The Rescued (3 page)

“Tell about the dog,” Levi begged, as if his great-uncle's tale were a favorite storybook.

“Shep would sit right next to the cow with his eyes on me. He knew every once in a while I'd squirt the milk into his mouth. He didn't want to be caught by surprise and have it hit his nose.”

The boys giggled, as they were intended to. Not hearing anything from Joseph, Isaac glanced his way to find the boy leaning against a post, gaze fixed on space.

“Joseph! There's work to be done instead of daydreaming.” His voice was sharp, and Joseph jerked upright, giving his
brother a look filled with resentment. He turned away to begin detaching the cows that were done.

“Ach, Isaac, there's no need to be so sharp with the boy,” his uncle said quietly. “All teenage boys are dreamers at that age.”

“I wasn't.” He clamped his lips together, regretting the words and the tone. Onkel Simon didn't speak, but he had to be thinking, as Isaac was, of a farmhouse blazing up like a torch against the dark sky, of the pain . . .

Isaac shut the image away. He couldn't think about it, couldn't talk about it.

His uncle respected the silence for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was soft. “Are you so sure it's the right thing, training Joseph to take over the dairy farm?”

“It was what my father wanted.” That ended the discussion as far as Isaac was concerned.

“He wanted what he thought was going to be best at the time,” Onkel Simon said. “He thought he'd have you established on a farm of your own, and that when he was ready to retire to the grossdaadi haus he would build next to the farmhouse, Joseph would be old enough to take over this place. If he'd lived—”

“He didn't.” The words were harsh in Isaac's throat. Daad didn't, and Mamm didn't, and the girls didn't. Only he and Joseph were left, and he had to carry out what had been his father's wishes. “I have to do what Daad would have done.”

Onkel Simon looked as if he were about to say more, but instead he closed his mouth and shook his head slowly.

Much as Isaac loved and respected his uncle, he had to decide this for himself. Joseph was his responsibility, just as
Judith and the boys were. He had failed to save his family, but he wouldn't—he couldn't—fail at fulfilling his father's dreams.

•   •   •

“With
school starting in a couple of weeks, your kinder must be getting as excited as mine are, ain't so?” Rebecca Fisher, Judith's widowed cousin, set a warm pan of apple crisp on the table between Judith and their grandmother in her tidy kitchen.

“Always a happy time for the kinder. And for their mammis, too, I sometimes think.” Grossmammi smiled and began to dish up the apple crisp while Rebecca poured coffee.

“Paul especially,” Judith said, thinking of her middle son's excitement. “He's been marking off the days on the calendar, trying to make school come faster.” She had brought Paul and Noah with her on this afternoon visit to her cousin, but Levi had wanted to stay home and help with some new fencing. Her kinder were outside now, engrossed in some game with Rebecca's two.

Judith had been delighted to find Grossmammi here when she arrived. Since Elizabeth Lapp had moved in with her son, Rebecca's daad, on the farm next door to Rebecca's place, they were seeing much more of her. And their grandmother seemed happier, too. Much as she'd hated to leave the house where she had spent all of her married life, it had become too much for her to care for, and Rebecca's parents had been wonderful glad to have her with them.

“Fall is a time of new beginnings, just like spring is.” Grossmammi put cream into her coffee and then poured a bit over her apple crisp. “Especially for Rebecca and Matthew.” She sent a twinkling glance toward Rebecca.

“For sure?” Happiness bubbled up in Judith. “Have you and Matt set a date?”

Rebecca nodded, her normally serene oval face glowing with happiness. “Don't tell anyone,” she cautioned. “But we're planning on the last Thursday in October for the wedding.”

“Ach, that's wonderful gut news.” Judith rounded the table to hug her cousin. Along with their cousin Barbie, they were the only women in their generation of the Lapp family, and that made them as close as sisters in some ways. “See how wrong you were to think you'd never love again?”

“I knew you'd tease me about that,” Rebecca said, returning the hug with a strong clasp. “At least you're not as bad as Barbie. If she's not teasing me, she's kidding Matt, threatening to spill the beans to everyone.”

“Everyone will know anyway,” Judith said. Sometimes she thought people in their close-knit Amish community knew too much about each other, but that was a part of being Amish. “Even though we'll all pretend not to have noticed anything about the two of you right up to the Sunday the wedding is published in church.”

The announcement of forthcoming weddings in worship was a high point in the Amish year, coming as it did after the fall communion. All the couples who were being married would be absent from church on publishing Sunday, staying home to have a quiet meal together. It was another of the many traditions that bound them as a community, like a coverlet tightly woven of many strands to make it warm and strong.

“At least by then the farm-stay visitors will be slowing down,” Rebecca said. “Once the weather turns, not many people will want to come. We'll have plenty of time for our wedding visits.”

Rebecca had reopened the house to Englisch visitors this summer, with help from Barbie and the rest of the family. It hadn't been easy to do it without her husband, but Rebecca had surprised a lot of people by her strength. And now she would have a new husband to help her, too, come October.

It was the custom for the newly married couple to spend the weekends after the wedding visiting family and friends together. The fact that Rebecca had been married before and had two kinder wouldn't alter that tradition. Matt must be introduced to her family and friends as her spouse.

“If you need me to watch the children for you, or help with the wedding arrangements, or anything at all . . .”

“Ach, I know that.” Rebecca leaned across the table to clasp Judith's hands, her green eyes filled with laughter. “Who else would I call on but my dear cousins? I don't want Mamm and Daad to do too much, especially with Daad still recovering from his heart attack. But I knew I could count on you. And I certain-sure want you to be the side-sitters for my wedding, you and Barbie.”

Judith blinked back a tear or two. “I would be so happy. And Barbie, too, I'm sure.”

Knowing their younger cousin as she did, she suspected she'd have to keep a close eye on Barbie to be certain she wasn't planning any jokes. Pert, lively, and a bit of a rebel, Barbie delighted in introducing something different into the traditional. Judith would probably need to remind Barbie several times that the newehocker, or side-sitter, was there to support the bride, not to unnerve her.

“We've decided that Matthew will move in here,” Rebecca went on, her mind obviously on her intended, not on her cousins.
“He's not needed as much at his aunt and uncle's now that his cousin has come home, and since his furniture business is here, that makes the most sense.”

It had been the defection of Matt's cousin to the Englisch world that had brought Matthew home to Brook Hill, Pennsylvania, from his life out west. In turn, Matt had gone after Isaiah and brought him back to those who loved him. And through Matt's return, Rebecca had found a second chance to love and be loved. God did work in mysterious ways.

Judith glanced at her grandmother to find her faded blue eyes reflecting back the shared happiness. Grossmammi, with her plump little figure and her face wrinkled like one of last season's apples, always seemed to know what people were thinking.

“Ach, where is my mind?” Grossmammi exclaimed. “I brought something for you, Judith. And I don't remember—”

“Is this it?” Rebecca reached into the basket on the table and pulled out a small key, suspended from a faded cord.

“That's it.” The worry on Grossmammi's face smoothed out. “Here is the key to the drawers on the desk I gave you. Once I remembered whose desk it had been, I knew I had the key somewhere.”

Judith took the small, tarnished key, and a little wave of anticipation moved through her. “Denke. Who did the study table belong to? Someone I know?”

Grossmammi shook her head. “I don't think so. Her name was Mattie Lapp, and that was back when the family hadn't left Lancaster County yet. Her kinder would have done their schoolwork around that table.”

Mattie Lapp. Judith turned the name over in her mind,
trying to remember any story Grossmammi had told them about someone named Mattie. But nothing came to mind.

“Do you remember her?” she asked.

“A little,” Grossmammi said. “She was enough older than me that we didn't meet often, and she was in a different church district.” Grossmammi's forehead creased in a frown. “Those were difficult days for the Amish with children because of all the changes in the schools—that I do remember.”

Judith's thoughts slipped immediately to Joseph. “Sometimes I think all days are difficult when the kinder hit their teen years.”

“Boys especially reach an age when they're likely to cause problems.” Grossmammi's wise gaze rested on Judith's face. “Like Joseph, ain't so?”

As serious as it was, Judith couldn't help but smile. “Is there anything you don't know?”

“Ach, I can see the worry on your face no matter how you try to hide it. Since it's not the younger boys, it must be Joseph.”

“You can tell us.” Rebecca's green eyes clouded with concern. “He's almost fourteen, isn't he? I remember how my brothers were at that age. Always doing something foolish, and turning my mother's hair gray.”

“My brothers were just as bad,” Judith said, relieved to get her worries out in the open. “I told Isaac that, but he doesn't seem to understand.”

“No, he wouldn't.” Remembered sorrow touched their grandmother's face. “He was a bit older than Joseph is now when his parents and sisters died. Ach, that was a terrible night. No wonder it turned Isaac so serious.”

Rebecca nodded. “I remember about the fire, that's certain-sure, but I guess I never thought about how it would affect Isaac after so long. Still, Joseph always seems like a good boy. He can't be up to anything all that bad.”

“I know.” Judith turned her spoon over and over in her fingers. “But he's taken to going off and not telling us where he is, and that upsets Isaac. He keeps saying the boy is out of school now, and it's time he took on more responsibility for the dairy farm.”

“Where do you think Joseph is going?” Grossmammi put the question softly, seeming sure Judith would be able to figure it out.

But she couldn't. She frowned. “It's just guessing, but I'm thinking he likes to get off on his own. He loves the boys like brothers, but you know how noisy they can be, and they're always after him to do something with them. Joseph is quieter by nature, I think.”

She'd expended as much love and time in trying to figure out Joseph as she had on her own boys. After all, he was her son, too, in every way that counted.

Rebecca nodded. “My boy is like that, as well. Sometimes I think Katie just wears him out with all her talking. It's funny that siblings can be so different from one another.”

“All I can do is try to understand, and try to explain it to Isaac.” Tears stung Judith's eyes, and she blinked them back. Goodness, if she started crying, they'd think something serious was wrong. She managed a smile. “Isaac and Joseph remind me of two rams butting heads. I'm always trying to keep them from exploding at each other.”

“Of course you are,” Rebecca said warmly. “You love them both.”

“And you have always been the peacemaker.” Grossmammi patted her hand. “From the time you could walk, you've been trying to keep everyone happy.”

Grossmammi almost made it sound like a fault.

“It's natural to want your family to be happy and at peace with one another.” She suspected she sounded defensive.

Grossmammi gave her a fond look, shaking her head a little. “Ach, Judith, you must know that happiness is the one thing you can't give anyone else, no matter how much you love them. We each must find it for ourselves, and usually we do so when we're not looking for it.”

Rebecca seemed to be considering the words, maybe filing them away in her heart. But Judith recognized an instant of denial in herself. Surely, when you loved enough, you could bring others happiness.

“It can't be wrong to try and keep peace between Isaac and Joseph. If only I can stop them from saying hurtful things to each other . . .” She let that trail off, because her grandmother was shaking her head again.

“You want to be a buffer between them. I understand.” Grossmammi patted her hand. “The trouble with being a buffer is that you can end up being hurt by both sides.”

Judith wanted to deny it. Wanted to say that it wasn't so, that Isaac and Joseph would never willingly cause her pain.

But she couldn't, because she feared her grandmother was right. And if she was, Judith didn't know what to do.

J
udith
cut into the peach pie she'd made for dessert that evening with a certain amount of relief. Isaac and Joseph had been silent during supper, but at least they hadn't been quarreling. Some days that was all she could hope for.

Besides, the three boys made enough noise among them that the silence hadn't been noticeable. Levi, from his vast experience of having completed two grades in school, had been giving Paul advice about what to do and what not to do in first grade.

“Remember to take something for Teacher Sally on the first day of school,” he said, “or she won't like you.”

“Levi!” Judith gave him a stern frown. “It's not nice to try and scare your brother with such stories.”

“But, Mammi, you always send something for the teacher on the first day,” he protested. “Remember, I took oatmeal cookies last year, because that was Teacher Sally's favorite.”

“Teacher Sally will like you whether you bring her something or not.” She spoke firmly and fought to suppress a smile
at Levi's expression. “It's just nice to take something on the first day to show the teacher you appreciate her.”

Paul's eyes went wide. “But if Levi already took oatmeal cookies, there's nothing left for me to take.”

“Ach, don't be so silly, the pair of you.” She glanced at Isaac, inviting him to share her amusement, but he was staring down into his cup as if he'd never seen coffee before, not heeding their conversation at all. “I happen to know that Teacher Sally loves apples, so you can take her a nice apple. You can even rub it with a dish towel to make it bright and shiny.”

“That sounds wonderful gut, Mammi.” Paul, his worries forgotten, dug his fork into his peach pie. “Yum. I love pie.”

“I like cake even better,” Levi said. “But this is sehr gut.” He demolished a large bite.

“You'll have cake on Saturday for Joseph's birthday, remember? We're having a party for him, and I'll make a cake. And Cousin Barbie said she'd bring some of those doughnuts you like.”

“What kind of cake? Chocolate?” Levi asked hopefully.

“Whatever kind Joseph wants,” she said. “It's his birthday, after all.”

“Please say chocolate,” Levi pleaded, while Paul and Noah nodded.

Joseph came out of his distraction to smile at them. “Maybe yellow cake this year,” he teased. “What do you think?”

“No, chocolate, chocolate,” Levi chanted.

“Ja, all right.” Joseph gave in, as they'd known he would. “Chocolate, please, Judith.”

“There now, are you happy?” she said. She rose to gather up dessert plates. “Who wants to help me bake the cake?”

Silence greeted that suggestion, as she'd anticipated. The
boys were happy to help make Christmas cookies every year, but in the summer, the last thing they wanted was to be stuck in the kitchen.

“We should have a girl in the family,” Paul said finally. “If Noah had been a girl baby, he would have helped.”

“Dummy,” Levi said. “If Noah had been a girl, he'd be a she.”

“Don't call your brother names,” she said automatically, wondering how many times she'd say that before the boys were grown.

“I'm not a girl baby,” Noah wailed. “I'm not.”

“Of course you're not. Levi is being silly.” Judith smoothed her hand over his silky blond curls. Noah was the only one of the boys to have inherited her curly hair. At least he wouldn't have the struggle of trying to make it stay smooth under a kapp.

“Stop the silliness, all of you,” Isaac ordered. His tone was so sharp that all of them stared at him. He shoved his chair back, his face reddening. “That's enough about Joseph's birthday.”

Joseph shot up from his chair, the quarrel rising so suddenly that Judith had no chance to divert it. “Why don't you tell them the truth?” he snapped. “You don't want me to have a birthday at all because it reminds you of what happened on yours.”

Isaac's face went from red to white in an instant. Judith saw a question in Levi's face and put her hand over his lips before he had a chance to blurt it out, even as her mind whirled.

Isaac shoved back his chair so hard that it clattered against the counter. He stumbled toward the door almost blindly, it seemed.

“Isaac . . .” she began, but it was too late. He'd already slammed his way out of the house.

“I'm s . . . sorry.” Joseph was nearly as pale as Isaac had
been, and he stammered the words. “I shouldn't have said it. I'm sorry.” And in his turn he rushed out of the house.

Thoughts tumbled in Judith's mind like pebbles tossed in a rushing stream. What happened on Isaac's birthday . . . That could only mean one thing, because only one thing could make Isaac react in such a way. The fire that killed the rest of his family must have actually occurred on Isaac's birthday.

She should have known. But how could she, if no one told her and Isaac refused to talk about it? Her chest was so tight that she could barely take a breath. What was she to do now to heal her family?

“Mammi?” Even Levi sounded subdued. “What happened? What's wrong?”

Judith managed to suck in a breath. “Nothing for you to worry about. It's a sad memory for Daadi and for Onkel Joseph, that's all. So you must not ask them anything about it, because that would make them even sadder. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mammi,” Levi said, and Paul echoed him. Even Noah nodded.

“Gut. Now go and do your chores. It will soon be time to get ready for bed.”

Judith hung on to her smile until they'd all vanished out the back door. No one would come back in for a time, knowing that when they did, it would be bedtime. So she could safely cry, and even if salty tears dripped into the dishwater, no one would know.

By the time Judith had listened to their prayers and tucked the younger boys into bed, neither Isaac nor Joseph had reappeared in the house. She had no doubt that they were avoiding each other. Joseph was embarrassed that he'd blurted out
something so painful in front of the family, and no doubt Isaac was upset that it had come out in such a way.

Returning to the kitchen, she peered out the windows but didn't catch a glimpse of either of them. There was nothing to do but wait. Maybe now that the subject had come up so openly, Isaac would be willing to talk to her about the pain of his family's death. Maybe. But knowing Isaac, she feared this would make him close himself up even more securely.

Pacing the kitchen didn't seem to help. Usually this room didn't fail to cheer her up. Isaac had taken such pains over planning it when they'd built the house. He'd wanted to be sure she had everything she wanted in a kitchen.

She loved the house, but sometimes she thought maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to build it on the site of the farmhouse that had burned. It had been sensible, of course, to use the existing foundation, and the spot next to the lane was meant to have the house on it. But still, how much did it remind Isaac of the house where he'd grown up? Would things be better for him if they lived elsewhere?

There was no point in thinking about it, since it was far too late to make any changes now. Their children were growing up here, and this was home for them as well as for Joseph. He wouldn't remember that other house, or have its ghostly image in his mind. He'd been just a baby, less than a year old, when the house burned.

She'd best do something that would keep her thoughts occupied. Fetching the key her grandmother had given her, she pulled a chair over to the study table, which had been newly installed in a corner of the roomy kitchen. She'd be able to supervise the boys doing their homework while she cooked
supper, and she wondered if the previous owner had used it in the same way.

The drawer, once unlocked, opened with a protesting squeal. She'd have to rub the edges with soap to make it run more smoothly.

She'd half-expected the drawer to be empty, but it wasn't. It was crammed with children's notebooks, still looking fresh after their years of being locked away in the drawer. Pulling them out, she began to leaf through them, smiling at lists of spelling words and pages of addition and subtraction problems. Each notebook bore a child's name, and by shuffling through them she was able to come up with the names and put them in order. Rachel Lapp was clearly the eldest, based on the reports she had written. Judith puzzled over the contents of one page before realizing that these books must date from a time when Amish and Englisch children went to their little country schools together, instead of the Amish children having their own schools.

Rachel Lapp had printed her address inside the cover of one of her notebooks: Box 42, RFD 3, Lancaster County. Her brothers had apparently been Nathaniel, whose notebook was enlivened with carefully drawn pictures of cows; and Toby, who'd evidently had trouble with spelling, based on the many erasures dotting his pages. There was even a small notebook filled with crayon drawings of stick figures and a name: Anna Lapp, age 5. Judith smiled, thinking of the little sister, too young for school, begging to sit at the study table and do work just like her siblings.

Judith set the books aside. She'd show them to her boys, so they'd know that previous generations of young Amish scholars had sat here to do their schoolwork.

In the back of the drawer there was a thick packet of letters.
Judith pulled them out and studied them for a few minutes before realizing what she held. They were Round Robin letters, still a common mode of keeping in touch among the Amish. Each person wrote a bit and then sent it on to the next, who added his or her part.

A little more searching told her that the letters had been circulated among three cousins, one of whom had been Mattie Lapp, the former owner of the study table.

Judith unfolded the letters with gentle fingers, somehow moved at the thought of these three female cousins staying so close despite whatever distance lay between them. Like her and Rebecca and Barbie, she thought, though they lived near enough to see each other often and had no need to resort to letters to keep in touch.

She opened the topmost letter to the page written by Mattie Lapp and began to read the words, faded a little now but still legible.

August 15, 1953. Dear Cousins, If the Englisch have their way, the bishop fears it could mean the end of our way of life in this generation . . .

Lancaster County, August 15, 1953

Mattie Lapp rested her hands on the circle letter that would go to her cousins. What did she want to say to them about the crisis that had fallen upon her small Amish community in Lancaster County? Would they soon face the same problems in their own church districts? Was it better to warn them, or was it kinder not to worry them?

The scripture had things to say about worrying.
Consider
the lilies of the field; they toil not, neither do they spin, but even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.

It wasn't so easy to keep from worrying, not when you were trying to live Amish in an Englisch world. Usually she was able to take comfort in the fact that their way was to be true to the Bible's teaching as they understood it. But that was before the intervention of the Englisch world threatened her own daughter's happiness.

From outside, Mattie heard the voice of Nathaniel, her nine-year-old, raised in greeting, and a glance out the window showed her both Nate and little Toby racing to meet her husband's cousin, Adam, as he walked across the field from the neighboring farm. Most days they could count on Adam to appear at this time of the afternoon, ready to help with the two milk cows and to bring the buggy horse into her stall for the night.

Adam had started doing that soon after Ben's death, appearing and taking care of things without asking what was needed, just as the family had taken over raising and harvesting the crops. It had been so comforting at a time when she'd had trouble deciding to put one foot in front of the other. In the past two years, she and the children had all come to depend on Adam in ways she couldn't have imagined.

She hurried out the back door, leaving the letter lying on the study table. She was retreating from the problem, she supposed, much as she feared she'd retreated from every decision that had to be made in the past two years.

“Adam, wilkom. Don't let those boys climb all over you, now.”

Grinning, Adam lifted Toby from his shoulder and detached Nate from his pant leg. “Ach, it's no trouble. Boys need someone to roughhouse with, ain't so?” He tapped the brim of
Toby's straw hat so that it tipped down on his corn-silk-colored hair.

Rachel hurried toward them from the chicken coop, holding little Anna by the hand. At just fourteen, her Rachel was turning into a young woman before her eyes, and Mattie still had trouble adjusting to the changes in her oldest.

Rachel looked much as Mattie had at that age, with her thick brown hair and the hazel eyes that seemed to turn from green to blue depending on what she was wearing. But where Mattie had been shy and retiring, Rachel was calm and confident, with an air of maturity that had seemed to grow since her daadi's death.

“You're early today, Cousin Adam.” Rachel let go of five-year-old Anna's hand so the child could hurl herself at Adam's legs. “It's a gut half hour yet 'til milking time.”

“Ja, well, I hoped to have a quiet word with your mamm. But it's rare for sure to find any quiet around here,” he added with a grin for the boys, who were clamoring for him to stay long enough to play ball after chores were done.

Surprised at Adam's request, Mattie nodded. “Of course. Let's get rid of these noisy kinder for a few minutes.”

“Komm, schnell,” Rachel said, shooing her brothers and sister toward the door. “Time for an oatmeal cookie and some lemonade, ja?”

Mattie found her gaze lingering on Rachel as she took the younger ones inside. How was she to protect her precious girl from the changes that threatened their way of life?