Abigail's New Hope (39 page)

And so she vacillated…back and forth until she practically drove herself crazy. By Saturday morning, Catherine realized she had no choice but to follow through as planned. Isaiah had come to the porch for his lunch bag bouncing the beach ball up and down with short precise taps with his wrist. He waved at her through the window and then practiced ball control all the way back to the cornfield. If she were to cancel the date now,
she
would be the one to hurt his feelings. And that she couldn’t bring herself to do.

After baking a double batch of peanut butter walnut bars and a batch of banana nut bread, Catherine dressed for the occasion with care. Her dress was a flattering shade of cornflower blue, and she donned a freshly starched
kapp
. Packing the desserts into a hamper, she grabbed her shawl and headed toward the barn before the Grabers returned from the pond. Daniel and Abby had taken their
kinner
swimming after lunch. Cold-plate suppers waited in the fridge for whenever they became hungry.

Ten paces from the porch, she realized there would be no chickening out. Isaiah waited next to the open carriage with a clean blue shirt, straw hat, and a toothy grin. He’d put on sneakers as she had and had placed a quilt in the buggy for cool evening breezes. He clutched a bouquet of daisies, larkspur, and gladioli in one massive hand. Boots sat at his feet, patiently waiting to see if she would attend the party too. She wagged her tail and then lifted her paw when Catherine drew near.

“Evenin’, Cat,” said Isaiah, tipping his hat. He held out the massive bouquet.

“Evening.
Danki
for the flowers,” she said with a shy smile. She set the flowers on the seat and bent to shake Boots’ paw. Isaiah had tucked one daisy into her collar.

“Home,” he ordered when Catherine straightened up. Boots looked from one to the other, and then she trotted toward the path through the forest, wagging her tail.

Too bad we can’t follow the dog back to the cabin. We could eat the desserts sitting on the bank of the river, with only annoying mosquitoes to contend with
, she thought climbing into the buggy. By the time Boots reached the cabin, they would be halfway to the Millers. Along the way, Isaiah whistled without an ounce of anxiety as Catherine worried, fidgeted, and perspired.

“Lord, give me strength,” she whispered when the buggy turned up their hosts’ driveway. They parked at the end of a long row of buggies and approached a party already in full swing. Catherine placed her desserts on the snack table under a canopy while Isaiah studied the action from the sidelines. Two volleyball matches were underway, with at least a dozen people per side. After rejoining him, she watched too, waving at a few acquaintances that called out her name. Finally, she touched his sleeve to get his attention. “Play?” she asked, secretly hoping he would decline the idea. Then they could head straight for the bonfire, roast a few marshmallows, and go home.

“
Jah
,” he said, angling his head toward the right-hand game.

Catherine assessed their play, noticing the sides were mismatched, with one team holding an unfair advantage.

Isaiah rolled up his sleeves as they approached the players. With far less enthusiasm, she called out, “Hello, everyone. I’m Catherine and this is Isaiah. Just so that everybody knows, he’s deaf and doesn’t talk much, but he plays volleyball pretty well.”

“Catherine, Isaiah, come join our side!” Several members of the weaker team called out a warm welcome.

They took places in the back row and the game resumed. Catherine’s description of “pretty well” turned out to be woefully inadequate. Isaiah played the game as though he’d practiced every day for years. Catherine? Not so well. He served and returned, volleyed and spiked, bumped and saved, and more than once rescued her feeble hits by diving for the ball and sending it soaring over the net. He sacrificed the knees of his trousers to keep the ball in play. Their team not only caught up, but surged ahead and won by five points.

Isaiah mastered game strategy the way only the athletically gifted are able to do. He and the man on his right developed and perfected the two-man spike setup that led to their team’s victory. By the end of the third game Catherine and most of the other women were breathless. “Let’s take a snack break,” shouted one girl, while the others followed her away from the net.

As the crowd wandered toward the tables under the tent or in the shade, Isaiah’s impromptu partner lingered behind. “Hi, I’m Sam Miller,” he said to Catherine, while mouthing his name wordlessly to Isaiah.

She blinked several times.
This is Sam Miller? The tyrant who had caused hurt feelings and a curtailed school career?

Sam stepped forward, tipped his hat to her, and then shook Isaiah’s hand.

If Isaiah remembered Sam, he hid it well. He pumped the man’s hand heartily and slapped him on the back, mimicking one of their game-winning setups.

“Hopefully we’ll play again before dark,” said Sam. “Let’s get something to eat. I’ll introduce you two to my fiancée, Becka.” He pointed at the tent, rubbed his stomach, and grinned.

Catherine hooked her arm through Isaiah’s elbow. “We’ll join you in a minute, Sam. I look forward to meeting Becka.”

The heartless tormentor seemed to have matured into a fine man, but she wanted to make sure Isaiah was prepared for the social frenzy. Amish folks tend to talk fast when they first get together—maybe because they have been saving up things to say. She looked up into Isaiah’s face. He was grinning down at their linked arms. He pulled his arm loose only to snake it around her waist.

The gesture stopped her fluttering heart for several seconds, especially when he brushed a kiss across the top of her
kapp
.

“No,” she said, shaking her head. How could she explain that such displays of affection weren’t appropriate between courting couples unless an engagement had been announced? She repeated the word “no” and shrugged away from him. “Let’s eat.” She angled her head toward the canopy.

He nodded, with disappointment and confusion evident on his face. They walked to the rapidly filling picnic tables. She hoped they could get in line, fill their plates from the dessert selections, and find a quiet spot to enjoy the treats.

But her fond hopes were not to be. As soon as they reached the tent, young people surrounded them…and every one of them wanted to talk to Isaiah.

“You were great in that game. Next time I want you on my team.”

“Where has Catherine Yost been hiding you all these years? Welcome back.”

“Isaiah, I’m Becka Morgan, Sam’s fiancée. I’m glad you joined us tonight and hope you and Catherine will come back soon.”

“Do you remember me? I was in your class at school. I sat two rows behind.”

“Isaiah, my
grossdawdi
is hard of hearing too. I’m getting pretty good communicating with him,” said a well-intentioned girl, speaking loud enough to rattle wind chimes.

All people under the tent canopy were well intentioned that night, but the end result was still disastrous. Some folks talked loudly, thinking that would make a difference, while many tried to illustrate their words with unrecognizable pantomimes. So many vied for the attention of the man who had spent his days in the company of deer, chipmunks, and his faithful dog. Catherine watched the goings-on with increasing alarm, helpless to intervene.

Isaiah valiantly tried to follow their gestures and read lips, but the situation turned bizarre—too many people, talking too fast, using words he didn’t know. After several minutes, red blotches appeared on his face and neck, while beads of perspiration formed across his forehead and upper lip. Still he tried to figure out what they were saying, balancing a plate of brownies in one hand.

“Please excuse us,” said Catherine. “Give us a chance to eat our desserts. There’s too many of you talking at once.” She grasped his arm and broke through the crowd, her own plate precariously angled.

“Sorry, Catherine,” called Becka Morgan. “We’re just a little excited because we haven’t seen Isaiah in a long time.”

She nodded in response but didn’t turn around. They kept moving toward the bonfire. Catherine would have thought he would be grateful she had rescued him from the throng, but his response was quite the opposite. He not so subtly tugged his arm back from hers as they walked. Once they reached the campfire, he perched on an upended log instead of taking a bench made for two. He concentrated on eating his plate of snacks while she nibbled on a dry Rice Krispie bar.

Fortunately, no one else arrived to roast marshmallows. Catherine stared into the dancing flames of the bonfire, trying to determine her next course of action. Her appetite had vanished. After a few bites, she set her plate in the grass for foraging skunks and raccoons to find later. When Isaiah finished eating, he threw his paper plate into the blaze. She reached for his hand.

He shook his head, fixed her with a dark look on par with poison, and said succinctly, “Home, Cat. Home.”

N
athan strapped his son in his car seat and then attached the seat inside his buggy with taut bungee cords. It would be a long drive to Carol Baker’s home, but the time would be well spent. He had plenty to think about as the buggy clip-clopped down the road toward Wooster.

What would he say to the men and women of Mrs. Daly’s therapy meeting?

How would he explain why he had lashed out at another man who had been floundering in grief without his wife?

How would the
Englischers
receive his explanations and apologies, when most had no contact with the Amish other than passing them on the road or buying a dozen eggs at a roadside stand?

The social worker had been surprised when he had called her from a pay phone—surprised but pleased. Patricia had told him apologies weren’t necessary because the others understood his pain. But an act of humble contrition was necessary for
his
sake. And so he left his house by four o’clock to arrive by six-thirty, thanking God that Mrs. Baker had again invited the group to her home. He refused Patricia’s offer of a ride for the same reasons he had walked home on that fateful night. She shouldn’t leave the others to take him home. And because Abraham would be with him, he doubted he’d stay until the session ended. Although Iris had volunteered to watch him, Nathan wanted the group members to meet his son…Ruth’s son…firsthand.

After parking on the side of the driveway next to Patricia’s low-slung red car, he lifted the sleeping child from the car seat and transferred him to the carrier. Abraham barely stirred, the heat and humidity lulling him into deep slumber. Nathan strode toward the house with renewed energy. The purple pansies and red geraniums still beckoned visitors along the walkway. The giant sunflower nodded its plastic head from the garden. The tidy ranch house with lace curtains and brightly colored front door had remained exactly the same. But he had changed. He wasn’t the same man who had lashed out with bitterness.

He knocked twice and waited. “Welcome, Nathan,” said Patricia, sweeping open the door. “Come on in. Everyone’s already here. Oh, my. You brought your baby. Look at that sweet face. Don’t they resemble angels while they are asleep?” She rattled on while he stepped inside Mrs. Baker’s kitchen, smelling sweetly of vanilla and cinnamon.

Nathan smiled and relaxed. Leave it to Patricia Daly to talk her way through any uncomfortable moments. “I brought him along so you could check his bottom for diaper rash,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek.

She stared at him, wide eyed, and then she burst out laughing. “Good one. You had me going for a moment there, Nathan. Let’s join the others.”

In the front room, the people he’d met before were sitting in their same chairs, as if they had assigned seats. Their heads turned in his direction and all chatter ceased.