Abigail's New Hope (13 page)

What she just said took a moment to sink in, but when it did Nathan felt his back go rigid. “You’ve come to check if I’m feeding my boy?”

“Put in those terms my job sounds awful, doesn’t it? And I am sure you’re taking fine care of your son, Mr. Fisher, but not everyone, especially not every widower, faced with so enormous an undertaking rises to the occasion.”

Nathan shifted his weight and tucked his hands under his suspenders. “You would be better off speaking plain English, ma’am, so I don’t misunderstand your meaning.”

She nodded after a moment’s thought. “Some fathers looking after a baby alone for the first time don’t care for them properly. They don’t change diapers often enough or maybe they can’t handle a fussy eater. My job, my responsibility, is to the children of this county—Amish or English. I’ve been sent to observe Abraham and fill out a report.” She pulled out a pad on a clipboard from her leather bag and stared at him with more determination than he’d ever seen in a woman.

He looked away to gaze at the sow slumbering in her pen as her tiny piglets nursed in a neat row. “All right, then. Had I known you were coming, I would have made myself more presentable. I wouldn’t walk downwind of me on the way to the house, if you take my meaning.” She laughed much too loudly. “I do, but don’t worry, Mr. Fisher. I’m not here to describe you in my report, only your son. And we’re required to make our assessment visits unannounced.”

“So nobody puts on a dog and pony show just for your benefit?” He sounded caustic and hadn’t meant to. This
Englischer
was just doing her job and he had no cause to be surly. He’d heard that some folks didn’t take good care of their
kinner
, but thought none of them were Amish.

Mrs. Daly didn’t seem to mind. “That’s right. Some people clean up their act when somebody’s watching but go right back to their neglectful ways once my tires hit the pavement.”

As they walked toward the house, the social worker gave him a wide berth, and then she paused at the porch steps.

“Go in,” he said. “The door’s open.”

She went up the steps, pushed open the screen door, and entered his kitchen. Iris had opened every window and door in the house, and a battery fan rotated on the countertop. The room smelled of ripe peaches and brown sugar.

“Hello. Come on in,” said Iris, glancing up with flour dusting her cheeks and nose. “I’m baking peach pies before my fruit turns mushy. You’re right on time. The first batch is ready to come from the oven.”

Mrs. Daly took in the entire kitchen with a quick, perusing glance. “I don’t want to interrupt what you’re doing, and you might not want to offer pie when you know why I’m here.” She introduced herself and then repeated everything she’d explained to Nathan by the barn, omitting the reference to a dog and pony show.

Iris listened wide eyed and bewildered. “Do you think we would let a
man
fend for a baby by himself?” Her tone betrayed how ridiculous she found the idea. “Amish men don’t know much about infants, and they don’t have time to sit around reading books sent home by the hospital.” She talked over her shoulder while washing her hands. “That’s what his family and the community is for. And if he didn’t have me, some other woman in the district would have stepped in to help.” She dried her hands and then offered one to shake. “I’m his aunt, Iris Fisher.”

“I’m pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise, I’m sure. Why don’t you have a seat?” Iris pointed toward the end of the table not covered with baking supplies. “And that’s I-R-I-S for your report.” She nodded at Mrs. Daly’s clipboard.

Patricia grinned and lowered herself into a chair. “Let me write that down right now. And if you don’t mind, I’d like to ask you some questions.”

Iris supplied Patricia with her permanent address, an emergency contact phone number, and the expressed assurance that she would remain in Nathan’s home for as long as she was needed. Mrs. Daly wrote fast and asked few questions because Iris volunteered plenty of information.

Nathan stood in the doorway watching the interview like a reluctant bystander. Fancy-dressed
Englischers
made him nervous. The only
Englischers
he could relax around wore bib overalls, Carhartt jackets, and ball caps advertising a particular brand of tractors.

After a short while, Mrs. Daly glanced up at him. “If I can see little Abraham, I won’t take up too much more of your valuable time.”

“Sure thing,” crowed Iris. “Just follow me. He’s asleep in the front room because the kitchen gets stuffy on baking days.”

Nathan watched the social worker trail after his aunt, subtly peering left and right to see if any wild beasts lurked in dark corners or if other hidden dangers waited to befall an innocent baby. He followed after them, too nervous to return to his chores. What would happen if this overdressed inspector saw something she didn’t like? Would she snatch up Abraham and run out the door to her car, maybe sticking a receipt in his mailbox like an English dry cleaners? He wouldn’t take his eyes off her until she left his property.

“There he is.” Iris pointed toward the bay window. “Inspect all you want.”

Mrs. Daly peeked into a portable crib where the baby slept in blissful repose. The bed had a wind-up mechanism that would rock back and forth, usually long enough to put the tyke to sleep. “Oh, my,” she whispered. “He is a handsome boy.”

“Of course, he is. He’s a Fisher, ain’t he?” Iris grinned at Nathan over Mrs. Daly’s head.

“I’m very sorry, little Abe, but I must lift you out of there.” She reached beneath the lightweight blanket.

“You’re going to wake him?” Iris didn’t sound pleased.

“Have to, I’m afraid. I must estimate his length and weight to make sure he’s gaining weight as he should be. Also, I need to check him for diaper rash.”

“
Diaper rash?
” Iris’ pique rang out loud and clear. “He doesn’t have diaper rash!”

When Mrs. Daly lifted the baby free of the swinging contraption and pulled off his covering, Abraham began to wail with indignation.

“Now you’ve done it,” said Iris. “I’ll fetch a fresh diaper so you can make yourself useful while inspecting his bottom.” Off she hurried, leaving the social worker cooing and jiggling the
boppli
like a proud grandparent.

“I’ll be on the porch if you have more questions for me.” Nathan marched off without waiting for her response. This was a woman’s affair, if it was anybody’s business at all. He couldn’t believe his tax dollars paid a person’s salary to check baby bottoms for a living.

Pouring a cup of coffee, he drank it cold on the porch glider. The longer he rocked, the more irritated he became. What right did the government have sticking their noses in how Amish families raised their
kinner
? Didn’t he already have enough folks looking over his shoulder, making sure he didn’t paint his barn too bright a color or attach too flashy a battery light to his buggy? He also had the rules of the
Ordnung
and his Bible—the Word of God had never led him astray before. Why did a fancy-dressed woman in high heels have to come snooping around his barn, his home, and his son? Nathan exhaled through his nostrils like an angry bull denied access to a spring pasture. And he hadn’t cooled off much by the time the nosy woman bustled back to the porch alone. His aunt must have returned to her chores.

Mrs. Daly beamed at him as though they were long-lost friends. “There you are, Mr. Fisher. Your Aunt Iris is a delightful woman. I sampled her pie and thought it could win blue ribbons. You and Abraham are fortunate to have her.”

He rose to his feet, never comfortable sitting if a woman stood before him. “
Jah
, that we are.” He pulled his beard slowly and waited.

“Your son looks perfectly healthy. I left the card of a local pediatrician on the table. He’ll need a medical checkup down the road. Shall we say at six months, if not sooner?”

“Okay, we’ll take care of it.” He clasped his hands together behind his back for something to do with them. After an uncomfortable pause, he asked, “Was there something else you needed to know about Abraham? What arrangements we’ve made for his schooling?”

She looked anxious. “No, not about the baby. I was just wondering how
you
were doing.” She met his gaze and held it.

“Me? I’m eating fine. Iris is a good cook, if you’re worried about my size and weight.” He almost added something about his lack of diaper rash but caught himself in time. That would have been inappropriate.

Mrs. Daly hefted the strap of her bag higher up on her shoulder with a smile. “I’m not inquiring about your physical state, Mr. Fisher. I’m concerned about your mental outlook since your wife’s unexpected passing.”

He narrowed his gaze. “Wayne County wants to know about my mental state?”

“No, no,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m not approaching this correctly.” She pulled a business card from her jacket pocket and held it out to him. “In my spare time I’m a lay minister for my Christian church in Wooster, and I’m a trained counselor. I conduct grief therapy sessions in my home for those like you who have lost spouses. I’d like to invite you—”

He interrupted her. “I’m a farmer and Amish, in case you haven’t noticed. I don’t have time to sit around somebody’s living room sipping tea and telling folks how much I miss my wife. Plain folks don’t question the will of God. We go about our business and mourn our loved ones in private. You
Englischers
love to chaw everything to death. And you probably don’t feel much better once you’re done pouring your guts out to each other.”

If she had been shocked by his outburst, she hid it well. “Coffee,” she said.

He glanced back at her. “I beg your pardon?”

“We usually drink coffee sitting around my living room, not tea. And you’re right—sometimes we don’t feel any better after sharing our grief.” She waited until he met her gaze. “But every now and then we do.” She put the card on the plastic table. “Tuck this into a kitchen drawer for now, just in case you change your mind.” She started down the steps toward the driveway. “Oh, I almost forgot. Abraham looks healthy and robust, and the home you and your aunt have provided is more than adequate. That’s what I intend to say in my report. I commend your care and diligence.” She nodded, strode to her car, and drove away with barely a stirring of driveway dust.

Nathan sat on the porch glider and began to rock. He stared down at floorboards in dire need of paint, not feeling the least bit caring or diligent.

Daniel Graber spent the night in his buggy, parked behind the Wayne County jail. He didn’t want to miss visiting hours for those awaiting trial. With Catherine home watching the
kinner
and Isaiah to tend to his chores, he was able to see Abigail. Never had he missed his wife as much as during the previous week. He didn’t think it possible to miss a person so much. He’d come to Wooster yesterday, tied up in the back parking lot, fed his horse hay and a bucket of oats he’d brought from home, and filled another bucket with water from plastic jugs. Arrangements for him weren’t quite so luxurious. He ate his meal cold from a small cooler and slept curled up under a blanket behind the seat. Today his back rebelled with painful spasms from his cramped sleeping position.

Daniel washed his hands and face in the public washroom and then found a vending machine to buy coffee. After inserting a dollar, he pushed the button and waited. When the cup fell crookedly, the stream of hot liquid missed by a quarter inch. He tried again with a second bill and burned his fingers correcting the cup’s position.

The morning was not off to an auspicious start. For the first time in longer than he could remember, he hadn’t begun with prayers of thanksgiving or pleas for guidance. With hat in hand, Daniel waited in line for the appointed hour. When the door opened at the appointed time, a guard with a clipboard asked his name and then pointed across the room. Midway down a table sat Abby, so still that pigeons might have mistaken her for a statue if this had been a park.