Well, I—”
“I want to speak as a cousin and a friend . . . leavin’ the preacher part behind for now.”
Reuben was immediately concerned. He hoped this wasn’t more talk about which farm equipment to allow in their Ordnung next month when they would vote on additions and such. By the look of Manny’s sober expression, Reuben couldn’t begin to guess what was up unless it was something of that magnitude. “Why, sure . . . let’s walk out to the woods a ways.” He poked his hayfork down into the loose pile.
“No need callin’ attention, jah?” Manny added quickly, falling in step.
As they walked, Manny explained that he had begun regularly reading the Good Book, poring over it, as it were. He hesitated before adding, “I don’t know any other way to say this, but a light’s turned on in me.”
Reuben felt a shiver of recognition . . . and excitement. Emboldened, he asked, “Where were you readin’, Manny?”
He turned and looked hard at Reuben. “You mean to say you ain’t goin’ to ask me what I was doin’ reading and studying thataway?”
“Nope.” Reuben was itching to tell his relative what he himself had done, hoping that maybe Manny had also uncovered some previously unknown kernels of truth.
A smile spread across the older man’s face. “Well, now, Reuben Fisher, what’re you sayin’ to me?”
“Just that I believe I understand, Preacher . . . er . . . cousin.” He took a gulp of a breath. “You see, I know exactly what you mean by that light goin’ on.”
Manny stopped walking. “Ach, can it be?” His words came slow and solemn. He was nearly gawking now as he looked Reuben over but good.
Reuben couldn’t keep his grin in check.
“Well, then, you must be saved, too. Ain’t ya?”
Reuben wanted to fess up with everything in him, though he knew there would be no turning back. “Jah, and I read the whole book of John, mind you. Ever look closely at chapter three?” He didn’t know why, but he was whispering now, when he wanted to holler it out.
Manny blinked his big eyes. “I believe God directed me to talk to you, Reuben. Jah, I believe He did.”
Reuben listened, comprehending. “I’m mighty glad ya did.”
“I, too, read that chapter . . . and then the entire Gospel of John.” Manny was grinning himself.
Reuben clasped his arm. “It’s so good to know we’re brothers in this.”
Then Manny began to tell about his most recent circle letter, which shared that a half dozen preachers across the country—“including out in Ohio, too”—believed the eyes of their understanding had been opened. “All in a short space of time.”
“Really? Must be some sort of awakening, then.”
Manny’s face lit up. “Bishops are havin’ dreams of the Lord with outstretched hands, showing them His pierced hands and feet. ‘For you I died so that you might have eternal life,’ He’s telling them. Others are being drawn to the Scripture, devouring it like starving men.”
Reuben nodded. “That’s me.”
“What about us havin’ a Bible study? For anyone who’d like to attend.”
“Well, I don’t have to tell ya what the bishop will say.”
“Bishop’s gone . . . and may not be back for some time is what I hear.”
Reuben still felt they should make an attempt to get a sanctioned gathering. “Whether or not we have his blessing is one thing—”
“We’ll never get it, Reuben.”
“You goin’ to write him and ask permission, or should I?”
Manny shook his head. “It’s a waste of time for me to try.”
Reuben could see where this was going. “Well, since Joseph’s my elder brother, I s’pose . . .”
Manny nodded, smiling. “Jah, that’s just what I was thinking.”
He’s mighty glad to be off the hook,
thought Reuben, wondering how to explain to Bishop Joseph their desire to study Scripture.
Nellie struggled with a feeling of distress all that next Friday morning after the quilting as she pondered the goings-on in the house. What had caused her father to develop his strange obsession with the Bible? They read twice each day as a family now, but then Dat spent several more hours reading and studying on his own, hurrying through his chores to do so.
Peculiar . . . and worrisome
.
She wanted to talk with Mamma about both that and Dat’s fancy praying, but she couldn’t bring herself to raise the topic. Oddly, her mother seemed to be in compliance. Mamma was known for often speaking up, yet in such a gentle way that Dat could never scold her for being less than meek.
She recalled the night Dat had first read from John to them—how vulnerable she’d felt kneeling at her bed, weeping into her hands. It was impossible to forget her longing at that moment . . . how she’d wished for the Lord God to soothe, even mend, her guilty heart. Like a young child in need of loving help.
Nellie forced her thoughts back to taking note of the varieties of muffins, whole wheat rolls, and cupcakes already dwindling fast this morning. She began to count the dozens of cookies.
Hearing a car pull into the lane, she looked up to see a group of five women enter the shop. “We saw your cute little sign out front,” said one.
“Hope you don’t mind if we come in,” said another.
“Make yourselves at home,” Nellie Mae replied.
“Do you sell to non-Amish?” a third woman asked, the tallest and youngest-looking of the bunch.
“Everyone’s welcome,” said Nellie.
A redheaded woman who looked to be in her thirties was the first to order, requesting a half dozen of Nellie’s morning glory muffins. The Englischer got to talking about recipes with her three friends while Nellie filled the order.
“Will that be all for you today?” Nellie asked.
She raised her eyes to Nellie’s. “Actually, I was wondering where I might get my hands on some authentic recipes.”
Nellie smiled. “Well, if it’s Amish recipes you’re after, I have plenty in my noggin.” She tapped at her temple. “What would you like—hot dishes, baked goods . . . desserts?”
The woman brightened. “A general question first—do you use shortening or butter for your cakes and sweet breads?”
“Well, that depends on what we have on hand,” Nellie answered. “There are times when I use lard, too.”
The redhead was now eyeing the sticky buns, tapping on the glass counter with her long pink fingernails. “And do you use store-bought flour or grind your own?”
“Oh, either’s fine,” Nellie said. “We don’t mind going to the grocery store for things, but we like to make do with food off the land.” She paused to determine their interest before continuing. “Each family puts up about a thousand jars of vegetables, fruit, and preserves every year at the harvest.”
“What about your delightful language?” the oldestlooking woman in the group asked. “Is there any way to learn it?”
Nellie shrugged. “Outsiders call it Pennsylvania Dutch, but it’s not Dutch at all. It’s a folk rendering of German—not written anywhere that I know of.”
“Not even your Bible?” one piped up.
“Ach, that’s in either High German or English.” Nellie felt like a pincushion all of a sudden. Surely these were the most openly curious Englischers she’d ever met.
“Would you mind if I asked about your faith?” the youngest-looking woman said.
My what?
Nellie felt trapped. She’d never had such a conversation, and she wished with all her heart Nan would hurry up and come running.
“Or are your . . . uh, ways based on—”
“Pamela, no . . . that’s not what you want to say.” A previously silent woman was talking as though Nellie weren’t standing right there.
“Aw, don’t mind her,” the first woman said to Nellie, linking her arm through Pamela’s.
Nellie stared past the Englischers, looking out the window.
Where are you, Nan, when I need you?
“I’m sorry,” Pamela said. “I didn’t mean to embarrass you, miss.”
Nellie tried to think of something to say or do to change the subject, but nothing came. Finally she said, “Well, jah, we have our beliefs . . . our ways, passed down from generation to generation.” Nellie figured Dat might have had a more suitable answer. Or would his interest in soaking up the long sentences in the Good Book make his answers to Englischers too free?
How soon before his fondness for Scripture reaches the wrong person’s ears?
She clenched her jaw, hoping Caleb’s father might never, ever hear of it.
“Really . . . I want to apologize.” It was the redhead again. “We didn’t mean to be rude.”
Nellie forced a smile. “Not to worry.” She accepted the money for the muffins, thankful for a working cash register today. “Is there anything else I can do for you?” she managed to say. “A written recipe, perhaps?”
The redhead nodded, and Nellie began to write down the ingredients and instructions for her sweet bread—a coffee cake recipe from her great-grandmother.
The women thanked her repeatedly, and then the others took turns ordering cookies and other goodies. When they’d paid and made their way back to their fancy red car, Nellie sighed with relief.
Not much time later, she noticed Dawdi and Mammi Fisher entering the drive in their enclosed family buggy. She assumed they wanted to talk with Mamma about getting settled into the Dawdi Haus—leaving behind the farmhouse over on Plank Road, where they’d lived since Dat received this house after marrying Mamma. Nellie was looking forward to having her father’s parents closer, especially Mammi Hannah, known for her stories about their family and its doings through the years. All the Fisher women would benefit from having Mammi living under the same roof, so to speak—especially Mamma.
But Nellie’s present concern was finding time to rescue Suzy’s diary from the woodland soil before winter’s onset. Almost two weeks had gone by since she had first made her search, and thus far no other opportunity to look had presented itself. Her responsibility to run the bakery shop and always be on hand for her customers left her with virtually no time of her own. That, coupled with the frustration of not remembering the diary’s exact location, worried her.
Will I ever find it?
Nellie Mae glanced up to see the crimson red car creeping back up the driveway. Pamela stepped out, returning to the shop. “I nearly forgot—do you have shoofly pie?” she asked.
“Sure.” Nellie picked up one of the two pies remaining and showed it off as if it were one of her offspring. “We make the wet-bottom kind here,” she said.
“Sounds perfect.” Then Pamela asked, seeming a bit shy, “Would you happen to know the ingredients offhand?”
“I’m happy to jot them down for you.” Nellie waited for the woman to pull out a tablet from her small brown pocketbook.
“It’s ever so easy, really,” Nellie told her after writing the recipe. “Nothing more than eggs, corn syrup, baking soda, and boiling water for the filling. Do you make quite a lot from scratch?” she asked.
“I can hardly stay out of my kitchen.” The Englischer laughed and motioned toward the wet-bottom shoofly pie. “I’ll purchase that one, please.”
Nellie placed it in a white box and taped the lid shut. “Anything else?”
“That’ll do it. Thanks!”
