Fire in the Night (29 page)

“What about?”

“The barn fires.”

“What are they going to do?” Mam’s voice rose an octave, and her bonneted head turned toward Dat, who stared straight ahead, avoiding her intense gaze.

“I don’t know. Something, they said. They think we should fight back.”

“How?”

Dat shrugged.

“Oh my, Davey. This is very upsetting. How can anyone fight back? There is not much we can do.”

“Levi’s Abner wants to hire private detectives.”

Mam lifted both hands and slapped them down in complete disbelief, sending up a few puffs of dust.

“But even an English detective wouldn’t know where to start.”

Dat nodded in agreement.

“I’ll go to the meeting, likely. I just hope enough of us can come up with a peaceful solution to win over the hotheads.”

He pulled on the left rein, an unnecessary maneuver, as Fred leaned toward the driveway without being told. They rode the remainder of the way in silence, then climbed off the spring wagon and walked into the house, each one separated by their own thoughts.

Levi’s cough returned after the ride in the cold air, so Mam decided to stay home from the barn raising on Thursday. Emery Fender, the lumber-truck driver, would pick up Dat, so Sarah decided to drive Fred by herself.

Levi was terribly upset about staying home because of his cough. He cried, threatened, and pleaded with Mam, who stood her ground and said there was no way he was allowed to go, and that was that. To ease the pain, she promised him a pumpkin pie if he’d drink his tea with lemon and honey in it.

That evening Matthew walked up to the front door and asked Sarah if she wanted to ride with him the next day. After this unexpected piece of good fortune fell in her lap, she sang, smiled, and whistled her way through the rest of the evening.

Priscilla would go along, but she’d be in the back seat, and that was alright with Sarah. Oh, again, God had smiled down on her and blessed her with Matthew’s presence, she thought the next morning as she combed her hair, hovering within inches of the mirror.

Mam asked both girls to mind their business, watch to make sure the men had enough water to drink, and to please stay away from photographers and reporters. She sized up Sarah’s hair and covering, her eyes narrowing.

“Sarah, do you have on your good covering?”

Caught, Sarah thought resignedly. “Afraid I do,” she trilled, trying to lift her mother to a lighter mood.

“Afraid you’ll leave it here,” Mam said dryly.

“Please, Mam. My other one fits so stupid. One side leans forward, no matter what I do with it.”

“Sarah.”

Oh, so she was going to treat her like she was still in first grade, then. Instant rebellion sprang to life, like boiling water poured on coffee granules. “Mam,” she said, fast and hard, “You are just mad that I’m going with Matthew. That’s the only reason you don’t want me to wear my best covering.”

Mam opened her mouth, a sharp reprimand on her tongue. But she knew Sarah was right, and she knew she’d been caught red-handed trying to steal the small amount of courage Sarah had outfitted for herself by wearing the Sunday covering.

Wisely, Mam turned away, swallowing the sharp retort. She said no more, allowing Sarah the upper hand. She wisely guarded the open door that led to the complicated world of mother-daughter relationships, viewing the days that stretched both behind her and ahead of her.

How could daughters see right through you like that? How? It was annoying and maddening, all at once. Of course she didn’t want Sarah to go with Matthew. She didn’t trust him, didn’t trust him one bit.

Then, because she was tired from having lain awake until all hours of the morning with her thoughts whirling about her—tormenting her, rendering her unable even to say a decent prayer, the state she was in—she waited till the girls ran out the door. Then she sat down on the old hickory rocker and covered her face with her apron and had a good long cry.

The string of barn fires, the insecurity they had brought, her Davey being so troubled, the loss of Mervin, her worries about Sarah and Matthew—suddenly and unexpectedly it all took its toll on Mam.

The ride with Matthew was less than comfortable. The buggy had no back seat, the way Matthew had it filled with sports equipment and clothes and all kinds of other stuff. Priscilla had to perch on the door ledge, leaving the cold wind pouring in the open door.

Matthew said if Sarah sat back, Priscilla could fit on the seat between them. But she refused, so she was cold the whole way. Matthew teased Priscilla and spoke only to her, looking at her entirely too much.

Sarah may as well have been a log or a length of stove pipe propped up in the corner, for all the attention he paid her. To make everything much worse, Priscilla continually giggled and smiled but also responded with an intelligence that seemed to intrigue Matthew.

After a few miles of this, he seemed to notice Sarah’s lack of input, so he said, “Why so quiet, Sarah?” illuminating her world with the power of his kind, dark eyes.

Oh, Matthew. His eyes made her knees weak with the knowledge of her love. Never would she leave him. Never. She would always be here for him, waiting, hoping, and yes, praying that God would allow her to be his wife someday. His eyes were pools of kindness, of uplifting, of support, a wonderful boost to her faltering hope.

Could she help it, the waves of longing, the repressed love and devotion that held her in its unwavering grip? When she was with him, there was no doubt in her mind: It was always Matthew, and it would always be.

“I wasn’t quiet,” she said now, breathlessly, in spite of herself.

“Yeah, you were. But that’s just you, anyhow. You’re not as talkative as your sister. Hey, Pris, when will you be sixteen? When’s your birthday?”

“November.”

“Really? Wow! You’ll be sixteen this month?”

“Fifteen.”

“Aw, come on. You mean I have a whole year to wait?”

Priscilla blushed and became flustered. She looked into Sarah’s eyes. Finding misery so raw, she did exactly the right thing and asked Matthew what he was thinking. He was way too old for her, seriously. And she no longer giggled.

Cold, disenchanted, her hopes dashed for the thousandth time, Sarah waited until Priscilla stepped down from the buggy before following her.

“Hey, don’t I at least deserve a thank you?” he called after them.

“Oh, of course.”

Sarah stopped, walked back, and thanked him, looking directly into the deep brown of his eyes, shoring up her resolve for the uncertain days and weeks and months ahead.

As if in another world, she heard the truck engines and the shouting voices, smelled the sharp odor of the new yellow lumber, as the many men dressed in black trousers and coats swarmed around the building site. They had already erected the main beams.

She guessed her love for Matthew was a lot like the barn fires, wasn’t it? Dashed hopes destroyed by something so much larger than herself, only to be rebuilt, started anew, and continued on. But there was a growing uneasiness, a cold and dreadful realization, circling, circling, like wary wolves intent on their prey. She was keenly aware of Matthew’s disinterest. She just couldn’t let that control her hope. She had to keep moving. Fresh courage was her shield, her weapon, against the circling doubt. All was not lost.

The sound of hammers ringing against steel, the high whine of the chainsaws, the voices calling to one another—was it really happening again? The only thing that seemed real to her was the sound of the women, talking and laughing as they bent over the folding table with the dishpans containing potatoes and water, paring knives flashing as they peeled.

A stainless steel bucket piled full of potatoes fed a hundred, wasn’t that right? Or was it two? And the same old spirited argument, paring knifes versus those Tupperware peelers. Or were the Pampered Chef ones best?

Aaron Zook
sei
Mary said what did it matter, a peeler is a peeler, and none of them work. A great clamoring of voices ensued, and Sarah smiled. She began cutting peeled potatoes and put her troubled thoughts to rest.

Here she was at home.

Chapter 21

T
HE ACTUAL SPEED WITH WHICH
the barn took shape was unbelievable this time. The women stopped mid-morning to observe. There were more men than usual, they decided.

This third barn fire was attracting a lot of attention. Concerned members of the Old Order from as far away as Ohio and Indiana wanted to help, share their views, extend their charities.

The house was cleared away for the most part, but Reuby and Bena were still planning, knowing that if they rushed through that stage, it would spite them later on, Bena said.

The barn must be rebuilt first; Reuby’s livelihood came from milking a herd of cows. By the time dinner was served, the metal sheets were being screwed into place on the lower end of the forebay.

“My oh,” Grandmother Miller said from her vantage point at the stove, waving the great wooden spoon and causing quite a stir among the women and girls.

Someone observed flatly that it was no wonder the new barn was going up so fast, with all the practice they’d had since early spring. It was sobering, all agreed.

Grandmother Miller shook her head, saying, “
Die lenga, die arriga
(The longer it goes, the worse things get).”

They made dire predictions. The end of the world coming any day now, according to the Bible. Mankind was going awry, and evil was prevailing. Mind you, the world is in such a state of sinful activity.

Sarah drew into herself. Yes, there was a certain truth in their words, of course. But what about the overwhelming response among the Plain people when tragedies did occur? Didn’t that count for something? But she stayed quiet, being only a young single girl and outnumbered by her older peers.

Amid their prophesying, the women mashed the potatoes, which they kept warm and ready to serve along with gravy, ham, meatloaf, and chicken.

Kentucky Fried Chicken in Lancaster had donated twenty large containers of their chicken, with its distinctive taste—the best, in Dat’s opinion. He called it Lucky Fried Chicken because he felt lucky every time someone brought some home or he got to eat at one of the restaurants. Sarah smiled, thinking of Dat.

No doubt, all the Amish would be touched by this generous gesture from the English people. The support from
die ausrie
(the outsiders) was indeed phenomenal, and it humbled the Plain people.

At a time like this, Sarah thought, the line between the English and the Amish was blurry. There really was no line. All over the world, every culture, every religion, understood loss and tragedy, horror and fear. There was always the good in man to combat the evil of men, and so it was this time. After a triple dose of disaster, the good poured in over and over, endlessly. It was truly an indescribable feeling.

Wolf Furniture brought two La-Z-Boy recliners with brown upholstery. Poor Reuby
sei
Bena told the driver he had the wrong place. He showed her the address on the delivery sheet, but she said, no, he had it all wrong, and he may as well take them back; they couldn’t afford them.

He said, “Ma’am, I think they’re donated.”

She burst into tears and wiped her eyes with the corners of her
kopp-duch
(head scarf). Reuby came on the scene and shook the driver’s hand so powerfully that the man had to keep taking it off the steering wheel and flexing his fingers the whole way back to Reading.

After dinner, they washed kettles and bowls and cleaned up as best they could. The temporary living quarters in the shed were almost impossible to keep clean, with the mud and the cold and the number of people stomping around.

The girls grabbed their coats and sat on the sunny side of the corncrib to watch the men, refilling the water jugs whenever it was necessary. The frame of the barn was all but completed, rising like a yellow skeleton into the blue November sky.

In the east, a wall of gray was building, rolling across the blue, changing the atmosphere slightly, as if the sun wasn’t quite sure of itself. A wedge of geese honked their tardy way across the sky, like schoolchildren who knew they were late but kept hurrying along. Inexplicably, the hammering slowed as the men and boys watched the formation of Canadian geese, then pounding resumed.

Matthew walked by with Amos “Amy” King, one of his friends, and asked Sarah when they’d be ready to go.

“Whenever you are.”

“In an hour or so? I have to feed heifers tonight.”

“Sounds good.”

Matthew smiled at her, then at Priscilla.

“How are you?” Amos asked.

“Good. I’m good.”

“This your sister?”

“Yes. Priscilla, this is Amos.”

“Hi.”

Clearly flustered, Priscilla smiled up at Amos before quickly and shyly averting her eyes, as most fourteen-year-old girls do when introduced to a young man who was old enough to be
rumspringing
.

Sarah was glad to see this shyness in Priscilla. It spoke well for her character, and Sarah hoped she’d keep that sweet trait, even when she was sixteen. Too many pretty girls lost their shyness after receiving too much attention from the young men. And Priscilla was certainly noticeable, with her blond-streaked honey-colored hair, blue-green eyes, and round features.