An Amish Family Reunion (5 page)

“No porch. It’s perfect weather for the picnic table. I’ll load bread, meat, and cheese into a hamper and make sandwiches outside. You grab jars of pickled veggies, plates, forks, and cups. And don’t forget the pitcher of iced tea.”

Sandwiches were ready to eat under the shady oak just as Jonah and his
grossdawdi
headed to the old pump house. They usually washed up there at midday to avoid disrupting either woman’s work. Leah pulled her full-length apron over her head and patiently waited for her husband. Jonah. Even after four years of marriage, she still felt that ripple of excitement when she saw him coming her way.

God had shone His grace on her the day she chose
this
particular cheese maker to buy some baking supplies from. Most Old Order dairy farmers in Holmes County sold their milk to one of the large cheese houses, but Jonah had installed enough automatic milking and refrigeration equipment, run by diesel-powered generators, so that his mother could culture several varieties of specialty cheeses right here. Jonah and his mother had moved back from Wisconsin to help her parents run the farm. Milking cows, breeding heifers, and raising enough crops to feed livestock during the winter had become too much for
grossdawdi
. But it wasn’t too much for Jonah, a tall man with big hands and an even larger heart. Strong and rugged, but soft-spoken, he had the prettiest blue eyes this side of the Pacific Ocean. Not that Leah had even seen the ocean. Unlike her sister, Emma, Leah was perfectly content at home, baking pies and keeping house for Jonah and his family.

“Dining in the formal dining room, are we?” called her husband, guiding his grandfather to the table. Jonah pulled off his hat and snaked a hand through his dark, nearly black hair. With his strong jaw and olive skin, he looked more like a biblical patriarch than an Amish dairy farmer, while Leah’s brown hair and eyes and rather rounded figure placed her smack in the middle of ordinary. “What’s for lunch,
fraa
, a standing rib roast with twice-baked potatoes? Chocolate mousse pie for dessert?” He swung his long legs under the table and reached for a cluster of grapes.

Joanna swatted his hand. “Wait to say grace.” They bowed their heads for silent prayers before Joanna said to her son, “Sliced turkey with smoked cheddar sandwiches, pickled veggies, and fruit for dessert. And iced tea to drink. We have no champagne with strawberries or even ice cubes for your tea.”

“Sounds perfect,” he said, focusing his gaze on Leah.

She felt her cheeks grow warm while she passed the plate of sandwiches. Joanna filled plastic cups from the pitcher and set one in front of her father. When Amos reached for it with a shaky hand, his fingers knocked it over instead. “
Ach
,” he mumbled. “I caught a case of the clumsies today.”

Joanna wiped up the liquid with the dishtowel she kept draped over her shoulder. “No harm done,
daed
, and there’s plenty more tea,” she said, exchanging a meaningful glance with her son. “It’s getting a bit warm today in the barn, no? I know the kitchen will be stuffy by the time Leah finishes baking.”

Jonah turned toward his grandfather. “Why don’t you help
mamm
with whey separation in the dairy this afternoon,
grossdawdi
? It will be much cooler in there with the fans running.”

Amos scoffed. “You still got the rest of the equipment to sterilize. I might as well clean and fill the water troughs and throw down some hay bales.” He took a bite of his sandwich.

Leah gritted her teeth. Poor Jonah. He tried his best to get his grandfather to not work so hard anymore. He’d gone so far as to hire three other men when his dairy herd reached two hundred head. Plenty of Amish men without farms of their own were looking for agricultural work, but Amos Burkholder had labored hard his whole life, and nobody would stick him in a porch rocker until he was ready. And how could you tell him what to do when this was his farm?

“I could really use your help with this particular batch of pepper jack,” said Joanna, refilling his glass with tea. She placed a few baby beets next to his sandwich.

“Then get Esther to help you. Cheese making is woman’s work. Your
mamm
will give you a hand.” Amos took another bite of his sandwich, chewing slowly and painfully. Few of his back teeth remained, yet he refused to wear the partial plates made by the dentist.

Leah felt a familiar pang of sorrow. Esther Burkholder, Jonah’s grandmother, had been gone for two years. Yet no matter how often they reminded
grossdawdi
, he still forgot. Since her mother’s passing, Joanna had moved into the
dawdi haus
to care for her father, leaving the newlyweds alone in the big house.

After lunch, as the women repacked the hamper, Leah watched the two men walk the path to the barn—one young, tall, and strong enough to lift a calf to his shoulder; the other old, stooped, and getting frailer by the day. She whispered a prayer for protection for both of them, but especially for Amos and the gentle surrender of earthly matters along with fearless acceptance of what was to come.

Julia Miller spotted the mail delivery truck from her perch by the front window. It had become her habit to sew there in the late morning and watch for the mailman. Her world now revolved around an
Englischer
’s comings and goings rather than the slamming screen doors and the ongoing crisis of a shared bathroom in a big family. With Emma, Leah, and Matthew all married and living elsewhere, Julia’s hectic, drama-filled days had become slower paced and far quieter.

It was the plight of every mother. Children grew up, moved away, and started their own brood. The number of family members might increase, but the amount of time spent together dwindled. She wasn’t ready for this. She might be forty-seven and suffering from rheumatoid arthritis, but she didn’t want to be relegated to the position of retired matriarch yet. Julia dropped the sock she was darning back into the half-empty basket. In years gone by, her sewing pile would overflow the rim. But that was no longer the case with only Simon and Henry at home.

Henry. Although he still lived there, that boy kept a low profile. He talked seldom and softly, and he moved through life with a loose-limbed grace almost without leaving footprints behind. Couldn’t he at least wear out his socks more often?

Straightening her back, Julia stepped out the front door into the brilliant May sunshine. There was almost no humidity, while a breeze carried the sweet fragrance from her lilac bushes. And because the morning batch of mail contained a Willow Brook, New York, postmark, her mood improved considerably. A letter from Matthew—or, more likely, from his wife, because Julia’s son never put pen to writing paper. Martha rotated between writing to her
mamm
and her mother-in-law. Then the two recipients would swap letters at the next preaching service or other social event to share the latest news of their children.

Julia leaned her weight against the mailbox and tore open the pink envelope. Knowing her daughter-in-law, Martha hadn’t purchased the garish stationery. Wherever she lived, Martha befriended the greeting card merchandiser to obtain free writing supplies once a particular season or holiday had passed, those items that would otherwise end up in the dumpster. Frugal, that girl. Julia read the updates of their two children with a grandmother’s dual-edged, bittersweet joy. Matthew’s son and daughter were growing up fast, and Julia wasn’t there to witness the precious milestones. But Martha’s cheery tone soon faded as she talked about a change in Matthew’s career. As Julia read the words, she also picked up the unspoken words between the lines: Martha wasn’t happy about Matthew’s new job, although she didn’t come out and say so. How Julia wished they lived closer, so that she could see her grandchildren more often and offer a word of advice over a cup of coffee. Letters passed between many hands weren’t suitable methods of communication when family members needed help.

Julia hobbled into the house as quickly as her stiff legs would carry her. She found Simon at the table, studying a list of farm commodity prices. “Oh, good, you’re here.” She tossed the other mail on the counter and turned on the burner beneath the coffeepot.

“Where else would I be? It’s lunchtime and I’m starving. Is there any of that bean soup left?”

“
Jah
,
jah
, give me a minute to reheat it. Try not to faint in the meantime.” Julia took the soup pot from the refrigerator, set it on the stove and turned the dial to warm it up, and then sat down opposite him. “We got a letter today from Matthew and Martha.”

Simon glanced up with mild interest, waiting for the news. “And?”

“Something is not right there. Our son took a different job. He no longer trains horses at that racetrack. He was offered a trainer position at some big fancy saddlebred stable. According to Martha, those are expensive show horses for rich people.” Her description dripped with ill-concealed disdain.

“
Jah
, that’s
gut
.” Simon surreptitiously glanced back at the current prices for corn and soybeans.

“No, not
gut
at all. They were living with their fellow Amish in a town close to the track. He either rode his horse to work or was picked up by an English employee. They would have been able to raise their
kinner
in an Old Order community similar to this one.” She waved her hand in the direction of the backyard. “Matthew’s new job is a great distance away. He stays in a bunkhouse for hired help and only comes home on the weekends. Martha is alone night after night, and I know she’s not happy about it.”

Simon peered at her over his half-moon reading glasses. “Did she say that?”

“No, no, she wouldn’t, not to her husband’s
mamm
, but I could tell.”

He reflected for a moment. “Sometimes a man must make hard decisions about what’s best for his family. I’m sure if a job opens up closer to home, he’ll jump on it. You know what a homebody he is.”

She opened her mouth, but Simon stopped her with a raised palm. “In the meantime, Julia, don’t start hearing voices that aren’t there. Every young couple goes through an adjustment period.” He lifted his newspaper in front of his face. “Those two will be fine as long as meddling relatives keep their nebby noses out of their personal business.”

She crossed her arms and clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth but didn’t argue. She knew she had a nebby nose, but she also possessed a mother’s well-honed intuition.

She hoped she was wrong about this particular hunch.

O
n the last Monday of May, Phoebe stood waiting in front of Java Joe’s coffee shop in downtown Berlin with Rebekah Glick. She’d never felt like this before—she was light-headed, her stomach was queasy, and she couldn’t seem to get enough air into her lungs. A doctor might diagnose car sickness, but the much-anticipated bus trip hadn’t begun yet. The buggy ride before dawn with her dad had been nerve-racking. Seth had not said much—unless you counted “Stay with the group.” “Don’t wander off with
Englischer
s.” “Don’t get too close to the rail during the boat ride or too close to the Niagara River,” at least a dozen times each. Other than that, he had merely grunted and chewed on a wad of gum. If she’d needed further confirmation that her father was addled by her vacation, that would have been enough. Seth Miller
never
chewed gum.

Phoebe had developed her own nervous tics. She had reached down to touch her recently purchased suitcase not less than a dozen times. It was navy blue with a long handle and rolled on wheels. She loved it. Her mother had found it at the Goodwill Store in Wooster for ten dollars and it looked brand new. Maybe someone’s trip had been canceled and they decided not to reschedule. Hannah had sewn two dresses last week for her to take along. She smoothed the creases in her long black apron over the new cornflower blue one. Dad had grunted and muttered about these too—
“The vain extravagance of new clothes”
—but at least the girls waiting for the bus were wearing Amish attire. As soon as their fathers were out of earshot, Rebekah told Phoebe about a
rumschpringe
trip in which the girls wore jeans, T-shirts, and flip-flops.

Dad had kissed her forehead, issued several last-minute warnings, and said goodbye, but Phoebe knew very well he hadn’t left. He parked their buggy behind the German Village shopping center to watch unseen from afar. He wouldn’t take his eyes off his little girl until the bus rolled out of Berlin, headed toward the Empire State. Her
daed
—how she loved him—was driving her crazy. Phoebe Miller was a grown woman, eager to see the world. His overprotectiveness was unnecessary and annoying.