Butterfly Garden (4 page)

Adam folded his hands behind his back. “No, no mother or sister. Guess I need to find a woman to come every day or to live-in.”  Adam feared for a minute Sara would offer, which was not what he intended. Would he never get this right?

Something was bothering her too, because she was worrying her lip enough to tear the tender flesh.

“I hoped you would keep them until ... say….”  He’d go for a later date, knowing how contrary Sara could be. “Say, until after spring planting.”

Again, hope lit her eyes, but she snuffed it like a candle. “That’s months away,” she wailed, sounding almost helpless.

Sara, helpless?

“Adam, I can’t.”

“They like you, Sara.”  And why that should hurt her, he did not know, but it surely seemed to.

“They belong with you, Adam, and that’s all there is to it.”

“Till after harvest,” he bargained, hoping, given his reason for the lie, that it could be overlooked. “Just till then.”

Sara sighed and closed her eyes. When she opened them, they were bright with unshed tears, as if pain hovered, but she fought it bravely. “I need to think about it. I’ll tell you in a couple of days, after the funeral.”

* * * * *

In the grabhof, the Amish cemetery, silent mourners flanked by plain time-bruised stones, saw the sun shine down, one last time, on Abby Zuckerman’s face, her features serene in death in a way they had never been in life.

Truth to tell, Sara could barely see her friend through her tears. Sorrow. Guilt. She was grief-stricken at Abby’s death, yet she felt such joy at having the girls.

More than anything, she wished Abby were alive to care for them. Barring that, she wanted Adam to take them ... except that she wanted so very badly to keep them.

Rather than pray for the repose of that sweet, sweet soul, in the way the solemn men and women around her were doing, Sara prayed for the strength to do what was best for the girls, no matter the cost.

When Adam and Bishop Weaver lifted the top of Abby’s casket, to close her inside forever, Sara nearly shouted for them to stop. Instead, she sobbed and promised Ab she would love her girls forever.

Serenity filled her of a sudden, and Sara believed that Abby’s spirit soared free, perhaps for the first time ever, even as her neighbors tossed dirt on her casket.

Peace, it was called.

Sara was especially glad, in that moment, that Jordan — Doc Marks to the community, teacher and friend to her — had surprised her this morning by coming to stay with the girls so she could attend their mother’s funeral.

When she had arrived at Adam’s house earlier, one of about fifty or so of their neighbors, Adam had questioned her with his look from half-way across the kitchen. She hadn’t been certain if he was surprised she was there, or if he wanted to know whether she would keep the girls. She’d wondered how she could give them up when she was barely strong enough to let go of their mother?  But she had tried to say with her look that everything would be fine, which she sincerely hoped it would, and Adam had relaxed, as if she succeeded in reassuring him.

Now, beside his wife’s grave, he stood taller than most, broader of shoulder as well, and solemn, as always. He turned his broad-brimmed black felt hat round in his huge, capable hands, as if he could not bear to remain still.

A bear, many called him, a grizzly. Brooding. Silent. Mad.

He was all those things, yes, but Sara was beginning to suspect he was more. And while feeding baby Hannah during the sweet silence of the night just passed, Sara had promised herself she would uncover that part of him he concealed from the world. She might bring him and his children together more easily if she could, if she became the live-in helper he said he needed for them, though she supposed he would have asked her, if he thought so.

Did she want to move into Abby’s house to care for her girls?  Yes. Did she want to move in with Mad Adam Zuckerman?  No. Yes. Perhaps. Sara sighed. She supposed she’d go or live anywhere, if it meant she could raise the girls. With Adam around, she wouldn’t have to worry about them, either, if — when — she was called to deliver a babe.

Spending time with the girls each day, watching them grow, teaching them the things all little Amish girls should know, could fill her days — her life — with purpose. And if she could also midwife — even if that meant putting up with Mad Adam Zuckerman’s growls and scowls — her life would be more fulfilling than she could ever have imagined.

Abby had not thought Adam was so terrible to live with. Sara had mentioned his gruff once, and Abby had smiled such a secret smile, Sara thought she must be thinking about that part of marriage. What must the intimate side of marriage be like, when even a man like Mad Adam could bring such a smile?

Sara raised her head when she realized where her mind had wandered, and warm with embarrassment, she thrust her wayward thoughts aside.

As everyone began to leave the cemetery, Adam came to stand beside her. Funny how good that made her feel, even though his reason had solely to do with getting her to keep his children. Even so, it felt almost as if she were something of a friend to him. Without Ab, neither of them had anyone.

Before long, they were alone in the graveyard, both of them staring at that dark, rich mound of dirt, missing the woman at rest beneath it. Sara bent to smooth the earth, almost as if she could make Abby more comfortable. She plucked a few stones from the moist soil, tossed them, and patted the disturbed sections back into place, begging Abby’s guidance as she prepared to answer her husband’s request.

Again, peace filled her, and Sara knew what she must do. “For Abby,” she said, not looking at the silent man beside her. “For her, I will keep the girls until after harvest.”

Then she would bring them back to their father and stay to help, whether he asked her to or not. And teach him to love them, by God. And when they needed her no more, she would lay herself down and die too.

No. Sara stood. No, she would not do that. She would become the best midwife Walnut Creek had ever seen. Safe deliveries. No more dead mothers. No more dead babies. She would do it for Mama. “For Abby,” she said.

“Danke,” Adam whispered, his voice hoarse.

Chapter 3

“Looks like he fell hard. About twelve feet from the top of that ladder.”  Roman Byler shook his head as he gazed at Adam Zuckerman’s unconscious form. “Dead drunk, like he’s been for months. Dead inside too, I think. Always has been, far as I know. Noticed that the first time I saw his eyes, and we were only kids then. But with a father like his, who could blame him?”

“I never met his father,” Doc Marks said. “But I’ve noticed the same thing about his eyes.”

Yes, Roman thought, the man most people avoided was as good as dead inside. Only once in past years had he seen a spark in Adam’s eyes — Schmidt’s barn-raising, when Sara Lapp had raised her chin and served Adam first, joking about his appetite matching his size. Roman remembered thinking, even then, that most men wouldn’t sport with Adam Zuckerman about his size. Yet that slip of a woman had dared, and with a twinkle in her eye, as well.

“What do you think, Doc?”

Kneeling, Doctor Marks examined Adam’s bloody thigh and shook his head over the jagged piece of bone piercing it. “I think he needs a swift kick in his hind end.”

“I know that,” Roman said. “I mean about his injuries.”

“Smacked his head a good one. Broke in a few places; his arm, maybe a rib or two, but it’s his thigh I’m worried about. Seen more than one leg have to be taken after a break this bad.”

“Adam’s way to stubborn to let that happen,” Roman said.

“With the right care, it might not come to that.”

Roman shook his head. “Can’t imagine who’ll do it.”

“I can imagine.”

Roman considered the possibilities, and there weren’t many. It wasn’t that their neighbors disliked Adam, exactly. He was always first to help in time of crisis, and Roman was pretty certain Adam was the nameless man who always sent money to their neighbors in need. No, they didn’t dislike him, but his odd, silent ways, his carved-in-stone frown, made them uneasy. They simply did not understand him, so they avoided him, which suited Adam fine. Worse, since the districts had been re-divided, only one person visited the Zuckerman house. Roman regarded the doctor. “Sara Lapp?”

“Who else?” Doc Marks asked. “Well, there’s you, since you’re as close to a friend as Adam ever had, but between raising your niece and nephew and your mom and pop being sick and all….”  The doctor sat back and slapped his thighs. “No. Sara’s the one.”

Roman shook his head. “I don’t know, Doc. The Elders aren’t going to—”

“It would get his children back where they belong. Sara’s supposedly got them until Christmas now, right?”

“Ya, until he changes his mind again.”

Doc Marks nodded. “It’s about time somebody took a hand in that.”

Roman raised his brows, doubt filling him. “Us?”

The Doctor pointed up. “Him.”

Roman whistled. “You think God did this?”

“Who else?”

“A drunken sot, that’s who.”  A man who thinks he deserves to be punished, Roman thought.

“I don’t think the Elders would want to see a man suffer, Roman.”

“There’s all kinds of suffering, Doc. And sometimes the Elders mistake one of them for redemption.”

The doctor grinned. “I take it you don’t always appreciate their ... interference.”

“Interference can be a good thing. Sometimes. I suppose.”

“Right,” the Doctor said, looking around. “Help me unhinge a door, so we can get him inside. After I try to put that bone back where it belongs, I’ll go get Sara and the girls.”

In the old sewing room off the kitchen, in the bed where Abby used to put the girls when they were sick, Adam sat propped by a mound of pillows, his head wrapped and pounding, his right arm in a sling and his left thigh afire and lashed to a splint.

Where the blazes was the blasted
English
with the foolish cure he’d promised. Some doctor.

Adam couldn’t imagine a cure that wouldn’t hurt more than the need for it, but things couldn’t get much worse.

The kitchen door slammed and a commotion of voices and shuffling followed. “Brought you a nurse,” The
English
yelled from the kitchen.

A nurse?

A babe’s wail. A giggle. Katie?  Elation. Despair.

A whine. Pris. Oh, no.

Adam’s heart beat at a run, yearning and fear fighting so hard inside that nausea rose up to choke him.

A shadow marred the sun’s path through the room, beating its owner to his side by moments. Spinster Sara.

Joy and dread warred within Adam, until the deep breaths he was forced to take couldn’t catch up to his pounding heart or calm his roiling stomach, which made his head reel the more. He needed another drink. He needed to rage — at God, or, at the least, at Sara. But when he opened his mouth, his stomach cast up its contents in greeting.

Sara’s shock lasted less than a second. “Damn it, Adam, my clean Sunday dress.”

“Don’t cuss around the girls,” he rasped, pulling up the corner of her apron to wipe his mouth.

Her eyes widened. She began to speak, stopped, tried again and failed, then she shook her head and poured him a glass of water.

When he finished drinking, she placed her hands on her hips. “Stupid drunk.”  She turned and walked away. “I’ll get you something to settle your stomach,” she threw over her shoulder.

While she was gone, Adam tried to figure out how to get Sara to take his children away again, and fast, before having them here sliced open his heart and bared it for the buzzards. But before he could, Lizzie was walking toward him, one slow, well-placed step after another, both hands holding a glass of milk, and with so much concentration that watching her tensed him right up.

She stopped and looked into his eyes, her big gray ones so beautiful, hopeful, like Abby’s, it made him want to weep. He coughed and cleared his throat.

Considering it was the first time in weeks Lizzie had seen him, she didn’t seem to be as affected as him. He supposed that meant he’d done the right thing. He supposed he should be glad.

If only he hadn’t damned near broke his neck.

If only he’d broken it for good.

“Mommie’s gone to walk with God,” Lizzie said, the blow to Adam’s midsection, unexpected and sharp. “In heaven,” she explained. “She’s a treat, Sara said, to make God smile.”

Adam’s heart thumped against his broken ribcage, and his gut took the punch badly, but considering its recent disgraceful behavior, things could be worse. “You miss Mommie?”  Had he actually given voice to the tormenting question?

Lizzie’s eyes filled and her lip quivered — this blow sharper than the last — but she gathered herself together in the exact way he’d seen Sara do. “We have Sara now,” she said. “And I love her….”

“But she’s not Mommie,” Adam whispered.

Lizzie nodded, stopped, then shook her head.

Adam guessed that meant she agreed with him. A sudden and unfamiliar force, powerful and compelling, to protect this little girl from hurt — his little girl — fired Adam with more pain than all his broken limbs put together, and he gasped. “Tell Sara I need a drink.”  He’d spoken harshly, but Lizzie didn’t stiffen as she used to. This was not good. She should be afraid of him. She must.

“I brought you a drink. See?”  With both hands, Lizzie raised the glass she was carrying higher. “Milk.”  She took a couple of slow steps closer.

“I want a different kind of drink,” Adam said, fisting his hands, once again to keep from reaching for her. “Sara’ll know.”

Lizzie shook her head. “This is all the drink you’re getting and it’s more than your sorry self deserves ... Sara says.”

A completely foreign urge to laugh assaulted Adam with such force, and turned so fast into a need to weep, he had to scrub his face with a shaking hand to gather control.

Sara was here. His children were here. Half of him wanted to rant, the other half wanted to exult. Now he’d gone and proved everybody right. This was it. Adam Zuckerman had gone stark, staring mad.