Pennsylvania Patchwork (6 page)

CHAPTER TEN

Esther glanced out the sitting room window and saw Rascal tugging on his rope, pulling Holly north toward Beth's house. “I surely hope Holly's not chasing after Zach,” she said to Mamm. “I can see his pickup and the red car are still at Beth's.”

“'Tis difficult to watch your child traipse into a swamp of disappointment,” Mamm said, from the couch. “I know all too well, having you live an Englisch life as a spinster all those many years.”

“My life wasn't so bad—”

“Ach, I don't believe it for a minute. If that were true, what are ya doin' here?”

“Trying to make up for lost time.”

“Have you considered Samuel bought that fabric for someone else?” Mamm got to her feet. “Why, for all you know, he could have been carrying on with a woman over there and calling her Mrs. Samuel Fisher.”

“Why would you suggest such a ridiculous thing? He never would have.”

“I've heard stories. Men do all sorts of irrational things in times of war. He could have decided he was doing her a favor. Why, she could have been pregnant with his child.”

Esther wanted to plug her ears. Again, she recalled the doctor asking about Mamm's personality, and wondered if her mean-spiritedness was a symptom of a disease. Or was her mother losing her marbles?

“Mamm, I refuse to even listen to your preposterous ideas. Samuel didn't marry another woman. He wasn't that kind of man. He wrote me letters telling me how much he missed me.”

“Now that Holly is gone, tell me the truth.” Mamm eyed the fabric as if it were made of woven poison ivy. “Would your Samuel have bought that shiny silk? The color's almost blinding it's so bright, only the devil's mistress would wear it. And that
schlecht
—evil—doll?”

Esther stepped back, recoiling from her mother's verbal onslaught that rang all too true. Those last few months, his letters had become far and few between, and his sentences disjointed. She'd wondered if he was doing drugs, working with the wounded as he was, where pain medication would have been easy to access.

“I suppose I can't imagine he'd get this particular doll for me, either,” Esther said, envisioning the faceless dolls of her youth. What had Samuel been thinking? “Maybe that's all there was for sale over in Vietnam.”

Esther noticed talking about her former husband's death didn't quake her world as violently as in the past—his image at age eighteen used to visit her randomly throughout the day. She was glad she'd left his photo in Seattle.

“During a war they had such expensive things for enlisted men to buy?” Mamm said.

“He could have saved up and wanted to bring me a present.” Although he'd never mentioned it in correspondence and she'd never requested a doll, only his safe return.

“You said in a letter once he was hoping for a son, didn't you?”

“He'd hinted he wanted a little Samuel junior, but added he'd be just as pleased with a daughter who looked like me.”

Mamm shook her head. “I ain't tellin' ya this to hurt you, Esther, really I'm not.”

“You could have fooled me.” She felt like her mother had driven a jackhammer into her abdomen. She silently asked God for guidance. “I'll write the man who sent these to verify he has the right Samuel.”

“I'll bet ya anything he's got the wrong woman altogether,” Mamm said. “Not that I would ever bet, for betting is a sin.”

“Holly would be sorely disappointed, but it might be for the best.”

“In the meantime, give them to me to put in the Daadi Haus in case someone stops by.”

“No, I promised Holly I'd look after them.” Her resolve to show them to Nathaniel was dwindling.

Mamm bustled to the hearth, pushed herself up onto her tiptoes, and swiped the doll off the mantel. She pivoted to face Esther. “Now, give me the silk, too.”

“Please, Mamm, let's not fight over this. I thought we'd come to a permanent truce, you and I.”

“Yah, we have, but I'm still your Mudder!” Mamm's voice turned acerbic, but Esther was determined not to retaliate, no matter what. Esther thought of old western movies she'd watched on TV. A showdown is what they were having, but Esther wouldn't overreact or be insolent to her mother. Yet she couldn't let Mamm have her way.

“I'm going to keep this with me.” Esther clutched the silk to her chest and raised her chin.

“Essie, you're disrespecting me!” Mamm lunged out, took hold of the fabric, and yanked hard. But her fingers turned rubbery and slipped. Esther's mouth gaped open as she watched her mother's torso twist and fall, her arms flailing. Mamm's forehead struck the coffee table, toppling it over. Esther reached out, but too late to keep her from hitting the wooden floor.

“Mamm!” Esther stooped down. “Are you all right?”

“Yah, yah, fine as I'll ever be.”

“No, you're not. Your head's bleeding.”

Mamm wiped her forehead, then observed her bloodied hand. “'Tis nothing that a damp rag won't fix.”

“I should take you to the doctor. I think you need stitches.” The sight of blood usually didn't bother Esther, but queasiness rippled through her stomach; she thought she might gag. She was tempted to use the silk to swab Mamm's gash, but figured Mamm would be offended.

“Nee, I'm fine, I tell ya.”

A rap-rap-rap-rap on the door startled Esther.

“Who could that be?” Mamm said. “Hardly anyone comes to the front door.”

“A salesman?” How would Esther explain the tableau: her mother sprawled out on the floor, the table on its side, the doll lying facedown. “I'll ignore it.”

Mamm tried to sit up, but couldn't. “Ach, whoever it is heard us speaking and knows we're home. Go see who's there.”

“All right.” Esther hoped it wasn't the bishop. No, he'd come 'round back. But she could use help getting Mamm to her feet and assessing her injury.

Another knock, knock.

A sense of urgency slithered through Esther. She tried to help Mamm, but her mother shushed her off. “Get the door.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Pretending I had no destination in mind, I glanced to the right, toward Nathaniel's farm, and to the left and caught sight of Beth's home, Zach's pickup, and a splash of red, which I assumed was another automobile. I wished I didn't care she'd not invited me over, or that she might be covering up for Zach, but I did.

His tail flagging, Rascal turned frisky as we ambled along the dirt-and-gravel path at the side of the paved road. The mellow scenery of rolling hills, farms, and pastureland unfolded ahead of us.

“Where shall we go?” I said to Rascal, as if I were wandering aimlessly. He tugged to the left toward a squirrel scuttling up a tree on the other side of the road. “Are you a rambler, like your owner?” I asked him, but the pooch's vision was locked on the squirrel, its furry tail twitching as it balanced on a limb.

Careful of an oncoming buggy, I allowed Rascal to drag me across the road. He heaved on the rope as another squirrel appeared, then scampered out of sight. Farther up the road, a dog barked, and Rascal quickened his gait. Unless we turned around in a few minutes, we'd parade right in front of Beth's house. Showing up at Beth's would be one of the most immature stunts I'd ever pulled. So I wouldn't. When Rascal and I got to her driveway, I'd cross the road.

As we neared Beth's, Rascal stopped to watch another squirrel zigzag up a tree, then the dog lifted his leg to mark the territory.

In my imagination, Zach's pickup motored down the driveway, then he stopped, jumped out, and gave me the hug and kiss I longed for. But no such luck.

Within moments Rascal and I were at Beth's driveway. I readied myself to cross the road, but a car was coming toward us. As I waited for it to pass I heard a child's voice, then a woman's calling. Rascal's ears pricked up and he looked toward Beth's house. I figured she had one of her grandkids visiting—she was preoccupied.

The woman's voice—not Beth's—grew shrill. “Justin, get back here!”

A little boy about three years old wearing shorts and a polo shirt came barreling down the drive. I heard a truck's muffler headed our way. A horrific scene detonated in my mind—a vehicle running over the youngster! I ran to successfully corral him before he reached the road.

Rascal yipped, and the little boy stopped short. “Doggie!” he said as the truck roared by.

The woman, wearing slacks and a cerise turtleneck, showing off a curvy figure, clasped the child's hand. “Don't ever do that again, Justin,” she said to the boy, then noticed me. “He's never run away like that before.”

Her eyes were swollen and ringed with mascara as if she'd been crying. But her frosted pink lipstick matching her sweater wasn't smudged. She was what people in Seattle might call classy; her short, coiffed golden hair had been highlighted, and a diamond stud adorned each earlobe.

I figured she was Zach's sister, making cutie-pie Justin his nephew.

“Hi, I'm Holly Fisher,” I said.

She gave me a cursory looking over, but said nothing.

I heard tromping footsteps and saw Zach sprinting down the drive toward us. He seemed to glance at me, then his gaze honed in on the woman. “Thank the Lord you got him before he reached the road,” he said to her. His face was blotched red and his breathing ragged.

“It's not easy being a single parent,” she snapped. Her arm encircled the boy protectively. She was about my age, but Mom's height—several inches taller than I was.

“That's no excuse for negligence,” he said, his nostrils flared.

“How dare you? Don't speak that way in front of your son.” She picked up the boy, but he wriggled to get down.

I felt like I'd been sucker-punched; I almost doubled over.

“You've got your nerve coming here with pie-in-the-sky accusations,” Zach said to the woman.

As if I'd suddenly materialized, he acknowledged me. “Hello, Holly. Sorry you had to see this.”

Rascal growled at him. I was tempted to let the dog nip at Zach's pant legs. “Are you going to introduce us?” I said.

“Holly, this is Victoria.”

“And Justin, Zach's son.” Victoria lifted her chin.

I felt bile rising in my throat. I realized compared to this woman I was a plain Jane. Today, I'd combed my shoulder-length hair and applied a small amount of makeup, but I felt like a ragweed compared to this orchid. Then the jigsaw pieces fit into place: everyone else in the county knew the truth. Zach was involved with another woman! There was no way I could compete with her—his child's mother.

Victoria inclined her head toward me and said, “Is this the woman you're fooling around with when you're ignoring your own child?”

The little boy sobbed into her shoulder and sucked his thumb.

“You want your daddy, don't you?” Victoria said.

Her words were like knives, piercing me. I stood frozen, unable to move. Please, God, I thought, wake me up. Let this be a bad dream.

“I'll bet he does want his real father,” Zach said.

Victoria stomped her foot. “How can you be so cruel?”

Zach turned to me. “This is not my child, Holly.” As he stepped toward me, Rascal let out a throaty growl.

“You obviously don't need me around.” My words tasted acrid. “I'd better leave.”

“It's not what you think, Holly.” Zach kept a couple yards away, thanks to Rascal's growling. “Victoria and I used to date, but she broke it off and got married.”

“To a man with black hair,” she said, ramping up her volume. I looked from Zach to the child. The boy's hair was lighter than Zach's sandy-colored hair, but I knew a child's hair could darken with age, as mine had. I tried to detect facial resemblances, but as far as I could tell the boy had inherited his mother's pert nose and rosebud mouth.

I heard Beth's voice calling from the house. “Justin, the cupcakes are out of the oven. Time to make icing.”

Justin's face lit up, his blue eyes sparkling.

Victoria set him down. “Go to Grandma Beth,” she said, and gave him a light swat on his rear.

His pint-sized legs hustled up the drive. I could make out Beth's tall and slim figure. She didn't wave. I almost jogged up the driveway to demand that Beth tell me the truth.

“Don't call my mother Grandma Beth.” Zach pounded his fist against his thigh. “Victoria, why are you doing this?”

“Because I owe Justin the truth. And you, too.”

I felt crushed, like a steamroller had mowed me over.

“I was just about to come and see you,” Zach said to me, but his words were darts in my ears.

“And what? Tell me about her?”

“I was pregnant with Zach's son when I got married,” Victoria said to me, as if she could hear my unspoken questions.

“I don't buy your story for a minute.” Zach's voice seethed with bitterness. “I'm betting your husband tossed you out. Did you cheat on him like you two-timed me? You think dumb old Zach will come to your rescue?”

Rascal barked and ratcheted the rope out of my grasp. I turned and saw Armin steering the cart toward us. He brought the horse to a stop, and Rascal leaped up onto the bench next to him.

“I could hear y'all from a half-mile away,” Armin said. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Yes, and your timing couldn't be better.” I clambered aboard the wagon, and Rascal jumped in the back. “I've never been so glad to see someone in my life,” I told Armin.

I recalled feeling the same way about Zach just this morning, but now knew why I hardly ever saw him.

Zach dashed over to me. “Holly, don't believe a word she said.”

He seemed so earnest, I felt myself being drawn to him—an oblivious moth to a tantalizing flame. But I couldn't poke my head in the nearest groundhog hole and ignore the hellacious train wreck I'd just witnessed.