The Parting (5 page)
Betsy smiled.
Such a long time ago, but, oh, the good days of hard work and raising youngsters
. The familiar lump in her throat threatened to return, but she willed herself not to cry.
One step at a time,
someone had told her. You didn’t get over the loss of a child in a mere three months. It could take years and even longer.
Whatever might come, Betsy must not let this crush her heart as she’d seen happen to others. Grief-ridden mothers, some who’d lost little ones at the hands of Englischers who drove recklessly around the buggies, speeding up on purpose, or so it seemed.
Does this pain the Lord God, too?
She was squinting hard, knowing she ought not to give place to anger. Even so-called accidents were the will of the Sovereign One, Jehovah God, whose ways were lofty—higher than her own. Trials made one stronger, didn’t they?
The Good Book itself spoke of such profound sadness—weeping only lasting so long, then joy coming in the morning. Even for her, the time for the singing of the birds and spring would come eventually, if the Lord God saw fit to turn her sorrow into gladness. When dear Reuben read Scriptures like these, she often felt comforted, and she took refuge in the fact.
Betsy whispered to the air, “Are there others who fret like me?” She expected there were, even though they, too, had been taught to adhere to the Ordnung; many of its rules had been handed down for generations. They embraced whatever life brought, knowing that in God’s providence, it was meant to be.
Forcing her mind on to the task now at hand, Betsy headed toward the chicken house. The old frame structure had recently been made sturdier by her husband’s frugal ingenuity. She recalled her days as a young bride, gladdened by Reuben’s natural skill in breeding and raising horses. He had gotten his start by purchasing half a dozen lame racing horses at local stockyard auctions, mostly Morgan trotters, taking care to flawlessly mend their injuries. Over time those horses and their offspring became some of the best for harness use, thanks to Reuben’s gentle, yet persistent nature and knack for training colts. His reputation was such now that Amish farmers from all around the area turned to him whenever they required a reliable horse. Truly, Betsy knew she’d married a good man; one with a good heart, too.
She caught herself in a rare smile and stopped to glance across the yard at the bakery shop, all freshly painted and done up.
Wonder how Nan’s faring today
. Most days, she’d much rather help Nellie Mae’s customers than tend to the chickens. Who wouldn’t? Nice warm, cheery room. Friendly faces, pleasant chatter . . . a bit of gossip. She felt too alone here lately, but all of that was another thing yet. ’Twas Reuben’s say-so where she spent her days for now.
She made her way across the yard, still wet in patches from the heavy dew. She remembered sitting there on the lawn with five-year-old Emma, her son James’s daughter. How she’d enjoyed eating strawberries from Kauffman’s Fruit Farm in the shade of their old maple.
Was it just this past June—before Suzy died?
A sudden longing sprang up for the youngster who looked ever so much like Suzy, but who possessed more sense of right and wrong, hopefully. She wished Emma would slow down some and not grow up so quicklike. The times she crawled onto her
Mammi’s
lap were already becoming scarce.
Thinks she’s too big for that now,
Betsy supposed.
What was it about summertime? Children and weeds.
Sighing loudly, she pushed open the door to the chicken house. The hens flapped and cackled greedily. “
Kumm
get it.” She reached for the sack of feed, knowing right then why she cared not one bit for this job. She’d only begun doing Suzy’s chore the day after she’d drowned, reluctant to let anyone else take it on.
Several times since, she’d considered stepping aside. “Think like Nellie Mae . . . be strong,” Betsy urged herself. Still, it was all she could do to complete the chore and get herself back into the house to sit awhile. If only her nowyoungest might somehow sense how much she was needed at home.
Rosanna King’s blue eyes shone brightly with tears, and her blond hair was pulled back tightly in a large bun beneath her white head covering—her prayer
Kapp
. The expression on her face made it clear to Nellie her friend’s tears were joyful ones. “Oh, Nellie Mae, you’ll never guess what I have to tell ya. You just never will.”
“Well, what on earth?”
“Nearly too good to be true, it is.” Rosanna reached for Nellie’s hand. “Ach . . . but my cousin Kate has offered Elias and me a most remarkable gift.”
The first thing that came to mind was Kate Beiler’s antique hope chest, which was a lovely sight to see. Handcrafted from the finest wood, it was perhaps the prettiest piece of furniture Nellie had ever seen. Was Kate going to part with it?
“Kate’s in the family way—due near Christmas.”
She’s had many-a baby,
thought Nellie, not quite sure what Rosanna meant to say.
“Kate wants to give the baby to
me
. . . to Elias and me.”
Witnessing the joy-light in Rosanna’s eyes, Nellie Mae’s heart leaped. “What unbelievable news, Rosie!” She had heard of an Amish mother in another state offering to give an infant to relatives, but learning her barren friend was to receive such a gift was another thing altogether.
“Ain’t it, though? And to think the Good Lord told my cousins to do this—well, put it in their hearts, I s’pose I should say.”
“Jah, ’cause God scarcely ever talks to folk, ya know,” Nellie said.
“Well, in this case . . . He surely must have.”
“I’m ever so happy for you,” Nellie said, smiling at this woman who was as dear to her as the day. Though Rosanna was but twenty-one, she knew too well the sorrow of losing her babies to miscarriage. This last time, the presiding doctor had declared she would probably never carry a baby to term. The shock of the news had been terrible for both Rosanna and her young husband, and Nellie wondered if Rosanna had confided the doctor’s startling conclusion to Kate just as she had to Nellie.
Suddenly she felt nervous as worrisome thoughts flitted through her head. What if something happened and Kate couldn’t . . . or didn’t follow through with her offer? But Nellie held her peace, not wanting to bring a sad thought to her friend, who had yearned for a little one with no success.
“Please sit, Nellie Mae. Have some hot cocoa with me. Time to rejoice.” Rosanna didn’t wait for her to agree. She scurried over to the stove and set a kettle on the fire. “’Tis such a gift, ain’t? There’s no other way to look at it.”
“I should say so.” Yet Nellie could not understand how Rosanna’s cousin and her husband could give away their own precious baby—their flesh and blood. She’d seen the adorable wee ones Kate had birthed over the years, six youngsters in all.
How can Kate relinquish her baby? Won’t she pine for this child all the days of her life?
Despite her questions, Nellie’s spirits had risen at Rosanna’s news. She couldn’t help but think, and hope, that just maybe Kate’s promise of a baby—a Christmas babe—might somehow dispel some of the ridiculous church tittle-tattle.
If a baby can do such a thing
.
Betsy rolled out the dough for her chicken and dumplings dinner, glad Nellie Mae was back from her visit over at Ephram’s. She had tried her best to chat with Nellie upon her return, but her daughter had seemed distracted. She wondered if Nellie Mae had taken the opportunity to open up to Maryann and share her secret. Close as she had been to Suzy, surely Nellie knew more about Suzy’s death than she was telling.
Sighing, Betsy expertly shaped each dough ball, washing her hands at the sink when she was through. How convenient it was to no longer have to carry well water indoors from the pump.
Reuben’s doing . . .
Thinking of her husband’s insistence on bringing water into the house two months back, she hoped Reuben would not fall prey to the urging of his farmer friends and relatives’ current progressive talk. Yet her husband had voiced nary an interest in modern farm equipment over the years, despite their living alongside English neighbors who owned such things. Of course, as a newly married couple, she and Reuben had sometimes talked privately of the hard reality of doing things the Old Way, which kept them working long hours, day in and day out. Truth was, Betsy did sometimes envy the Englischers, who could plow, plant, and cultivate their fields in record time.
With time left to rest of an evening . . .
Momentarily she wondered what that must be like, but immediately she rejected the thought, just as Reuben certainly would. It was not the path they had chosen.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, making her way across the backyard to the paved path that led from the dirt road in front of the house all the way back to Nellie’s cozy and quaint bakery. The shop’s sign perched above the solid structure, beckoning passersby to drop in. Like the rest of the building, it had been built by her husband and their eldest sons—twins Thomas and Jeremiah—both as strapping as they were dependable.
She smiled thinking of her double blessing, still recalling all the fun—and the seemingly endless work—she’d experienced as a new mother of only eighteen. How thankful she’d been even then for a husband who’d added to her joy with his thoughtful ways. Truly she had cared for handsome Reuben Fisher right from the start of their courting days.
Betsy suspected her daughter Nan was equally ripe for a similarly intense romance, although she had no indication from studying Nan’s blue eyes, a striking contrast to her rich brunette hair. Nan was as guarded about whom she liked and disliked as any of Betsy’s girls, just as a discreet Amish girl ought to be. No, this daughter was not about to give away any secrets with the stoic look on her face.
But now, there was definitely something going on with Nellie Mae. You couldn’t miss the blush on her cheeks. She had always enjoyed playing baseball or volleyball with the boys in the church . . . even climbing trees at times, too, which had never set well with Reuben. He wanted his daughters to be young ladies—none of this tomboy business. God made boys to be tough and hardworking, and girls . . . well, they were supposed to be soft and sweet and mighty submissive.
Of course problems arose when there was a lip and an attitude, like Nellie Mae had at times, especially here lately. Thankfully it wasn’t as obvious when Reuben was present. Betsy wished Nellie to be compliant and pleasant, but Suzy’s death must have triggered something in her. Betsy had discovered the same angry struggle within herself. “Does the Lord God see the darkness within me?” she muttered, looking at the way the light from the sun cast parallel lines on the lawn.
Suddenly she noticed a black automobile with a white top slow down and stop in front of the house. A tall man got out and stood near the mailbox, as if checking for the address. He eyed the signpost poked deep into the ground—Nellie’s Simple Sweets—the only advertising needed on the road, as word of mouth was the best source of customers.
Another Englischer,
she thought, glad for the additional business. The Good Lord knew they needed to sell all their baked goods each and every day—this fall especially.
This worldly man did not look like one of Nellie’s regulars, however. He had a purpose in his stride, and a stiff brown hat on his head. Even the long tan overcoat that looked like it had leaped off the pages of a Sears, Roebuck, and Co. catalogue spoke of business.
“Hello, there, ma’am.” He stopped to tip his fine hat. “I’m looking for Reuben Fisher.” His eyes were black coals in a too-pale face.
“Who do you say is lookin’ for him?” she spouted before she could stop herself.
“Why, that would be me—Mr. Snavely, ma’am.” He quickly extended his hand.
“My husband’s runnin’ errands, but he’ll be back after a bit.” She wanted in the worst way to ask what this fancy man wanted with Reuben, all dressed as he was in creased black trousers and a worldly sports jacket beneath his open top coat. Even his long plaid tie was looped just so.
“Would you mind giving this to him?” Mr. Snavely handed her a small white card with the silhouette of a small tractor up in the corner. “I’ve been in the neighborhood. This tells how to reach me.”
She glanced at the telephone number, wishing to set him straight: They did not believe in using the devil’s tools for either business or pleasure, no matter the convenience they provided. Besides, the bishop would put the nix on such goings-on in a big hurry.
He continued to stand there, looking her over curiously. Surely it was her Plain attire that he found interesting, being a modern fellow and all. Some Englischers weren’t accustomed to the sight of Amish folk. “Thank you, uh, Mrs. Fisher?”
“Jah, that’s right.” She wasn’t about to volunteer her first name, although she herself seldom went by her given name of Elizabeth. Better she encourage this unwanted visitor to be on his way.
When Nellie spotted the Englischer shortly after she’d returned home from Rosanna’s, she ought not to have been surprised. After all, it wasn’t the first time a stranger had rolled to a stop in front of their roadside sign. All the same, she did wonder why he remained out in the yard talking with Mamma, of all things.
“What the world?” Nellie went to the shop window, glad for the short lull, and watched the man lean forward while talking with her mother, apparently handing her something. Was he someone her father knew?
The moment the man hurried back to his shiny car and took off down the road, Nellie ran straight to the house.
Mamma was shaking her head, fanning her pink face with a hankie. “We’ve got ourselves a tractor salesman in the neighborhood.”
“He wants us to buy
what
?” Nellie asked, shocked that an Englischer like that would feel comfortable going door to door.
Evidently the discord among them had already reached the ears of outsiders. Nellie should have seen this coming. Yet she dared not say she’d hinted at such things with Maryann over tea earlier.
