The Longing (26 page)
He didn’t follow to see her leave, or ask if they could talk further. He just let her walk away, and all the while she wanted to kick herself for believing in a pipe dream, another one of Ken’s English expressions. Well, now it was hers, too.
What a ridiculous thing to move to Strasburg, only in hopes of getting married. She hurried to her room and closed the door.
Now what?
She went to sit on her bed.
Am I stuck here, with this lease to Ken?
She buried her face in her hands.
“I’ll put all the jam away.” Nellie Mae stacked several glass jars and stored them in the utility room cupboard while Mamma went and sat next to Dat. It was nearly time for Bible reading, and already her father was thumbing through the Good Book, looking for the spot where he’d left off last evening.
“Mamma, you’ve been pushin’ yourself too hard lately.” Nan glanced over her shoulder as she washed dishes.
“Well, picking strawberries is always the biggest chore,” Mamma said.
“I can’t believe how much jam we’ve put up,” Nan said.
“Don’t forget the pies,” Dat joked, smacking his lips.
Nellie wondered if Chris had ever tasted strawberry-rhubarb pie.
Just delicious.
She reprimanded herself for thinking of him so familiar-like; then she grinned.
“Maybe you should take one of my pies over to the Yoders’ tomorrow, Dat,”
she said, knowing her father still hadn’t gotten a foot in the door. “Maybe a strawberry pie will do the trick.”
“Something’s got to give.” Mamma touched Dat’s arm gently.
Nan placed Mamma’s big kettle on the rack to be dried. “Rebekah says her mother cries a lot,” Nan told them.
“Aw, Nan . . . did she now?” Mamma said, a frown marring her face.
“Well, word has it David’s goin’ downhill,” Dat added.
This news deepened Nellie Mae’s sorrow for the family. “What’ll happen if . . . ?” She couldn’t bring herself to finish.
“I say we pray right now.” Dat motioned to them.
Nan dried her hands quickly, and the four of them joined hands while Dat, who could scarcely speak for his tears, asked the Lord to extend David’s life—so he might find Jesus before it was too late.
Silently Nellie Mae prayed the same for Caleb, hoping her former beau would not follow in his father’s stubborn footsteps.
Reuben excused himself to go upstairs after Bible reading. Betsy said she’d stay down in the kitchen with the girls, which was just as well, as he found he could beseech the Lord better when praying alone.
He pulled out his prayer list, beginning with his own father, who was up in years. How he missed talking to . . . learning from, gleaning lost wisdom from the man. Then he prayed for each of his sons, their wives, and their children—those born and yet to be born.
Last of all, he whispered Rhoda’s name. “Bring my daughter to her senses soon, O Lord.”
So many needs.
He wiped his eyes and continued to kneel like a trusting child at his side of the bed.
After a time, when his burden had lifted some, he went to the dresser and found his writing tablet. Tearing out a sheet, he began to write to his father.
Friday, June 20
Dear Daed,
Hello from Honey Brook. Here I sit, writing to you and missing you. I think of you and Mamm so often, hoping you’re both well.
The thought popped into my head that we might build a martin birdhouse together, you and I. Benny and I did just that not so long ago. We had a wonderful-good time, and I couldn’t help but recall how you and I did the same thing when I was but a boy.
I’ll be glad to bring all the necessary materials—get me a hired driver to haul everything over to your place. Betsy could bring a hamper of food and visit with Mamm, if it suits her. What do you think of that?
I’ll wait to hear from you. And if you don’t reply, I’ll simply write again next week.
May the Lord be with you over there in Bird-in-Hand.
Your son,
Reuben Fisher
Folding the letter, he was not ready to give up on either his father or his old friend David. Nor would he turn his back on daughter Rhoda, although it seemed she’d done so to them.
Expelling his breath, Reuben rose and slipped the letter beneath the gas lantern on the dresser. Thankfully, the dear Lord had not given up on him.
Or any of us.
Caleb had been waiting for his English cousins to arrive, trying not to be too anxious as he glanced out the front-room window every few minutes. He tried to picture his father’s first cousin John. It had been years since he and his wife and their five boys had come to visit. There was no apparent reason for them not to have further fellowship . . . none that he knew of, other than their obvious differences. He’d never once heard his father speak ill of his Mennonite relatives. If anything, Daed held them in high regard; otherwise Chris would not be allowed to work here alongside Caleb and his brothers.
He looked across the expanse of the front room toward the door that led to Daed’s small room. The door was slightly open, and Caleb could hear his father muttering to himself, something he’d begun to do more recently, definitely disturbed by his circumstances.
Who can blame him?
Caleb often tried to put himself in his father’s shoes, but it just wasn’t possible. He was quick on his feet, strong, and energetic, and youth was on his side.
Seeing Chris’s car pull into the driveway, he went to his father’s bedroom door, peering in through the crack.
Good, he’s awake.
Caleb hurried out the back way to greet Chris and his father, hoping Daed might agree to see them. If he refused, he hoped at least that he would not shout as he had the other day when Preacher Manny had dropped by after Nellie’s father, Reuben Fisher. The man had to have some grit in him to keep coming back for more rejection.
Chris and his dad were getting out of the car as Caleb went to meet them. He was immediately taken by their Sunday attire, the dark suits and ties they’d probably donned to attend church. In fact, they were so fancy looking, he worried it might be off-putting to Daed.
Either that or he’ll view it as a compliment.
“Hi again, Caleb.” Chris offered the same friendly smile he always did when he arrived. “You remember my dad, don’t you?” He motioned toward his father, a tall, slender blond man who stretched out a hand to firmly shake Caleb’s.
“Good to see you again,” Caleb said, leading the way toward the house. “My father’s awake . . . but I should warn you—”
“No worries. I’ve already told Dad,” Chris interjected.
Caleb felt some relief. “Mamm’s upstairs resting. So are my sisters.” He opened the back door. “It’s just the three of us downstairs . . . and Daed.”
Chris offered a sympathetic nod, hanging back to let his father go first as they headed through the kitchen. A plate of sandwiches was laid out on the table in anticipation of their arrival.
“Would ya like anything to eat or drink first?” Caleb asked, mindful of his role as host.
“Thanks for the offer, but we’ll wait till after we’ve spoken to your father, if you don’t mind,” John said graciously. Chris’s father seemed calm and poised, and Caleb thought unexpectedly of Nellie Mae, who had always been so hesitant, even frightened around Daed.
Moving toward the small bedroom, he paused, glanced back at Chris, and then pushed the door fully open. His father was staring at the ceiling, eyes glazed from boredom and pain. “Daed . . . your cousins are here,” he said.
Daed lay propped up on the bed with an abundance of pillows, thanks to Mamm, who’d gotten him situated before heading upstairs. Caleb expected his father’s booming voice of disapproval to erupt at any moment. Instead, Daed eyed his cousins before smiling faintly. “Have yous come for my funeral?”
John lost no time moving toward the bed. He leaned down to shake hands. “We came directly from church,” he said. “That’s why we’re wearing monkey suits.”
“Well, pull up a chair.” Daed motioned with his hand.
Caleb was shocked. No tantrum today? By the looks of things, it seemed Daed might even enjoy this visit. He was listening peacefully as John began to reminisce about the old days and their childhood visits to Uncle Enos’s. “Remember that old fishing hole, out behind the rickety barn? We cut our way to ice-fish one winter.”
Daed blinked his eyes in response. “Gut days, jah. Mighty gut.”
The two older men did most of the talking, and Caleb could sense that Chris was pleased at the way things were going.
Daed’s voice suddenly grew stronger. “It’s awful kind of you, John, to loan that fancy van of yours . . . for my trips to rehabilitation.”
“Glad to do it. Just give Chris a holler.”
Daed breathed in long and slow, looking now at Chris. “And your boy’s been a big help
here. I owe ya both.”
“Nothing doing.” John moved his chair closer.
“Well, I’m glad you came today, so I could say Denki in person.” He drew another long breath before continuing. “You see, I won’t be needin’ your vehicle any longer, John. Won’t be goin’ in for treatments anymore, neither.”
Caleb perked up his ears.
What?
“But they’re essential, right, David?” John frowned, folding his hands. “They’ll strengthen you over time.”
Daed shook his head weakly. “Well, there ain’t much time left for me, so I won’t be pushin’ myself out the door any longer. They can carry me out when I’m dead and gone, that’s what.”
Caleb was embarrassed. Even if Daed believed he wouldn’t live much longer, it wasn’t right to say so in front of company.
“Surely you don’t want to throw in the towel, do you?” John asked, gesturing to Chris. His cousin took the hint, glanced at Caleb, and rose, stepping out of the room.
Caleb followed quickly behind, not knowing what Chris’s father intended to say to Daed. But obviously it was personal.
He caught up with Chris out in the kitchen, and he reached for two apples in the bowl on the table, handing one to his cousin. “Here, help yourself to a sandwich, too,” he said before heading toward the back door.
Chris complied and followed. “Your father’s dejected,” he said soberly. “He’s made a bad turn since his last rehab session, hasn’t he?”
“Haven’t seen him like this before today, to tell you the truth.” Caleb directed Chris toward the tobacco shed, where they could sit on some old stools in back. “Maybe it’s time I slipped Reuben Fisher in to visit my father . . . if they’re to see each other again before—”
“So Reuben and your dad were friends at one time?” Chris looked surprised.
“They go back a long ways.”
“And now? Evidently Reuben’s very anxious to see your dad.” Chris took a bite of his sandwich.
Chris could always be counted on for a line of questions, always wanting to get to the bottom of things. “Well, there’s a lot of history there. Daed’s upset because Reuben’s Fisher cousins— Jonathan and Preacher Manny—got an upheaval started when they decided the Good Book was not only to be studied but memorized and discussed, too. Every which way.”
Chris’s eyes grew wide. “Are you sayin’ you’re not supposed to do any or all of the above?”
“Scripture isn’t s’posed to be fussed over, no.”
“Not even talked about?” Chris’s face registered disbelief.
“The ministers do that at Preaching service, every other week. Mostly they expound on the Sermon on the Mount.”
Why should I have to defend the church fathers?
“For the rest of us, scripture is only meant to be read.”
Chris seemed appalled. “But it’s inspired by God—every word. Isn’t that what you believe, Caleb?”
Uncomfortable now, Caleb welcomed the sound of a large flock of birds flying low overhead, and he craned his neck to look. All the while, he wondered why John’s father had left the Amish decades ago. As curious as he was, he wasn’t going to ask. Another day, maybe.
Chris had never been so pointed before. Even so, Caleb did not feel antagonistic, not as he might’ve had someone like Reuben or others from the new group come tooting the dangerous horn of salvation through grace. No, the way Chris talked typically wasn’t threatening. And now he suddenly felt as he had when his own “saved” sister, Rebekah, had mentioned reading the Bible to Daed earlier. “There are times when I’m befuddled,” he confessed, “ ’bout what to believe.”
Chris nodded, shifting his weight on the stool. “I hear you. But there
is
something to hang on to—something that doesn’t change.
Someone
who can be counted on, no matter what’s going on in your life.”
This sounded too much like the way Nellie Mae had talked. Caleb could still picture her standing so prettily behind the display counter in her bakery shop, her face glowing—why?— his arms gentle around her despite his fierce desire to protect her from being swept up in the fanciful talk.
And here he was again—his own cousin about to spout off more of the same.
Yet Chris was respectful. He didn’t just forge ahead with what he was surely impatient to say. He waited for Caleb to nod or say something, to give consent. But Caleb was determined to be true to the old church, aware of the pull on him. Above all, he must be loyal to the only church he knew, or cared to know. For this reason, he budged not even an inch.
But long after Chris and his father drove away, Caleb could not escape his cousin’s words:
“Someone who can be counted on . . .”
A few hours before suppertime, Daed asked Caleb to call Mamm so he could talk with her alone. Caleb nodded and left the bedroom his father had claimed as his own since the accident.
He needs a doctor,
he thought, wishing Daed hadn’t decided to abandon his treatments.
Ever since Daed’s cousins had left earlier today, Caleb had wondered what Daed and John had discussed. He didn’t understand how Daed could simply give up and not want to get stronger.
I won’t think about this now!
He knew the cows would be lined up at the gate, waiting for their feed—and for milking. Today being the Lord’s Day, it would take him at least twice as long, since his three brothers usually stayed put at home Sunday afternoons.
