The Parting (15 page)
Shining her flashlight around the thicket, she had a sudden notion that she might have dreamed she’d hidden Suzy’s journal. Had she been too caught up with grief, only imagining she’d come here?
But no, she recalled carrying the diary beneath her petticoats in a makeshift pouch, created out of quilting scraps. She’d felt she must, at all costs, do her best to respect at least something of Suzy’s request. Maybe she had done so, far too well.
Pointing the flashlight at a row of bushes, she sighed. “I can remember endless recipes, but I can’t remember where I put Suzy’s diary?”
How can this be?
Before the sun peeked over the eastern ridge, Reuben was up and lighting the tall gas lantern on the dresser. Without a word, he headed downstairs and brought up the King James Bible to read aloud. Betsy lingered in bed, a bit droopy, as she often was at this early hour.
She watched him, the way his eyes were intent upon the words he presently read to her. The lines around his mouth seemed softer in the flickering light, and he removed his glasses partway through the chapter to wipe his eyes.
He looked at her from across the room, tears welling up again. “To think what God’s Son did for us—taking our punishment.” He covered his mouth for a moment, his emotion apparently too great for words. “Oh, Betsy . . . I want you to share this joy, too . . . this most blessed salvation.”
The expression on his face was nearly as convincing as the Scriptures he read, for she had never, ever seen Reuben weep—not at the funeral for Suzy, nor the burial, where they had laid their precious daughter to rest in the People’s cemetery. No, Reuben was not one to shed tears at all.
“May I read to you every mornin’, love?” he asked, coming around to her side of the bed.
“In secret?”
He sighed and placed his glasses on the bedside table. “Well, I guess that’s what I mean. Jah, for now.”
For now?
“What about evening prayers? Will you be readin’ from this chapter then, too . . . in front of the girls?”
He closed the Bible. “I’ll think on that,” he said softly. “My prayer is that each of our family will come to know the Savior, as I have.”
“Know Him?”
“Jah, love.” His face was against hers. “We’ll study His ways together.”
She sat up, snuggling against him, her head on his chest. “We won’t be found out in time?”
“I’m trustin’ the Lord God for our future, Betsy. It’s His doing, so we must heed the command not to worry.” He held her near, as he often did of a morning. But today there was more urgency in the way his arms wrapped around her, as if his embrace alone might convince her to join him in his newfound belief.
If she were honest, she would admit to her husband, dear man that he was, that she was floundering terribly in a mire of sorrow. Perhaps Reuben’s keen interest in Scripture—in passages forbidden and otherwise—might be exactly what the Good Lord had in mind for her during this time. If trustworthy Reuben was willing to swim against the current sure to come, certainly it was a good thing for her to consider, as well.
“Let me read the passage for myself.” She reached for the book, glad he’d brought up the King James Bible.
“Here, I’ll show ya where to start.” He thumbed through the pages.
“Denki,” she whispered.
“No need to thank me.” He turned his face toward the ceiling and closed his eyes. What looked to be a heavenly light shone across her dear one’s face. Betsy felt as if she’d seen a glimpse of heaven . . . where she secretly hoped with all of her heart that darling Suzy resided.
Nellie Mae propped the flashlight in the crook of a nearby tree, shining it down at the spot in the ground, her third attempt near the base of the tree she suspected sheltered Suzy’s secrets.
How many holes must I dig?
She stopped briefly to catch her breath but then she pressed on, burrowing deep into the soil with the shovel. There had been only a single frost thus far, so the ground was yielding enough. She kept working the spot until she was certain the diary was not to be found there.
She straightened and wiped her face with a hankie, glad she’d remembered to slip it into her pocket; surely her face must be smudged. She stopped to adjust the flashlight and push the shovel into the earth, creating yet another hole.
Daybreak came and Nellie stopped to watch the sun peep over the horizon, its golden light pouring over rolling hills. Despite her frustration, she drank in the sight, surrounded as she was by trees and all of nature. Normally she would be up to her wrists in dough at this hour, too intent on her work to greet the day.
Fondly she recalled now the scent of wildflowers around her feet in early summer. Suzy had commented on the colorful variety when she and Nellie had come walking up here in early June. They’d gone even farther to find the area where as young girls they had planted their favorite red columbine—from the buttercup family—to brighten the spot and attract hummingbirds. Year after year, the five-theParting_ petaled scarlet flowers had propagated rapidly amid the sun-dappled area.
As a child, Suzy would often return home with a fistful of tiny blossoms, bluebells and columbine mostly. Placing them on the decorative plate on their dresser, instead of in a vase of water like their English neighbors might, she wished for them to dry as they were.
In their perty little dresses,
as she would say. Unfortunately the flowers had never dried the way Suzy had anticipated, but had rather wilted and withered. Yet she’d continued to pick them and take them home, always hoping that one day they might dry
just so
.
The pale blue plate with its floral rim now lay empty on the oak dresser, and Nellie wished for some bluebells to pick in memory of her sister, but the chill of autumn had snatched them away.
She turned her attention back to her search, more concerned than ever about her inability to locate the diary’s hiding place.
Why didn’t I mark the spot?
Frustrated with herself, she stopped her search and returned to the house.
I won’t despair,
she told herself.
Somehow . . . I will remember!
Back at the house, there was nary a sound. But as she climbed the steps, she overheard her father’s voice as he read aloud from the Good Book. Odd as that was, Nellie didn’t dare linger at the landing to listen. Instead she hurried to her room, removed her Kapp, and shook out her hair, surprised at the tiny twigs and even the small leaf that fell from her long tresses. Brushing her hair vigorously, she wound it back into the formal bun and pinned her head covering back on. Then she slipped into a better dress for their visiting day.
Heading downstairs again, she briefly visited the washroom to clean the morning’s grime from her face. Reassured that no one would now guess at her morning’s activities from merely looking at her, she began to lay out the cold cereal, fruit, and juices—there was no cooking or baking to be done on the Lord’s Day. It was for that reason Nellie found herself having to do so much catching up early Monday mornings.
She began to slice bananas to top off their cereal and heard laughter, followed by what sounded like weeping.
Mamma?
Instantly she felt heartsick, wishing something could be done to help her mother get through this awful sorrowful time.
Nellie was glad Dat was with her. Her father was more tender with Mamma these days, especially when that sad and faraway look was evident in her mother’s eyes. A haunting, troubled look, to be sure.
“Maybe it will help her to be out and about,” she said, anticipating today’s visits.
After Dat offered the final silent prayer following breakfast, Mamma announced they would not be leaving the house till after the noon meal. No word of explanation was given for this clear departure from their off-Sunday routine.
Nellie Mae did not allow her disappointment to show. Still, it was hard to push aside thoughts of the excitement they typically enjoyed on a day like this. So once the kitchen had been cleared, she went upstairs to ask Rhoda and Nan, now settled in their room, if they wanted to go walking. Without a second thought, Rhoda shook her head, her glasses perched almost at the end of her nose as she studied her crocheting book. Nan yawned and said, “Some other time, Nellie Mae,” before climbing forlornly onto their bed.
Nellie dragged her feet back to her room, downcast. She closed her door and sat on the bed, wondering if she might have opportunity to look for the diary another day when there was more time.
Some sun would be helpful, too,
she murmured to herself. Truly, she didn’t know when she could get away again, what with her duties at the bakery shop. She knew she should feel guilty for having tramped through the woods, shovel in hand, exerting herself on the Lord’s Day, when even sewing and needlework were forbidden. Just now, this rule seemed petty, and she was amazed at her own feelings. How long had she harbored apathy?
She yawned, feeling the effects of precious little sleep. Even so, the hours spent with Caleb were worth any amount of lost rest. She hoped he was like her own father, always so loving and attentive to Mamma.
I want a husband like that
.
She propped herself up with several bed pillows, taking from her oak bedside table the weekly newspaper,
The Budget,
which focused on Plain communities. She selected the pages featuring the goings-on in Kalona, Iowa, curious if the journal-style columns might shed some light on what Uncle Bishop and Aunt Anna could be doing there.
Lorena Miller, an Amish scribe from that area, began her column by mentioning the rain, wind, and falling temperatures . . . with frost predicted. She also listed the visitors attending a recent worship service—a Jonas and Fannie Hershberger and the Earl Beechys, all from out of town. Nellie didn’t recognize any of those last names.
Lorena also wrote of nightly revival meetings.
Were Uncle Bishop and Aunt Anna aware of such gatherings? Word had it there were similar lively meetings held on Friday and Saturday nights here locally at the Tel Hai tabernacle, an open-air building not far from the road. The place could really draw a crowd, or so she’d heard.
Scanning the paper further, she noticed the first line of a column from Mt. Hope, Ohio.
Best not to tiptoe around what you’re yearning for, eyeing it, longing for it . . . or you’ll miss your life ahead,
it read.
She wondered if she might not be doing the same thing, marking time while she waited for Caleb. She’d let him see her prickly side—a mistake, probably. Of course, if he had eyes in his head and ears, too, he surely knew she’d always respectfully spoken her mind at school and other places where he’d encountered her.
Sighing, she was too tired to rehash what he might think of her refusal to discuss Suzy’s death. Despite their shaky beginnings, he seemed to like her well enough to want more of her company.
A week away . . . an eternity
.
Closing the paper, she folded it neatly, still considering the Iowa revival meetings. Who attended such gatherings? And from what did people need to be revived?
She rose and poked her head into the hallway, listening. No voices came from her parents’ bedroom, so maybe they’d finished their discussion.
Already weary of being stuck at home, Nellie closed the door and leaned back against it. Why weren’t they heading off to visit her brothers and families as they always did before the noon meal? Wouldn’t Maryann be putting out cold cuts in expectation?
Too tired to ponder further, she returned to the made bed and lay down to rest on this most disappointing Lord’s Day.
“You’re quite taken with the Good Book, ain’t so, Reuben?” whispered Betsy as they sat on their bedroom loveseat.
Her husband held the Bible reverently on his lap, and she noticed how he caressed it, his big hands moving slowly over the leather. “More than ever before, jah.”
She sat, enjoying his presence as always. She couldn’t remember their ever lingering this way on any day of the week, let alone a no-Preaching Sunday.
“This book has come alive to me, Betsy.” His eyes welled up with tears. “I can’t explain it . . . but its words have given me something right here”—he placed his hand on his chest—“something I’ve needed my whole life.”
Moved by his response, she nodded, squeezing his hand. Yet she did not understand what was happening to her strong husband.
He reached for his kerchief. “I wasn’t even searchin’ for this . . . at least I didn’t know it.” He wept again openly.
“Ach, Reuben, are you all right?”
He nodded. “Never better, dear one. It’s like the Lord God himself came lookin’ for me.”
And found you,
thought Betsy.
James’s roomy clapboard house was the third stop on their regular route every other Sunday, and Nellie was overjoyed to see cute little Emma again, late in the afternoon though it was. It seemed Mamma was even happier than usual to see her granddaughter as the girl came running straight to her, wrapping her chubby arms tightly around Mamma’s knees.
