The Parting (4 page)
Reuben Fisher wouldn’t have thought of telling a soul, but he found himself grinding his teeth whenever one of his daughters got to talking about missing Suzy. Heavyhearted as he felt, especially when Betsy wept in his arms for their youngest, he could not bring himself to speak of Suzy. Not to anyone.
He had heard the whisperings of the grapevine—Suzy had died because of her contrariness . . . her sightings with worldly boys, her growing secrets. It was becoming all too common for young people in
Rumschpringe
, the runningaround years, to sow wild oats; their Suzy’s mistake was dying in that carefree state. For that and for missing out on baptism into the church, she was damned for eternity.
He was a father in need of solace, with no one to turn to. No one who might offer understanding for the increasing fear that filled him. No one who might give him hope. No, all he was offered was the standard answer: “This is our belief . . . and ’tis the sovereign will of God.”
Everything within Reuben cried out against the image of his youngest burning in fire and brimstone. She was young, for pity’s sake—just sixteen . . . not quite ready for weighty matters such as joining church. Betwixt and between.
He considered his cousin Jonathan and what he might have to say on this matter. Recently Jonathan had embraced beliefs foreign to the church’s guidelines for living—their Ordnung—and was therefore deemed dangerous. What a man chose to think about such things independent of the membership was not trustworthy at all.
Jonathan’s wife and grown children had followed in his beliefs, standing with him in his choice of an “alien gospel,” as the bishop had declared whatever nonsense Jonathan now embraced. In fact, Jonathan’s offspring had so united with him, the People had voted to excommunicate the whole bunch.
At least his kin sympathize,
thought Reuben sadly, wishing there was some way around the shunning practices that meant ostracizing long-standing church members, treating church brothers—in this case Reuben’s own relatives—nearly as outcasts. The longer Jonathan refused to renounce his new belief and repent of it, the harder life would become. The purpose of the
Bann
was to bring wayward ones back to the church, where they were expected to obey the Ordnung, never to turn away again.
Yet as dire as Jonathan’s present circumstances looked to be, Reuben could not ignore the fact his cousin fairly reeked with joy, even after suffering the shock of excommunication at the vote of the brethren and the membership. Reuben often wondered exactly what had gripped his cousin so thoroughly that he had found strength to walk away from all he knew and loved.
Could it help me cope with Suzy’s death?
His grief intertwined with an intense curiosity, driving him now to visit his errant cousin. Such fellowship was still allowed by the bishop, for the time being, provided there was no exchange of money or eating at the same table. Eventually, Jonathan would be cut off.
Jonathan and his wife, Linda, greeted Reuben warmly, and after making small talk about the weather and whatnot, Reuben had nearly forgotten the bishop’s prohibition—that is, until Jonathan began reading Scripture.
Despite Reuben’s protestations, Jonathan insisted on holding up the Bible and reading portions of it Reuben had never heard. As was their way, the ministerial brethren preached from the same biblical texts each time they gathered. Even Reuben’s own father and grandfather had kept to those limited passages during nightly Scripture reading when Reuben was growing up. Only certain chapters were sanctioned by the bishop.
Jonathan continued to read from Galatians, chapter one. “ ‘ . . . the gospel which was preached of me is not after man. For I neither received it of man, neither was I taught it, but by the revelation of Jesus Christ.’ ” He raised his eyes toward Reuben. “See? It’s right there.” Jonathan sighed, tears welling up. “The Lord’s in those words. He’s revealing himself directly to us.”
“You’re sure it says that?” Reuben leaned over to have a look-see. He peered at verses eleven and twelve, muttering as he read them aloud. Jonathan was not pulling his leg about what the Scriptures said, but Reuben felt his mind resist. This was
not
the teaching imparted to him in his youth.
Jonathan gripped his arm. “You should look at the third chapter of John, too. It could be the difference ’tween—”
“What?” Reuben shot back, suddenly alarmed. He’d never before witnessed such intensity in his cousin’s eyes.
Jonathan released his hold and ran his hand through his dark beard. “Just read it, cousin.”
Reuben was torn. Here he was talking with a blemished man, one who was no doubt trying to recruit him to the wrong side of the fence. It was a line Reuben wasn’t willing to cross.
“You goin’ to please the Lord God or the brethren?” asked Jonathan.
“Ain’t that simple.”
“Well, ’tis so . . . the way I see it.” Jonathan held his old Bible out to him. “Everything we need to know is here, Reuben—
all
we need for life and godliness. I beg of you, read it. For the sake of your children and grandchildren. So they don’t end up . . . like Suzy.”
Reuben trembled. “What’s that?”
“I’m sorry, cousin. I never should’ve—”
Reuben felt his ire surge within him. “Getting myself shunned won’t bring my daughter back,” he interrupted, putting on his hat. “Sorry to take up your time, Jonathan.”
He bade his cousin a terse farewell, hurrying to the horse and buggy.
Out on the road, he seethed, needing the space of miles between Jonathan’s house and Bishop Joseph’s to quiet his thoughts. He’d brought along his eldest brother’s shovel to return and was mighty glad he had. Time to put some distance between himself and his shunned cousin.
A group of steers were on the move near the side of the road to the south. He noticed several cattle bunched together, vying for clumps of green sage. The yearlings stayed close to their mothers, some of them bawling as they went.
It was hard to take his eyes off the cows and their calves. His sons raised large herds of cattle, though he had always preferred horses. He observed the cattle crossing the stream, as if following him, some eyeing his horse while others paid no mind.
At the next junction, Reuben spotted a row of bedraggled late roses, the last blossoms of summer hanging on. The bishop’s place came into view, and he looked forward to exchanging a few kind words with his eldest brother before heading on home to Betsy and his work.
But as he tied up the horse and headed to the bishop’s barn, he happened upon another spur-of-the-moment meeting—the second such debate over the Ordnung in two weeks.
Several men were talking about tractors, and others were raising their voices in favor of electricity and cars, too. “We don’t just want ’em, we need ’em!” huffed one man.
Reuben’s own first cousin, Preacher Manny—short for Emmanuel—shook his head in response. “We can’t be unified for the upcoming communion if yous don’t stop and listen to yourselves. It’s impossible to make any headway with the order of things . . . not with such discord.”
Ephram’s neighbor, Abraham Zook, seemed bent on change, his eyes squeezing nearly shut as he spoke. “I call for an altering of the Ordnung come next month, before communion service and foot washin’.”
The bishop next district over and his two preachers—all from Chester County—raised their voices in accord with Preacher Manny against what looked to be a growing faction of discontented farmers.
But Abraham ignored them. “It’s high time we get some help. That freak summer drought nearly did some of us in.”
“That’s God’s business,” said Preacher Manny.
“Well, I say the Good Lord gave us brains and we oughta use ’em.” Abraham turned toward his three sons, who muttered their agreement. One of them egged him on by cuffing him lightly on the back. “We could use the tractor power. Now more than ever.”
When will it end?
Reuben wondered, slowly stepping back to remove himself from the ruckus. Struggling from dawn till dusk was the expected way of the People—the way things had always been done.
Then Old Joe Glick and four of his brothers, along with a handful of their fired-up cousins, started defending the Ordnung. One of the younger men pointed his finger, and several more near Reuben mimicked the gesture, their eyes intent on Abraham and his sons. For sure and for certain, this meeting was even more heated than the last one, where many of these same men had gathered to voice frustration.
Placing his hat on his head, Reuben turned to go. But right then his brother spoke up from behind him. “’Tis time all of us head on home. We’ve got plenty-a work to be done, seems to me,” the bishop said.
Abraham frowned. “Jah, we’ve plenty-a work, Bishop . . . and tractors would ease the burden. We’re losin’ ground in more ways than one.”
“Such things are of the devil, the way I see it.” The bishop caught Reuben’s eye as he faced Abraham and the others. “’Tis best to do what you know you’re s’posed to, following what we all know is right and good. And, Abe—and those of you of like mind—you best be watchin’ your rebellious spirit.”
Abraham looked down at the floor, working his foot on something Reuben couldn’t see.
Their sixty-year-old bishop shook his head. “I must say, there’s far more to this than meets the eye. And it can’t be solved in these dog-and-cat fights.”
Reuben was moved to speak at last. “Why not call the membership together? We’ll put this thing to rest.”
Both the bishop’s and Preacher Manny’s expression changed mighty fast. “Reuben, you have no idea what you’re talking ’bout,” said his brother.
The preachers from Chester County nodded, seemingly in agreement.
Then Bishop Joseph spoke again. “The die is cast . . . no turnin’ back to voting and such. Here lately, if it’s not one thing, it’s another: men wanting tractors . . . others wanting to do away with shunning practices.” He folded his arms over his stocky chest. “Seems we need more than just another gathering.”
“Jah, but ’tis best to keep the women out of this for the time bein’,” Preacher Manny said, eyeing Reuben.
“Well, our wives ain’t deaf, nor are they dumb.” Reuben stepped forward. “They surely know something’s a-brewin’.” He was tired of all this talking in circles; time to draw a line in the dirt. He was
for
the Ordnung as it stood, so why was Manny singling him out, anyway?
Manny’s eyes shot daggers. “Best be keepin’ your thoughts to yourself, cousin.”
Ach, I’m with ya, Preacher, don’t misunderstand,
Reuben wanted to say.
Well, he was with Manny on
most
aspects of the Ordnung. He thought again of Suzy, departed before she could take the kneeling vow. It was impossible to erase from his mind the painful knowledge that baptism into the church was essential for any hope of heaven.
To think that some folk, in other churches, were allowed to say they belonged to the Lord—
saved,
as it were—and could rejoice in that assurance. His cousin Jonathan believed exactly that. Oh, to know where you were going when you died!
Poor, dear Suzy . . .
Reuben had a gnawing emptiness in his very soul, a festering grief he refused to express. Following the Old Ways had not fulfilled his spiritual longing, and his discussion this morning with Cousin Jonathan hadn’t made things any better.
Betsy Fisher, mother of nine, thought of herself as a perceptive soul, though she would never boast of it. Reuben had surprised her once by saying she had an uncanny way of deciphering the things folk said, could cut right through to the truth.
Fact was, she sometimes felt most everything right and good had ceased when her youngest daughter drowned. She assumed this was how other mothers felt when their children’s lives were cut short . . . taken away too soon from those who loved them.
Sighing, Betsy gazed out the kitchen window at the clear sky, as blue as a piece of fine pottery she’d seen over at a shop north of Strasburg not so long ago. The color had stood out because it was so unlike the blue of the fabric sanctioned by the brethren. Not the royal blue of their cape dresses, but the soft yet distinct blue of a robin’s egg.
She found herself glad for the lack of rain this day—the weather made traveling pleasant, and Ephram had already come to drop off some preserves from Maryann, offering to take Nellie Mae over to see her when he was headed home again. It was awful nice how that worked out, seeing as how Nellie scarcely got a chance to visit with Maryann.
Betsy realized anew that she disliked having Nellie Mae farther away than the bakery shop. Since Suzy’s death, Nellie was the daughter who had watched over her most closely, as if more aware of the depth of her mother’s loss. When Nellie left a room, she took something along with her.
Something I sorely need,
Betsy thought.
There had been times lately when she felt sure Nellie Mae was stronger than she herself, even as a grown woman. Betsy had known it in her bones from her daughter’s earliest days just how confident Nellie was—at least since Nellie’s first determined baby steps at only nine-and-a-half months. It was no surprise that such a determined child had grown into the kind of young woman capable of running a shop almost single-handedly. Few girls could handle such responsibility, let alone thrive under its weight.
Jah, Nellie’s a strong one. Ever so steady on her feet . . . and otherwise,
thought Betsy.
Till recently
.
She wiped her hands on her long black apron and hurried down the center hall of the farmhouse, heading for the back door. She had been awake since before sunup, glad for the few tender moments of Reuben’s usual morning natter and nuzzling before he arose for a long day of work.
Sighing once more as she opened the door, Betsy breathed deeply of the crisp air. Just yesterday she’d noticed moths had clustered in the dark trees like tiny umbrellas, foretelling the cold snap. She looked out over their vast spread of land, a gem of a place nestled in a green hollow—“away from it all,” as Reuben liked to say. His grandfather had bestowed this land upon them when they’d decided to up and marry nearly the second they’d started courting. Their youth had stunned the bishop, but he was happy enough when the babies started coming a full year later.
