Little Amish Matchmaker (2 page)

Isaac winced, concentrating on the Bible story.

They rose, recited the Lord’s Prayer in English, then sang a fast-paced good morning song as they all streamed to the front of the classroom, picking up the homemade songbooks as they passed the stack.

Ruthie stood beside Isaac, so he had to share a songbook. She was still digging around with that dubious Kleenex, snorting and honking dry little sounds of pure annoyance, so he leaned to the right as far as he could and held the songbook with thumb and forefinger.

His shoulder bumped against Hannah Fisher’s, and she glared self-righteously straight into his eyes, so he hove to the left only a smidgen, stood on his tiptoes and stared straight up to the ceiling, the only safe place.

He certainly hoped girls would change in the next 10 years, or he’d never be able to get married. Girls like Teacher Catherine only came along once in about 20 years, he reasoned.

He had a strong suspicion his brother Sim was completely aware of this as well.

For one thing, Sim had offered to bring the gang mower to mow the schoolyard back in August. A gang mower was a bunch of reel mowers attached to a cart with a seat on it, and shafts to hitch a horse into. It was the Amish alternative to a gas-powered riding mower, and a huge nuisance, in Isaac’s opinion. By the time you caught a horse in the pasture and put the harness and bridle on him, you could have mowed half the grass with an ordinary reel mower. Isaac had caught Sim currycombing his best Haflinger, Jude, the prancy one. Then Sim gave Isaac the dumbest answer ever when he asked why he was hitching Jude to the gang mower instead of Dolly, who was far more dependable.

Besides using Jude, Sim had showered and then dressed in a sky-blue Sunday shirt which, to Isaac’s way of thinking, was totally uncalled for.

He even used cologne. Now if that wasn’t a sure sign that you noticed someone, Isaac didn’t know what was.

It was a wonder he hadn’t taken a rag to the mower blades. Polished them up.

Sim stayed till dark, even. Got himself a drink at the hydrant by the porch when Catherine was sweeping the soapy water across the cement, just so he could say hello to her.

Isaac was going to have to talk to Sim, see if he could arrange something.

That whole scenario had been way back before school started, when all the parents came to scrub and scour, wax the tile floor, mow and trim the schoolyard, paint the fence, repair anything broken, all in preparation for the coming term.

They wouldn’t have had to use the gang mower. Weed-eaters did a terrific job, especially if 10 or 11 of them whined away at once.

But Isaac supposed if you wanted attention from a pretty teacher, a prancing Haflinger and a blue shirt would help.

Before they began arithmetic class, Teacher Catherine announced she had all the copies ready for the Christmas program. Amid excited ooh’s, quiet hand-clapping, and bouncing scholars in their seats, she began by handing the upper-graders their copies of the Christmas plays.

Isaac’s heart began a steady, dull acceleration, as if he was running uphill with his scooter.

Would he be in a play?

Oh, he hoped. There was nothing in all the world he loved more than being in a Christmas play. He was as tall as the eighth-grade boys. Almost, anyway. Sim was tall. He was over six feet, with green eyes and dark skin. Isaac thought he looked a lot like Sim, only a bit better around the nose.

Sure enough. A fairly thick packet was plopped on his desk.

“Isaac, do you think you can carry the main part of this play, being Mr. Abraham Lincoln? Ruthie will be Mrs. Lincoln.”

Isaac looked up at Teacher Catherine, met those blue eyes and knew he would do anything for her, even have Ruthie as his wife in the Christmas play. When Catherine smiled and patted his shoulder, he smiled back, nodded his head and was so happy he could have turned cartwheels the whole way up the aisle to the blackboard.

Yes, he would have to talk to Sim.

O
UTSIDE, THE SNOW KEPT
driving against the buildings, the red barn standing like a sentry, guarding the white house, the round, tin-roofed corn crib and the red implement shed on the Samuel Stoltzfus farm.

Darkness had fallen, so the yellow lantern light shone in perfect yellow squares through the swirling snow, beacons of warmth and companionship. A large gray tomcat took majestic leaps through the drifts, making his way to the dairy barn where he knew a warm dish of milk would eventually be placed in front of him.

Heifers bawled, impatiently awaiting their allotment of pungent corn silage.

The Belgian workhorses clattered the chains attached to their thick leather halters, tossing their heads in anticipation as Isaac dug the granite bucket into the feed bin.

A bale of hay bounced down from the ceiling, immediately followed by another. Then a pair of brown boots and two sturdy legs followed, and Sim pounced like a cat, grabbing Isaac’s shoulder.

“Gotcha!”

“You think you’re scary? You’re not.” Isaac emptied the bucket of grain into Pet’s box, then turned to face Sim. “Hey, why don’t you ask Teacher Catherine for a date?”

No use beating around the bush, mincing words, hedging around, whatever you wanted to call it. Eventually, you’d have to say those words, so you may as well put them out there right away. Sort of like that gluey, slimy, toy stuff you threw against a wall and it stuck, then slowly climbed down, after you watched it hang on the wall for awhile.

The long silence that followed proved that Sim had heard his words. All the lime-green fluorescence of them.

Isaac hid a wide grin, shouldered another bucket of feed, calmly dumped it into Dan’s wooden box, then turned and faced Sim squarely. In the dim light of the hissing gas lantern, swinging from the cast-iron hook that had hung there for generations, he was surprised to find Sim looking as if he was going to be sick.

Sim’s face was whitish-green, his mouth hung open and he looked a lot like the bluegills did after you extracted the hook from their mouths and threw them on the green grass of the pond bank. Even his eyes were bulging.

“What’s the matter?”

Sim closed his mouth, then opened it, but no words came out.

“Nothing can be that bad,” Isaac said over his shoulder as he went to fill a bucket for Sam.

“Why in the world would I do something like that? In a thousand years she would never take me.”

Isaac had no idea Sim was as spineless as that. Why couldn’t he just approach her and ask? If she said no, then that was that. No harm done. At least he had tried.

“You think so?” is what Isaac said instead.

“Yes.” Sim jerked his head up and down. “What would a girl like her want with … well, me? She’s way above my class.”

That was stupid. “There is no such thing as class. Not for me and Calvin.”

“Well, there is for me.” Sim reached out and tipped Isaac’s straw hat. “I live in the real world. I know when I have a chance and when I don’t.”

Isaac bent over and picked up his hat, stuck it on top of his head, then smashed it down firmly. It felt right. That tight band around his head, just above his eyes, was a part of him, like breathing and laughing. His hat shaded the sun, kept angry bumblebees from attacking his hair, kept the rain and snow off, and if he wore it at a rakish angle, it made him look like an eighth-grader.

“Did you ask God for her? The way Mam says?” Isaac asked.

Sim dug in his pocket for his Barlow knife. He found it and flicked it open before bending to cut the baling twine around a bale of hay. “It’s not right to ask God for a million dollars or a mansion or something to make you happy.”

“Who said?”

Isaac leaned against the hand-hewn post, tipped back his straw hat, stuck a long piece of hay in his mouth and chewed solemnly.

“But the thing is, you don’t know. If it’s God’s will for your life, he might consider it.”

Sim shook his head, mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

“Nothing you’d understand.”

“Are you coming to the Christmas program?” Isaac asked.

“When is it?”

Isaac shrugged. “You could offer to fix the front door before then.”

“Look, Ikey, give it up. She’d—”

“Stop calling me Ikey!”

“She’d never consider me. She’s … just too … pretty and classy and awesome. Besides, she was dating Rube King.”

Isaac lifted a finger, held it aloft. “Was! There’s the word. Was!”

“Well, if she’d say yes, it would soon be a ‘was!’”

Isaac knew defeat when he saw it, so he went to help Mam with the milking. He was cold and sleepy. He wished chores were finished so he could go indoors and curl up on the couch with his Christmas play.

The cow stable was pungent, steamy and filled with the steady “chucka-chucka” sound of four, large, stainless-steel milkers extracting the milk from the sturdy, black and white Holsteins. His mother was bent beside a cow, wiping the udder with a purple cloth dipped in a disinfecting solution. She straightened with a grunt, smiled at him and asked if his chores were finished.

“The chickens yet.”

“You might need a snow shovel. It was drifting around the door this afternoon already.”

Isaac nodded and then bent his head, prepared to meet the onslaught awaiting him the minute he opened the cow-stable door. It did no good. A gigantic puff of wind clutched his hat and sent it spinning off into the icy, whirling darkness. He felt his hair stand straight up, then whip to the left, twisting to the right. No use looking for his hat now. He had better take care of the chickens.

Isaac’s heart sank when he saw the snowdrift. No way could he get into that chicken house without shoveling. He retraced his steps, found the shovel and met the cold head-on once more. His ears stung painfully as his hair tossed about wildly. This was no ordinary snowstorm; it was more like a blizzard. Likely there would be no school tomorrow.

He was able to wedge his way into the chicken house through the small opening, quickly opening the water hydrant and scattering laying mash into the long, tin trough. He fluffed up the dry shavings the hens had thrown in the corner. Then Isaac made a headlong dive out of the warmth of the henhouse, wading through knee-high snow to the house.

He was surprised to see Dat on the front porch, kicking snow off his chore boots.

“You done already?” he asked his father.

“No, Sim’s finishing. Levi Beiler came over, riding his horse. They need help at the Speicher home.”

“Speicher? Teacher Catherine?”

Dat nodded soberly.

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure.”

That sort of answer was no answer at all, but Isaac knew it meant he did not need to know, that he should go into the house and ask no questions. When Dat laid a reassuring hand on his shoulder and Isaac looked up, Dat’s eyes were warm in the light from the kitchen.

“You think you’ll ever find your hat?”

Dat’s hand spread a whole new warmth through him, a comfort, an understanding.

“I have another one. My school hat.” He fixed himself a large saucepan of Mam’s homemade hot cocoa mix and milk. The whole saucepanful ran over, hissing and bubbling into the burner, turning the blue gas flame orange. Isaac jumped up and flipped the burner off, salvaging his warm drink. He dumped the hot cocoa into a mug that said Snoopy on it. Mam loved yard sales. She had a whole collection of funny mugs which made Dat smile.

Mam came in, went to the wash house and kicked around to get her boots off, all to the tune of “God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen.”

He was proud of Mam. She was one smart lady. Not very many Amish people knew that song, but she did. She knew lots of things. She knew what Orthodox Jews were, and synagogues, and she knew who the leader of Cuba was. She explained dictatorship to Isaac, and Dat hid his head behind the
Botschaft
for a long time when Isaac said his teacher was a dictator. That, of course, was before Catherine Speicher.

He wrapped both hands around the Snoopy mug of hot cocoa, took a sip and burned his tongue.

Mam came through the door, taking off her apron, sniffing and asking what was burning.

“The cocoa ran over.”

Mam frowned. She hurried to the stove, peered at the blackened burner, and then bent for her tall green container of Comet. “Tsk, tsk. Should have wiped it off, Ikey. This is quite a blizzard. There are no cars moving at all. The snowplow is going, though, so I’m sure they’ll keep some of the roads open.”

Mam was basically doing what she did best, talking. No matter if Isaac didn’t reply, she rattled on anyway. “Sim went with Dat. They’re having trouble with their water pump. At least that’s what I thought he said. Don’t know why Sim had to go. You’d think Dat and Abner could handle it. Well, see, they can’t run out of water. Those calves and heifers they raise need water. Isaac, what are you reading? School stuff? Christmas plays, I bet. You know I’m not allowed to see it. Just tell me the title. Is it a play? Are you hungry? I’m going to eat a chocolate whoopie pie. I made them this afternoon. You want one to dip in your cocoa? Better not dip it. Whoopie pies fall apart, they’re so soft.”