The Choice (21 page)

But to see the bishop climb out of the buggy—now that was a cause for concern. The bishop was known to be influenced by Esther. If there was any principle that Esther lived by, it was abiding by rules, the way things had always been done. It was the pattern of her life. If Esther had convinced the bishop that Abel might have a worldly influence over Andy, he would insist that Abel leave.

Carrie saw the deacon head out to the barn to talk to Abel while the bishop came inside and sat at the kitchen table. Carrie brought him coffee and a piece of shoofly pie, while Emma shared her observations about those who weren’t properly dressed at church last Sunday.

“And did you notice that Amos Fisher had on his cream-colored shirt under his coat?” Emma asked the bishop. “He thought no one noticed that it wasn’t white, but I saw it, straight off.” She peered at him with a look that said she expected him to feel just as alarmed as she did over the gravity of the incident. He didn’t.

Carrie kept trying to kick Emma under the table to quiet her from tattling on their friends and neighbors, but Emma prattled on, oblivious. Finally, the deacon came into the kitchen. He accepted Carrie’s offer of coffee and pie, and happily settled in at the table.

As Emma cut the slice of pie at the counter, Carrie whispered, “Aw, Emma, why do you have to say such things? Amos Fisher probably just got busy that morning and forgot. He wasn’t trying to be proud.”

Emma looked injured. “I’m only trying to help the bishop. He’s as blind as a bat.” She poured the coffee. “Mother always said that she was the eyes and ears of the congregation.”

“Mostly the mouth,” Yonnie whispered, reaching behind the women to get another piece of pie.

“Carrie,” Abraham said, “if there is anything you need, being a widow and all, if you have any financial worries, the church is here to help. That’s what we take the alms for.”

Carrie handed him the pie and reached a hand out to cover Yonnie’s wrinkled hand. “Thanks to Yonnie, we had what we needed to pay the property tax bill.”

“And our Abel helped us save the apple crop by turning it into cider,” Yonnie added.

“Speaking of,” the bishop said. “I understand Daniel’s brother is here.”

“Daniel’s cousin,” Emma said. “Abel is Yonnie’s grandson.”

The bishop nodded. “I have taken notice that Abel Miller isn’t a church member.”

“Abel is in his Rumspringa,” Yonnie said.

The bishop raised his sparse eyebrows, surprised. “It has come to my attention that he reads from an English Bible. A modern one. Now, you know it isn’t our way to be reading from a modern English Bible.”

Carrie knew he was just speaking what he believed.

“What other English influences might Abel Miller have on this home?” the bishop asked. “What about his influence on our Andy?”

With that comment, Carrie knew for certain she could thank Esther for filling the bishop’s head with those worries. Just as she was about to object, Abel came through the kitchen door.

“Thought I should come in to say hello to the bishop.” Abel offered a stiff, one-pump Amish handshake to the bishop as Carrie got a cup of coffee for him. She wished there was some way she could have warned him to stay in the barn.

The bishop fixed his eyes on Abel, measuring him. “You read from a modern English Bible.” It wasn’t a question. “The Bible has never changed.”

Abel glanced at Carrie, who tipped her head toward Emma. “Well, you see, I never learned German. I came to Eli’s home when I was thirteen.”

Abraham slapped his knees in delight. “You see, Atlee? He can’t read German! Of course!”

“If he can’t read the
Luther Bible
, then he should be reading from King James,” said the bishop.

Abel didn’t respond to the bishop, but he looked as if reading those translations hadn’t occurred to him and he was only sorry he hadn’t thought of it himself.

“Abel has been away from Plain folk for a while,” Abraham said. “He needs time to be reminded of our ways. We will pray he will choose to become baptized in due time.” The deacon smiled. “And he’ll be a fine helper for Yonnie and Carrie since our Daniel’s passing. Sent by the Lord God.” He stood. “Better get back to my dairy.” He leaned close to the bishop and quietly added, “Ich have er gut ausgfrogt.”

The bishop nodded, rising from his chair. “So then, Abel Miller, we will expect to see you in church on Sunday.”

Abel had been going to an Amish-Mennonite church in town on Sundays. Carrie thought Yonnie would have minded that he wasn’t going to their church service, but she never said anything to him, so Carrie didn’t, either.

Afterward, as the deacon’s buggy rolled onto the street, Abel turned to Carrie, “What did the deacon say to the bishop? In Deitsch?”

“That he had thoroughly interrogated you.”

“That’s what I thought he said.” Abel gave a short laugh. “We talked about horses.”

Carrie could hardly look at Emma for the rest of that day. Abel was unfazed. He acted just the same toward Emma, friendly and warm and teasing, like he understood she was a rule follower. But that night, he kept right on reading aloud from his modern Bible too.

The next morning, Carrie slid open the heavy door of the barn and walked inside. The heady scent of hay and sweet grain was so familiar. Hope shuffled when she heard her and rolled her heavy head in Carrie’s direction. Abel gave her a nod as he came in from his workshop. He unlatched the hook of the nearly empty rubber water bucket from the eye on the wall and carried it outside to the hose.

Carrie sidled into Schtarm’s stall to add a scoop of sweet grain to his feed. She watched his graceful head bend to the fragrant, honeyed oats when Abel came to get Schtarm’s water bucket. As she stroked Schtarm’s large neck, she said, “I’m sorry Emma raised a concern about you.”

“Are Esther’s other daughters like Emma?” he asked, his mouth turned up at the corners.

“No. Emma is just . . . Emma. My favorite stepsister, Sarah, she lives in another district now, she always said that Emma’s prayer cap was on too tight.”

Carrie still wasn’t sure what Abel’s plans were, but she couldn’t deny that she hoped he might stay on, even though the harvest was done. He spent his days at Honor Mansion doing carpentry work, but he still found time to do plenty of chores around Cider Mill Farm. He had found an old freezer for the cider that he was able to get for free if he would haul it away. It wasn’t in working condition, but Abel said that was a minor detail. He fixed it and got it running with a generator.

Abel slid Schtarm’s stall door shut and latched it. “So Yon-nie said you’re not too keen on being courted by this bishop’s grandson, right?”

Carrie nodded, unsure of what he was getting at.

“Last night, Yonnie mentioned that she thought Emma and John might be a good pair.”

Carrie’s eyes went wide. “She wants to try her hand at matchmaking? With Emma?”

“Yonnie has a way of knowing about these kinds of things.” He grinned. “So what do you think?”

She could feel a slow smile stretch across her face. “Emma would love to be married. And John would love to be loved.” It suddenly seemed like such a funny coupling that she started to giggle. She could just picture worried Emma seated on a buggy seat next to John Graber, thin and long and angular and solemn. She laughed so hard, she buckled at the waist, and it felt so good. She hadn’t laughed like that since—why, she couldn’t even remember how long it had been. When she finally stopped laughing, she wiped away the tears streaming down her face.

“Here,” Abel said, grinning, as he pulled out his handkerchief. He held the back of her head with one hand and began dabbing her face with the handkerchief. They stood just inches apart, closer than they had ever stood before. All of a sudden Abel stopped wiping, everything stood still. His gaze traveled Carrie’s face, from her starched prayer cap to her lips. Carrie’s heart started thumping foolishly.

Suddenly, Emma’s voice rang out from the farmhouse. “Carrie? Yoo-hoo! Carrie? Where are you? Andy won’t eat his oatmeal.”

Abel slightly turned his head in the direction of the farmhouse but kept his eyes on Carrie. “Emma’s oatmeal? Who could blame him? She’s a fine cook, but her oatmeal tastes like library paste.”

Carrie jumped back and hurried past him into the house.

All day long, she couldn’t stop thinking of that gaze.

Ever since Veronica McCall hired Abel to work at Honor Mansion, she stopped by Carrie’s farm on her way to work to give him a ride. Early one Saturday, Veronica McCall burst into the kitchen, brushing past Carrie at the door, looking for Abel.

“He’s down in the barn. I’m sure he heard you honking your car horn and will come up to the house in a minute,” Emma said with a frown, as she put a match to her Coleman gas iron. “Two counties over heard you,” she muttered. Emma didn’t care much for Veronica’s ways.

Oblivious to Emma’s disdain, Veronica poured herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, close to the ironing board. “So what’s that you’re ironing?” she asked.

“My churchgoing dress. I’m getting it ready for the singing.” Emma held up an organza prayer cap. “And these too.” She ironed with a vengeance, making sure every little pleat in her cap was crisp and starched. Her white prayer caps sat in a row on the kitchen table, like roosting chickens.

“What’s a singing?” Veronica McCall asked, picking an apple out of a bowl. She examined it, put it down, and picked up another.

“A singing is a wonderful thing,” Yonnie said. “All of the young folk go, saying they want to sing hymns, but they’re really stealing looks at each other when they think nobody’s looking.”

“So it’s dating, Amish style?” Veronica McCall asked, amused. “Figures. Seems like churchgoing is the Amish’s National Sport.”

Emma opened her mouth to correct her for blaspheming when Veronica shocked her silent by saying, “Maybe I’ll tag along. What time should I be here?”

Carrie’s eyes went wide. “Why?”

“I want to learn more about the Amish.”

“But . . . why?” Carrie asked again.

Veronica looked at Carrie as if she were very slow-witted. “I live and work near the Amish and I should know more about them.”

Just then, Abel came through the kitchen door. An awkward silence fell over the room.

“What are you ladies talking about?” he asked as he went to the sink to wash up.

“Veronica McCall wants to come to the singing with us,” Emma said to him, sounding concerned.

He spun around, hands dripping soapsuds on the black part of the floor where the linoleum had rubbed away. “Why?”

“I just thought I’d come! Why is that such a big deal?” Veronica McCall asked, frustration rising.

“It’s not . . . common . . . for Englishers to go,” Carrie tried to explain. “We sing hymns.”

“I like music,” Veronica said, putting down the apple.

“Some of the hymns are from the Ausbund,” Emma said.

“What’s an out band?” Veronica asked.

“Ausbund,” Abel said. “It’s the Amish hymnal; it’s hundreds of years old. There’s no music score. The verses are in high German, and songs can last fifteen to twenty minutes.”

Veronica McCall’s arched eyebrows shot up.

“But some of our hymn singing gets a little lively,” Emma added, eyes narrowing at her. “And downright raucous.”

Veronica McCall lifted a shoulder in a careless shrug. “I’ll try anything once.”

Abel looked cornered, like a trapped animal. He turned back to the sink to finish washing his hands.

“What time should I arrive?” Veronica asked.

Abel winced. “Come tomorrow night at six.”

Veronica stared at him, but he kept his eyes on his soapy hands. “Fine, then. Six.”

“Better wear something that covers those limbs,” Emma said, peering at Veronica McCall’s long legs. “And button those up to keep from displaying a good bit of the Lord’s bounty.” She wagged a finger at Veronica McCall’s blouse.

Abel froze at the sink. Carrie had been setting the table and stopped, forks suspended in midair. Emma’s and Veronica Mc-Call’s eyes locked on each other, a standoff, two stubborn women with their hands firmly planted on their hips.

“Fine,” snapped Veronica McCall, before scooping up her purse and blowing out the kitchen door.