The Mercy (6 page)

Mattie Sue went to wash her hands without being told, which pleased Hen, leaving her and Brandon alone at the table.

He turned toward her again. “Thanks for dinner.”

“Glad you liked it.”

He paused as though he had more on his mind but then fell silent. Was he reluctant to mention his visit with her mother?

She felt suddenly shy as he quietly rose and left the room. They rarely talked about anything important anymore, except for his health concerns.
He never asks about my day. . . .

Watching Brandon settle into a chair near the woodstove, Hen missed more keenly than ever what they’d had when first married.
How we used to be . . .

T
hursday’s quilting party turned out to be a comforter-knotting bee, since they were quicker and less expensive to make. Rose was happy to see Laura Esh, the cheery hostess, once again, and her daughters, Linda and Mandy, who seemed delighted Rose had brought Mattie Sue and Beth along. Mattie quickly joined three little ones who had already planted themselves beneath the large table set up in the front room.

After a substantial snack of doughnuts, cookies, and pie, they set to work. Linda talked excitedly about the moving sale this Saturday at the elder Kings’ home. The house itself was not being sold, but many linens, dish sets, and some small pieces of furniture would be. The Kings were downsizing so they could move into one of the attached Dawdi Hauses while their youngest son and his new bride settled into the main farmhouse with their own household items.

Listening to Linda talk, Rose couldn’t help wondering what it would be like for the Kings’ son and daughter-in-law to move into the main farmhouse.

“He’ll run the dairy farm with his father,” Linda said, reminding Rose of Silas Good’s plans with
his
father. The parallel was much too close, and whatever stirred in her heart just then caused Rose to abruptly excuse herself and leave the front room, amidst a few stares. She found herself alone in the summer kitchen, and she folded her arms around her middle to suppress her sobs.

Ach, I’m just feeling sorry for myself! I know Silas wasn’t for me.

She paced the length of the room till she heard someone enter. Turning, she saw that Beth was there, holding out her arms to her.

“I saw you leave, Rosie.” Beth hugged her and leaned her head on Rose’s shoulder.

Rose shook her head, determined not to cry yet unable to speak.

“Whatever’s wrong . . . I’m so sorry,” Beth said.

Rose scarcely knew herself why she was so upset, but eventually she was able to thank Beth for being so considerate. “You’re awful sweet,” she said with a kiss on her friend’s cheek.

“Here’s a tissue,” Beth said, pulling one from her own pocket.

Rose wiped her eyes and face. When she’d regained her composure, she returned to the main kitchen to pour some hot cocoa. Beth went back to the children and sat cross-legged on the floor while Rose sipped her drink. Watching her with the little ones, Rose experienced a twinge of hope that one day she might have children—perhaps a large family like Dat and Mamm’s.

Sighing, she wished she’d never poured out her heart in a silly letter not so long ago to a young man she would never see again. And even before breaking it off with Silas, too.
What sort of girl am I?

Yet she longed to be loved and dreaded the thought of growing old alone. Surely God had someone in mind for her.
But who, when nearly all the single fellows in the district are too young for me?

She thought again of Mose and Ruthann’s dinner invitation. Who better to trust as a matchmaker than her own big brother and wife? Privately, Rose determined to be as softhearted and open-minded as possible on Sunday.
The day can’t come soon enough.

Rose Ann made creamed chipped beef and served it over boiled potatoes that evening. It would be just Dat, Mamm, and herself at the table tonight, since Dawdi Jeremiah and Mammi Sylvia were having supper in their own kitchen, on the other side of Hen’s place. Two of Dawdi’s cousins from out of town were visiting overnight, so Mammi Sylvia would have her hands full.

In Mamm’s kitchen, Dat was more
bapplich—
talkative—than usual. Rose listened intently as he remarked again about the time Brandon had spent here yesterday with Mamm.

“You two have quite a lot to discuss,” Dat said. “Seems so.”

Mamm nodded, her expression tight with pain. “I wanted to make him feel comfortable. He needs someone who understands him.”

Mamm surely didn’t mean to imply that Hen didn’t understand. But even as caring as Hen was toward Brandon, Rose wondered if Mamm might be in a better position to reach his heart.
And Bishop Aaron,
thought Rose, hoping their neighbor-friend might visit Brandon again soon.

“You have a kindly way with our son-in-law,” Dat said with a smile, returning his attention to his plate.

“I see such awful hurt on his face,” Mamm whispered.

“Healing is surely needed—for body, mind, and soul.”

Rose was touched by her parents’ remarks and glad it was just the three of them tonight. Normally they would not speak so openly.

“Whenever the Lord brings him to mind, I go right to prayer,” Mamm said. “ ’Specially at night, when sleep is far from me.”

Dat looked at her with affection, eyes moist in the corners. “Emma, I daresay you’re a saint.”

Mamm shook her head. “Now, Solomon . . .”

Rose smiled in wholehearted agreement with her father’s assessment. Few folks she knew were as faithful in prayer as her mother.

They ate their fill, talking about how nice it was that Mattie Sue had been able to spend today with Rose and Beth at the quilting. “Mattie’s so eager for when she’s old enough to make a quilt of her own,” Rose said.

In due time Rose cleared the table. Dessert was peanut butter pie and hot coffee, but Mamm pushed her plate away after only two bites. Rose sensed she was struggling with more discomfort than usual. Dat must have known it, too, and got up to wheel her to rest in their room.

When he returned to finish both his piece of pie and Mamm’s, he made small talk with Rose. “Sunday is Groundhog Day, but I don’t need an animal to tell me whether we’ll have us another six weeks of winter,” he said with a grin. “Seems pretty clear to me that spring’s a ways off. All the snow’s a blessing from heaven.” A good amount of snow in January and February made for a glorious springtime.

Stirring sugar into her coffee, Rose ventured to ask, “How do ya think Mamm will do after the surgery?”

“As the Lord allows . . .”

She pondered that. “Same thinking as the bishop’s ’bout his silencing, jah?”

“Aaron’s one trusting soul. A person can learn from a godly man like that.”

She didn’t press further, knowing this topic was as much a thorn in her father’s heart as the ongoing pain in Mamm’s frail body.

Dat steered the conversation to the household sale at the Kings’ place Saturday. “Would ya like to go along?”

Rose recalled what her cousins had said at the Singing about the pretty sets of dishes and all, as well as Linda Esh’s mention at the quilting today. “That’d be right nice, Dat.”

“Well, I’m sure you’re still fillin’ your hope chest, ain’t?”

She smiled.
Ever thoughtful Dat.

They talked of all the farm and mud sales coming up in early spring. One thing led to another and Dat mentioned the construction soon to begin on Gilbert Browning’s new addition. He asked about Beth then, inquiring how she was doing since Mr. Browning’s return from his father’s funeral.

“Oh, you should see how happy she is over her grandma comin’ to stay.”

“Having Gilbert’s mother around might just be the thing the Brownings need.”

“Jah, I should think it’ll help get Mr. Browning’s mind off his wife’s and father’s passings,” Rose said, truly praying that would be the case.

“Well, a man needs something to occupy his mind and his hands at such times.”

His heart, too?
Rose wondered. She had hoped Beth might tell her something more about the letter from Jane Keene, but Beth had been mum on the topic today.

“It’s good he’s got Beth to care for,” Dat said. “Such a jewel of a girl.”

“That she is. Beth told me yesterday she hasn’t quit prayin’ for Mamm.” Rose said it quietly, aware of the stillness in the house.

Her father looked away, blinking his eyes. “I trust your dear Mamm will be greatly helped by the surgery. I’ve never seen her so hopeful.”

Nodding in agreement, Rose waited while Dat finished his coffee. He used his fork to get the crumbs from the piecrust on his plate before leaning back in his chair, eyes closed, weary of the day.

Dat’s eyes fluttered open after a time and he looked at Rose, a somber expression on his face. “I s’pose there’s been no word from Nick lately.”

The words jarred her. “Why . . . no, Dat.” Nick had flown to the world. As far as she knew, he hadn’t written to even Barbara Petersheim.

Then her heart stopped. Would her father admit to finding her letter to Nick in the battered tin box?

She held her breath, waiting.

He folded his arms across his chest, concern on his face. “ ’Tis a real pity, the way things turned out.”

“Does the bishop hold out hope for his return?”

“Never says. But what father gives up on a son?”

Rose was relieved; he wasn’t probing about any lingering feelings she might have for Nick. “Anyone who knows the bishop would think Nick was mighty blessed to grow up in his home,” she said, realizing just then that something had changed in her. She wasn’t gritting her teeth or fighting back tears, and because of this, Rose assumed her heart was no longer tender toward her old friend . . . at least not as it had been.
Unwise to hang on to such a dream.

“Aaron will be all right.” Dat rose to carry his coffee cup to the sink. “He’ll minister the way he did long before the divine lot fell on him, is my guess.”

Her father’s meaning was lost on her, but nothing more was said. The way Rose saw it, her brother Mose’s kind invitation had come just at the right time.
Jah, in many ways, Sunday will be a brand-new day.

B
randon hadn’t actually complained about his shoulder pain, but he had mentioned it in passing after supper. Not wishing to embarrass him but wanting to help ease his discomfort if possible, Hen went to stand behind his chair at the table and offered to massage his shoulder. “If it would help,” she said.

“Thanks . . . great.” He leaned back.

He’d often said he’d never turn down a massage from her. As she’d always done when rubbing his back and neck, Hen began gently, then worked deeper, kneading the area. “Too hard?” she asked, close enough to smell his shampoo.

He sighed, not speaking.

It wasn’t easy being this near to him—the closest they’d been in months. While she massaged his shoulder, she daydreamed, recalling their newlywed days—of having teased him about wanting to take an occasional bath. And when he did, she would offer to shampoo his hair. From then on, whenever he was discouraged about his work or anything at all, Brandon would take a long soak in the tub and ask her to wash his hair. Something about having his scalp massaged made him relax, he said.

She smiled at the fond memory, wondering what he’d say about that now. But no, she couldn’t . . . wouldn’t. Her breath must’ve caught because he turned and asked if she’d said something.

“No,” she replied as he leaned against her hands, the knots easing as she worked.

After a time, he sensed she was getting tired and reached up to pat her hand. “Thanks,” he said. “You’ve done enough, Hen. I appreciate it.”

“Glad to help.” She stepped back, feeling sad somehow. Such wooden-sounding words compared to the tender ones back before things started to fall apart—before she’d changed her mind about living his English life.

He sat there silently while she moved away to the sink. Hen really wanted to inquire about all the time he was spending in town at the office—he’d gone in again today—but would not probe. Still, he was going to work more often now, and she was concerned he wasn’t getting sufficient rest. The doctor had strongly urged him to take long naps, as well as to go to bed early at night—the best way to recover from the brain injury. At the time, Brandon had seemed willing to comply.

Brandon broke the silence. “Hen, I’ve made some plans.”

She tensed at his serious tone.

“If my sight doesn’t return soon, I’m thinking of visiting my parents in New York for the remainder of my recovery. I’ve already talked to them about it.” He paused. “And about bringing Mattie Sue along. They could help look after her . . . she’d have her own bedroom.”

“How long are you thinking?” Hen could hardly manage the words. But she knew it wasn’t realistic for her to expect him to stay here with her and Mattie Sue forever.

“However long the blindness persists, I guess.”

“And if your sight doesn’t return?”

He drew a long breath. “Haven’t gotten that far.”

“Well, then, you can’t take Mattie Sue out of state if you don’t know when you’re coming back . . . or if you are.”

He ignored her. “I didn’t want to just spring it on you. Besides, Mattie Sue would love it—and it would make things easier on you, as well.”

Easier?
His words fell like stones against her heart.
He’s determined to do this.

“Must you take our daughter?” She worked her jaw, realizing her hands were clenched.

“It wouldn’t be a permanent arrangement.”

“How can I know that, Brandon? You aren’t being fair. How can you possibly think you are?”

He sighed. “That’s why I hesitate to talk to you anymore. Things always deteriorate to this.”

“To what?”

“This, Hen. What you just did.”

Was it so wrong what she’d voiced? Was she not allowed to express her feelings, just as he did?

“You’re finger-pointing,” he said. “I’m weary of it.”

“If that’s what you think I’m doing, Brandon, you’re wrong.” She looked over at the settee, where Mattie Sue was sitting and playing with Wiggles next to her, oblivious to what was being said in the kitchen.

You can’t even take care of yourself . . . how can you expect to care for Mattie Sue for even a short time?

“As you may recall, Hen, we were in the process of filing divorce papers when the accident occurred.”

The sting of his sarcasm! She did not say what she thought: that perhaps the head-on collision had happened to get his attention on what really mattered in life—faith, family, friends. That was too much even for her to say in the heat of an argument.

Besides, wasn’t she equally at fault? After all, she had been the one to leave him to return to her Amish roots . . . but only at his insistence.
And when I left, I took Mattie Sue with me.
Oh, the whole thing was a disaster! They’d both caused themselves this grief—made a mess of things.

“I refuse to fight with you any longer.” Brandon got up from the table, favoring his right arm in its cast, and headed toward the staircase. He no longer inched along as he had the first few weeks; he knew his way around the little house. “It’s early, but I’m calling it a night,” he added.

“Daddy, aren’t you gonna tell me a story?” called Mattie Sue.

She must’ve heard us,
Hen worried.

“I’ll spend extra time with you tomorrow, honey.” His hand was on the banister.

“Your daddy’s tired.” Hen’s voice trembled.
And very upset . . .

“Good night, Mattie Sue. I’ll see you in the morning,” he said.

She came running over, followed by a yipping Wiggles. “It’s too soon to go to bed, Daddy.”

He leaned down to gently kiss her cheek. “I love you, sweetheart.” He straightened. “Now, be good for Mommy, okay?”

“Can we go out to the barn again soon?” Mattie pleaded.

Hen intervened. “Let’s see how Daddy feels tomorrow, sweetie.”

Mattie Sue blinked, a frown crossing her brow. “I don’t want you to leave. I don’t—”

“Honey, Daddy needs to rest,” Hen said, going to her daughter and taking her hand. “Come and show me your book.”

Mattie Sue sniffled and looked over her shoulder as she went. “I want Daddy to stay here . . . with us.”

Going to the sitting room with her daughter, Hen wondered what Brandon’s attorney brother might be drawing up, without her knowledge. Even something temporary would involve her, wouldn’t it? So why was she being kept in the dark?

Hen tried not to let Brandon’s earlier comments spoil this time with Mattie Sue. She was mentally prepared in the event her daughter changed her mind and didn’t want to be read to. But surprisingly, Mattie Sue settled right down with Hen for the story of her choosing. Hen opened the book and began to read the first page, struggling to keep her voice from cracking.

Rose Ann perused the fine china and other housewares at the Kings’ Saturday moving sale. A half dozen tables were set up to display the many lovely items, some clearly antiques. Several cousins waved to her from the other side of the porch, where teacups and saucers and other pretty, colorful for-
gut
dishes were laid out. Enjoying herself, Rose wished Hen might’ve come today, too. Rose had even said something to Dat about inviting her. But Dat had felt it best for Hen to be with Brandon, particularly since Saturday was the only day Brandon stayed around much anymore. By that, Rose assumed Dat was concerned about the amount of time they were spending apart. She had noticed Brandon’s business partner coming and going more often here lately, even on Sundays.

“Hullo, Rose Ann,” a cheery voice called to her.

She turned to see Rebekah Bontrager smiling broadly, wearing a plum-colored dress and matching apron. The color made her cheeks look peachier than usual. Rebekah had obviously sewn several new dresses for herself since she’d returned to be a mother’s helper to Annie Mast and her identical twin babies, Mary and Anna. Anymore it felt as though Rebekah had never moved away to Indiana in the first place.

“
Wie bischt?
” Rebekah asked.

“Just fine . . . you?”

“Busier than ever. The babies are more wakeful now.” Rebekah pushed one Kapp string back over her shoulder. “Annie and I really have our hands full.”

“Does Annie’s mother help some?”

Rebekah nodded. “And Annie’s sisters come over quite often, too.”

Rose wondered how long Rebekah would stay at Masts’. Would she remain there until her wedding to Silas next wedding season?

“Have ya seen any nice dishes—a service for, say, twenty or more?” asked Rebekah, changing the subject.

“Sure, there’s plenty over there.” Rose had contemplated two such patterns for the longest time but wasn’t sure it was a good idea to stock up on a bunch of dishes when she might end up single. However, with the prospect of something happening tomorrow at Mose’s, she wondered if she should’ve purchased the dainty blue, yellow, and green floral service for twenty-five that she’d admired. It was a pattern she had rarely seen and really liked. But purchasing it would be making a real leap of faith, for sure and for certain.

“Denki, Rose . . . I’ll see ya later.” Rebekah meandered past the glass saltshakers and candy dishes, the hem of her dress swishing as she went.

Returning to her browsing, Rose caught sight of a set of eight beautiful teacups and saucers. The bright red roses looked hand painted, which made her heart skip a beat. How she loved dishes, especially ones with brilliant hues. It occurred to her that these might cheer Mamm’s heart after her surgery—plus her birthday was near Valentine’s Day, a day Englischers celebrated with chocolates, fancy cards, and roses.

Rose opened her purse to see if she’d brought enough money.
I’ll surprise Mamm,
she thought, picking up one of the dainty cups and carrying it to the youngest King girl, Martha King Esh. “Can you tell me anything about these?”

Though Martha had been married for two years, she was close to Rose’s age. “They’re awful perty, ain’t so?” She smiled cheerfully.

“I’ve never seen anything quite like them.”

“Can ya guess where this set came from?” asked Martha.

Rose shook her head.

“They were passed down in the family from the early settlement here—belonged to a distant cousin who left the Big Valley area. I’m sure you’ve heard of Yost Kauffman—maybe your own great-
Grossvadder.
Look on the back, and you’ll see a date.”

“Yost Kauffman was my great-uncle,” Rose said.
So Martha and I are related in some distant way.
She looked on the underside of the cup and saw a faded date she couldn’t make out: 1800-something. “Why would ya want to sell them?” she asked, thinking the price should be higher.

“All of us girls already have our own things from our weddings. And there’s just too much here for
Mamma
to care about or keep up with, ya know. My father wants everything cleared out at this sale.”

Rose wondered if the really bold color of the roses might be another reason. There were no other dishes this striking on display here.

“They’re ever so delicate and nice for having tea.” Martha smiled again. “Whether you’re married or not.”

Martha didn’t mean any harm by her comment, but had Rose been in Martha’s shoes, she would’ve been more tactful. At least she hoped so.

Rose turned the matching saucer in her hand, appreciating its beauty.

“Take your time deciding.” Martha glanced over her shoulder at the many women streaming into the porch, all chatting and smiling and waving at kinfolk.

Rose noticed Rebekah standing over yonder, near the dishes Rose herself had admired earlier. She watched Rebekah to see if she was interested.

“Martha, I’ll take the tea set . . . and possibly some more dishes, too,” Rose said.

As Martha started to wrap one of the teacups in plain brown paper, Rose glanced again at the stack of dishes near Rebekah, wishing she hadn’t pointed them out to Silas’s girlfriend. Rose didn’t feel envious, but she was curious what it was like to be Rebekah. Did she and Silas have a hope of a happy life together—just as Hen and Brandon had seemed to at the outset of their courtship? Years ago, when Hen had first met Brandon, Hen described the butterflies in her stomach whenever Brandon’s eyes met hers. Rose had never forgotten the glow on Hen’s face when she told her this. Nor had Rose herself forgotten the magnetic draw she had felt the times when Nick had surprised her by taking her into his arms.