The Thorn (16 page)

Sighing, Rose turned on the faucet and began to wash the dishes. Suddenly, over the rush of the water, she heard what sounded like a thump on the ceiling. Another followed.

Shivers went down her spine. She turned off the water and looked up curiously and then at Mr. Browning, who remained with his head buried in the paper.

"I heard something upstairs."

He looked up. "Pardon?"

"Didn't ya hear that?"

He returned to his paper. "Must be the wind."

Like fun it is, she thought.

She thought of Lucy Petersheim's remarks and sighed. Ridiculous. But the shivers came once again. Feeling thoroughly spooked, she was anxious to finish her chores and get home.

As if to make up for not being permitted to dust or dry mop the dusty front room, Rose cleaned everything within her reach in the kitchen and the adjacent hall. Standing on a chair, she wiped down the tops of the cupboards, then continued with the counters and other kitchen surfaces, sometimes stepping near Mr. Browning, who remained planted in the doorway of the sitting room.

"Everything okay?" he asked later.

She swallowed hard. "I've heard stories about this house, is all."

He dropped his paper. "Stories, you say?"

"Silly stuff, like ... ghost stories."

The man stared at her for a moment, then broke into a loud guffaw. "Well now, I can't say I've seen any ghosts."

"No, of course not," Rose whispered.

"But it is an old house," he continued, his steely eyes on her. "Every old place has ... a personality, you know."

"Jah, maybe." She'd never heard this before.

"Thumps and bumps." He raised his bushy eyebrows. "Not to mention all the strange creaks and groans."

Rose sighed. "Maybe that's where the stories came from." Must've started with Lucy....

Yet the man's expression did not convince her one bit.

When Rose was finished cooking and baking, she let the shoofly pie and apple rice betty cool, as well as a large tuna macaroni casserole and meatball chowder. Besides the hot dishes destined for the refrigerator, there were plenty of green beans, peas, and creamed corn in the pantry. Mr. Browning had assured her from the first day he didn't mind opening cans of vegetables - or heating soup from a can - to supplement the food she cooked ahead for him.

Making quick work of her morning duties, Rose soon bid him farewell and collected her pay in an envelope on the lamp table near his chair. "I'll return next week," she said, going to the door.

"Thank you, Rose."

She waved and reached to open the door, and closed it behind her. Welcoming the sunshine, she made her way down the steps and across the sidewalk to the waiting horse and buggy.

Suddenly she heard a knocking on a windowpane. Rose spun around to look at the house. Was Mr. Browning alerting her to something she'd left? Oddly enough, there was no one at the front room windows. Then, squinting into the sun, she glanced up at the attic and saw the flutter of two silhouettes move past the dormer window.

Shielding her eyes, Rose looked again, but no one was there.

Is it my imagination? She turned, dismissing her spooky thoughts, and hurried to untie Alfalfa. "Let's be gettin' home."

Following a delicious meal of veal, mashed potatoes, beef gravy, and buttered carrots and peas, Rose got Mamm settled for a rest, then rushed outside to her afternoon chores. She ran so fast, she nearly kicked the rooster. A few feathers went flying as he screeched and squawked and carried on. "Acht gewwe - watch out," she said, laughing at the friendless fowl.

She slid open the barn door and saw Nick, who smiled immediately. She hastened inside, relieved he was in a much better mood than the last few days.

They worked together, doing their daily routine. She enjoyed watching George consume his feed and waited until he was finished to stroke the gray and white markings on his forehead. He was so enormous as she stood there, looking up at him. Like a living, breathing wall, his breadth and stature made her feel small, as she did when dwarfed by the vastness of the night sky, sprinkled with more stars than she could count. At such times, Rose found herself pondering how grand and majestic the heavenly Father must be. Are you small enough to hear my prayers, Lord? she sometimes prayed.

She and Nick had talked about this once while out riding. He'd argued with her that God was much too busy - and far too great - to be bothered with people when He had the whole universe to look after.

"That's just ridiculous," she'd said. She never felt it necessary to hold back with Nick. She had persisted, arguing what the psalmist David had said in so many words: No matter where I go - whether I try to hide from God or not - He knows right where I am.

The argument had ended in an impasse, and Nick assured her this was an issue they might never see eye to eye on.

Rose was rescued now from the glum thought by Dat, who came in from driving Upsy-Daisy. The gray horse headed directly to her stall, covered in sweat. Rose swatted dozens of flies off her back.

"She's parched," Dat said after Nick had taken the horse's lead. "I had her clear over to Mose's place and back mighty quick."

"We'll get her watered," Nick reassured him, and Dat gave an appreciative nod before stepping back out into the blinding sunlight.

Rose tugged on Nick's shirt-sleeve. "Come ... I must tell ya the strangest thing," she whispered. "Lucy said last week she thinks Mr. Browning's place is haunted."

Nick's eyes brightened. "No kiddin'? Haunted?"

"I didn't take her too seriously myself. Not until today." She shared a little of her own recent experiences. "And can you just imagine someone sitting in the doorway each day, blocking the way to the stairs?"

His face beamed with interest. "Sounds like a real mystery."

"That's what I thought!" Rose emptied the feed bucket and stood there holding it, a plan twirling in her head.

And, just that quick, Nick said aloud what she hoped he would. "We should go over there sometime."

"When?"

"Why wait?" He pushed his straw hat down hard. "It's been a while since we went riding, ya know." His dark eyes glimmered.

"Okay, then, let's go tonight."

"Meet at the clump of old oak trees, past the turn into the bishop's lane ... out on the road." His gaze held hers.

Same spot where I met Silas. "Jah, I know where."

Nick was smiling to beat the band; so was she. Rose scarcely knew which was more exciting - trying to solve the perplexing mystery ... or going riding again with her best friend.

Solomon paced the length of his workshop that Wednesday afternoon, contemplating Bishop Aaron's reaction to the finished bench wagon. The bishop was not a man to shrink back when showing his pleasure for a job done well. Yet Solomon struggled within himself, not willing to take credit for the work he'd accomplished, fearful of sowing the seed of pride. Even so, he'd never seen Aaron so outwardly pleased - perhaps because Sol had done his special bidding and used a few of the old "still gut" boards salvaged from the deacon's barn in the construction of the new wagon. Solomon, too, had thought it an excellent idea to connect the past with the present in this manner.

On the way home from delivering the bench wagon to the bishop's, he'd taken the shortcut behind Aaron's buggy shed and the chicken coop. There, he came upon Nick and Christian arguing, their faces red with anger.

Sol had hustled nearer. "Boys ... boys!" He'd had to raise his voice to be noticed. "Just walk away now."

Nick turned to go, leaving Christian looking mighty sheepish. "Sorry, Sol," Christian had said, wiping his hands on his work trousers.

"Might be gut to say the same to Nick," Solomon had replied. "Make things right, ya know?"

Christian had merely scowled over his shoulder as Nick headed for the barn, still saying nothing.

Always too quiet, thought Solomon of Nick.

This sort of thing had happened frequently through the years. Nick would say something hateful to his brother - or the other way around. But it was typically Christian who got fed up first and retaliated by hollering the loudest. More recently the feud had heated up to where the bishop confided he rued the day he'd ever brought Nick home. "The boy can stir up trouble with just a look," Aaron had stated.

Solomon recalled all the afternoons he'd observed Nick with his daughter, working around the animals. Shaking off his niggling fears, he hoped with everything in him that his recent talk with Reuben Good might just remedy all of that. And mighty soon. Both men agreed their children would make a fine match, and Solomon again found himself thankful pretty Rebekah Bontrager had moved away to Indiana before she and Silas were old enough to court. The two of them had seemed awful sweet on each other some years back.

Brushing off the memory of Nick and Christian's heated squabble, Solomon straightened things up in his workshop. Tomorrow was another day, and he had two orders for pony carts to complete right quick - one from the deacon's son and the other from Emma's second cousin up near Strasburg. He reached for his broom and began to sweep up the last of the debris from the newly finished bench wagon.

From the moment Hen had seen Brandon that day in the swirling snow and wind, he had determined the direction of her life. She'd viewed him as a welcome escape, and his modern tastes and interests had shaped their years together.

Yet here she was, finishing up Mattie Sue's little dress and apron and humming "Must I Go and Empty-Handed," a tune Dawdi Jeremiah had often played on his harmonica. She rose and hung up the outfit in her daughter's closet just so.

Going next to Brandon's and her bedroom, Hen dusted and vacuumed thoroughly. When she was finished, she went into the walk-in closet to organize the shelving unit. Inside, her eyes fell on a plastic container of letters and cards from Amish relatives and friends - a written memory bank of sorts.

She sat down on the floor and began to sort through the stack for the ones written by Arie before she was courted by her husband, Elam Zook - before Hen had married Brandon.

She lost track of time, savoring the memories of her childhood - of playing dolls with both Rose and Arie, making cookies to exchange at Christmastime, and sitting in the back of the Preaching service, helping new mothers with their babies. Wonderful years, she thought. She glanced up and was surprised to see Mattie Sue wearing the Amish dress and apron. On her head was the small white Kapp. The sight took her aback.

"I tried to make my hair like yours and Auntie Rose's," said Mattie with a frustrated smile. "Can you help me, Mommy?"

"Sure, honey." She left the letters on the floor and went with Mattie into the master bathroom to find a brush and comb. "We'll do the best we can to make a bob." Mattie's hair was long enough, but her bangs would have to be pulled back with bobby pins.

When Hen was satisfied with Mattie's hair, she set the prayer cap back on top of her daughter's head. "If you want to look like a real Amish girl, leave the Kapp strings untied," she told her.

"Well, I am a real one, aren't l?"

"Half of you is, yes." She leaned down to kiss her darling girl.