The Rescued (6 page)

Sometimes it was hard to be Amish. Judith thought of the letter she'd read that had been written over sixty years ago. It had sounded as if Mattie had struggled with how to live Amish in her time as well.

Lancaster County, August 1953

Adam clucked to the mare as they neared the lane to the farm he ran with his daad. She'd turn automatically if he didn't let her know they were headed on to Mattie's place.

His errand could probably have waited until later, when he came to help with the afternoon milking, but what he'd heard in the village had troubled him, and the concern he felt over the school situation was building. Too bad that Mattie's Rachel was the only child in the family just turned fourteen. It might have been easier on both Mattie and Rachel if some of the cousins were affected as well. Of course, it would affect all of the Leit eventually.

Be patient. Be humble. Live separate.
All the standards by which the Amish lived didn't seem to offer enough guidance in this situation.

He heard a car approaching from behind him, the engine roaring as it neared. Betsy flapped one ear, as if hearing it, too, and kept on with a steady trot. The car zoomed past, sending up a cloud of dust, and the driver beeped with what seemed a note of scorn.

It was one of those newer models, he noticed, with lots of shiny chrome, and painted a bright red. Made to draw attention, Adam supposed, just as the black and gray Amish buggies of Lancaster County were meant to be indistinguishable from one another.

There were more cars on the road every year since the war ended, even on a back country road like this one. The world
around them was changing, but their command remained the same.
Live separate. Be not conformed to the standards of this world.
Sometimes he thought that grew harder all the time.

Betsy turned into Mattie's lane, seeming to know where he was headed. That was a comment in itself as to the amount of time he spent here. Still, it was up to the family to help Mattie and her kinder since Ben's death, and he was freer than most, since he had neither wife nor child. Five years he'd been alone now, and folks kept hinting it was time he was marrying again.

But not Mattie, who was unable to think of him as anything but Ben's little cousin.

He drew up at the back porch of the farmhouse and the boys came running.

“It's not milking time,” Toby said. “We just had lunch.”

“You've been to town.” Nate patted the mare, knowing Adam wouldn't have hitched her up to come here. “What did you do?”

“Went to the hardware store is all.” He jumped down in time to scoop little Anna up as she hurtled toward him. “You boys want to give Betsy a drink?”

“Ja, right away.” Toby raced for the bucket while Nate held the mare's harness.

“Is Mammi in the house?” He headed for the porch, carrying Anna.

“I'm right here.” Mattie opened the screen door and stepped toward him with a smile of welcome. “What takes you out and about?”

“Trip to town.” He set Anna down and held out the small brown paper bag he'd been hiding.

“Penny candy,” Anna crowed, knowing immediately what it was. “Denke, Cousin Adam.”

“Share with your brothers and sister now,” he said as she ran off.

“You spoil her,” Mattie chided.

“Ach, a bag of penny candy is nothing.” His little Sarah would have been Anna's age, if she hadn't been gone before she'd had a chance to take a breath.

Maybe Mattie knew what was in his mind, because she said no more about it.

“Is Rachel around?” he asked.

Mattie shook her head. “She's over to Mary Ann's, helping her with the canning. Did you need to see her?”

“Just wanted to be sure she didn't overhear what I have to say.” The words brought a shadow to Mattie's eyes, but it was better if he told her about the talk before she heard it from someone else. “Let's sit a minute.”

Face grave, Mattie seated herself on the porch swing. He had helped Ben hang it so many years ago, laughing at Ben's insistence that a house wasn't a home unless it had a porch swing. Adam took the place next to Mattie, trying not to think that it was where Ben used to sit.

“Tell me, whatever it is.” She seemed to brace herself.

“It's not too bad,” he said quickly. He hadn't meant to alarm her. “It's just that I heard a bit of talk while I was at the hardware store this morning.” He frowned, trying to think of the best way to tell her. “There were some Englisch there, hanging out in the store.”

There always were, picking up the latest news, he guessed. He sometimes thought men were worse than women for gossip.

Mattie's hands clasped each other tightly, and he felt an urge to take them in his. But he didn't.

“Talking about us? About this business of the school and us not wanting to send our children?”

“Ja. One of them was a bit of a loudmouth. The others tried to hush him when I came in, but he wasn't having it. He seemed to think I was a dumb Dutchman who couldn't even understand them.”

“Most Englischers aren't like him,” she said quickly.

“No. But I'm worried that too many might share his opinions about this school business.” He frowned. He wasn't doing this right. “That was the whole gist of what he was saying, that we were dumb and didn't know enough to take proper care of our own kinder. And it worried me that nobody spoke up against him, not even Mr. Matthews, and he knows the Amish as well as anyone, running the hardware store like he does.”

“What? Why would any of them think we can't take care of our children? Nobody could possibly love my little ones more than I do.” Mattie's lips trembled for an instant, but then she pressed them together as if to defy anyone to argue the point with her.

Adam had been trying to figure that out all the way here from the hardware store. “It's this whole idea of progress, I think. Since the war ended, Englisch folks seem like they're all caught up in this notion of everything being bigger and better. Faster and shinier.” He remembered the car that had passed him. “They seem to think if a school is bigger, it has to be better.”

“Well, fine. Let them have their bigger schools then, if that's what they want. Just leave us alone.”

“That's the trouble, Mattie.” Again he felt the urge to take her straining hands in his. “They won't leave us alone. They—some of them, anyway—think it would be a really good idea if our kids
were sent off to a big school where they'd learn about modern Englisch ways of doing things. Then they wouldn't be backward, like us.”

“Why is it backward to want to live as Jesus commanded?” Mattie's rare temper flashed. “We don't try to tell other folks how to live.”

“We're outnumbered.” He couldn't help smiling a little at her indignation. “I know what you mean, and I agree with you. But I'm not sure we should pin too much hope on this meeting the bishop has set up for him and the ministers to explain our point of view to the school board president.”

Mattie looked honestly surprised at his pessimism. “But the board president is an educated man. He's not like one of those lazy loafers in the hardware store. Surely he'll listen to Thomas Beiler's words. Everyone respects Bishop Thomas, even the Englisch.”

“Maybe not everyone. It's apparently common knowledge that the bishop asked for a meeting with the school board president.” He frowned. “I don't know the man, so I can't say that the folks I heard had it right. But according to what they were saying, this Walter Graham is all for the new school plan, and he's not likely to be swayed by Bishop Thomas or anyone else.”

“Walter Graham.” Mattie repeated the name, frowning. “There's a Mrs. Graham who comes out about every week to buy produce from me, but I don't know that she's any kin to him.”

“Probably not. It doesn't sound as if he'd have any truck with the Amish.”

“Maybe those men were wrong. Maybe Bishop Thomas will convince him that our ways are right for us.” Mattie sounded as if she were clutching at any straw she could find, and Adam wished he could say he agreed with her.

“Maybe,” he said, knowing how doubtful he sounded. “I didn't want to upset you, Mattie. I'd never want to do that, but I thought you ought to be ready in case it's bad news coming out of the meeting.”

“I know.” Mattie reached over to clasp his hand, startling him when he felt her skin soft against his. “I'm grateful that we have you to depend on now that Ben is gone.”

Her hand felt small and warm, and he enveloped it in what he hoped was a comforting grasp. But the truth was that comforting wasn't all he was feeling. When he looked into Mattie's clear blue eyes, he seemed to be falling right into them, unable to look away, unable even to think clearly. She was so dear, so sweet—

Stoppe!
This wouldn't do. He couldn't be having these feelings for Mattie, of all people. Mattie was Ben's wife, and even though Ben was gone, it still didn't seem right. He'd always wanted to be like his big cousin, but that didn't mean he could want to take Ben's place with Mattie.

Adam shot to his feet, setting the swing rocking. “I . . . I have to get going. Daad's waiting for the things I picked up at the hardware store.”

Mattie was staring at him, confusion written on her face. “You'd best go, then. I'm glad you came and told me, Adam. It's right for me to be prepared.” She tried to smile but wasn't completely successful.

He couldn't keep looking at her. He had to get away and sort out his feelings, because if he didn't, he might do or say something that would change everything between them. With a quick nod, he bolted off the porch, praying the kinder were too occupied with their candy to notice that anything was wrong with him.

J
oseph
had slipped away again this afternoon. Judith wasn't sure how he'd managed it, when she'd been alert for an opportunity to get him alone to talk. He was becoming entirely too good at this vanishing act of his.

Still, there was no use beating herself up for not keeping closer track of him. He wasn't a child any longer, and at fourteen, he'd resent it if he thought she was babying him.

At least Isaac wasn't home to notice his absence. Isaac had gone over to his uncle's place after lunch to help with some deer fencing around the truck patch, taking the two older boys with him. If she knew Onkel Simon, they'd be working and talking most of the afternoon. Surely Joseph would be back before Isaac was.

Judith moved to the next row of tomato plants in the garden, brushing aside the thick leaves to pick only the ripest ones. They'd been fortunate in the amount of rain they'd had this summer, and it looked to be a bumper crop of tomatoes.
They'd been so sweet that even little Noah ate them like a piece of fruit. Unless something happened to have a bad effect on the plants, she'd probably be canning well into September.

Straightening to stretch her back, she shaded her eyes and looked over toward Onkel Simon's, but the hedgerow cut off any view of the spot where the men would be working today. Maybe Isaac would open up to his uncle about his nightmare. They were close—nearly as close as father and son. Isaac would talk to him if he'd talk to anyone.

Isaac's temper had been uncertain since Saturday, and it didn't seem to be improving much. He'd speak sharply to the kinder about some little thing, and then the next moment he'd not even seem to notice something that would ordinarily earn a rebuke. Judith suspected he hated having told her anything about the fire, and she was afraid to make matters worse by bringing it up.

Was that cowardly on her part? Maybe so. Certainly in her position, her cousin Barbie would be outspoken, as she was about everything. But Barbie didn't yet know what it was to love a man with all her heart. She might find herself becoming more cautious when she fell in love.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of Judith's eye, and she realized Isaac had walked into her field of view. Her heart gave a little jump. Was he coming home already, and Joseph not back yet?

The sound of wheels on gravel announced Joseph's arrival, and he came shooting past the house on his scooter to the spot where she'd stacked some peck baskets. Without a backward glance, he picked up a basket and joined her in the garden, stepping easily over the plants with his long legs. If Isaac looked over now, he'd see his brother suitably busy helping her with the tomatoes.

The sense of being manipulated into a part in his deception made her voice a little sharper than usual. “Joseph, where have you been?”

He looked up, startled, and perhaps wary, as well, and brushed a strand of golden brown hair from his eyes. “Nowhere. Just around.”

She bit back a retort at the typical teenage response. “That's not an answer. I know you probably want to get away from the little boys once in a while, but—”

“Where are they?” he asked quickly. “They usually love to help pick the tomatoes.”

“Over at Onkel Simon's with their daad. Except Noah, and he's napping.” He'd distracted her, which was probably his intention. But while they had this rare private moment, she was determined to get some straight answers from him. “I don't mind if you want to get off by yourself sometimes, but I'd appreciate it if you'd let me or Isaac know when you're going.”

There was silence for a moment as he picked another bright red tomato and put it in the basket, making her think he was considering his answer.

“I love the boys. You know I do.” He gave her a rueful smile. “But sometimes I do like to get away by myself. I built a little lean-to out in the woods, and nobody knows it's there. I just like to be private and think. That's okay, isn't it?”

His explanation sounded plausible, but she wasn't satisfied. “Maybe you'd better tell me where it is. I won't say anything about it to your brother or the boys, but someone should know where you are in case of an emergency.”

Joseph's jaw clenched for an instant, and she thought he was going to snap at her. But then he seemed to relax, and he
shrugged. “You know where the log drag crosses the old railroad bed up in the woods?”

“Ja, I do.”

Joseph looked surprised. “I was certain sure you'd say no. I didn't think you ever went that far, even when you're picking berries.”

“I know it's hard to believe, but I was young once myself. I did some exploring in the woods when I was here with . . .” She hesitated, realizing she'd never spoken to Joseph of her friendship with his sister. “Your sister Deborah and I were friends,” she said simply.

“I didn't know.” His face tightened. “I wish I remembered my sisters. And Mamm and Daad, too. They're just names to me, like they're not real.”

She'd never realized—never even thought, for that matter—that Joseph would feel that way. He'd been only ten months old when the family tragedy happened, and everyone assumed he wouldn't think much about it.

“I'm sorry.” She had to say more. Surely she could give him some memory to cherish. Even as she thought it, a memory popped into her head of Deborah, eyes sparkling, leading her in to see the new baby.

“Deborah was wonderful happy when you were born.” Her voice was gentle with remembered happiness and sorrow mixed together. “Another brother after having two younger sisters—she kept saying you were the most beautiful baby she'd ever seen. She was so proud when your mammi let her hold you. I can see her now, looking down into your face and smiling. Deborah had the prettiest smile.”

It was getting hard to talk over the lump in her throat.
Because it pained Isaac so much to remember, they never talked about the lost siblings, but she'd grieved for Deborah, her friend, and she knew that she'd missed talking about her.

Joseph blinked rapidly, and Judith suspected he didn't want her to see him cry. She bent, busying herself with a sprawling tomato plant.

“Denke, Judith,” he said finally.

She nodded, studying his face for a moment, the features so like Isaac's but caught in that place between boy and man. He hadn't really answered her question, she knew. She had no doubt that he did sometimes sneak off to his lean-to in the woods, but he hadn't been coming from that direction today. He'd come along the road.

If she pressed him on that, she might never get an answer to the question she'd intended to ask. Maybe it was best to get that in while they were still in harmony with each other and no one else was around.

“When my cousin Barbie was here for your birthday, she mentioned something to me.” She tried to sound casual.

“What about?” Joseph had that wary look again.

“She noticed that you were interested in the bulletin board they have at the bakery with the information about vocational classes. In fact, she says you took one of the—”

“She was spying on me?” Joseph's face reddened. “It's none of her business what I do.”

Judith straightened. “Joseph Wegler, I will not have you speaking that way. No one is spying on you, and I'm ashamed of how I raised you if you can think so.”

His head dropped, and he seemed to be studying his feet. “I'm sorry,” he mumbled.

“You should be.” Judith took a breath. She was getting nowhere by scolding him. “Ours is a small community, Joseph. Whatever you do, someone always sees, not because they are spying but because we all care for one another. Barbie just wondered what class you were interested in. And so do I.”

“I just . . . I was looking at the class they have on engine repair, that's all. I've always been interested in it.”

She nodded. That was true enough. Joseph had been taking things apart to see how they worked since he was a small boy. But . . .

“You have a full-time job now, learning how to run a dairy farm, ain't so? I don't think Isaac would want to spare you to go back to school.”

“It's only one class,” he said, looking sulky. “It's not like I'd be gone all day. And anyway, there are always things to fix around here, ain't so? Seems to me it would be gut for someone to know how to repair them.”

Joseph's words made a certain amount of sense, and she longed to find a compromise that would please everyone. Unfortunately, she didn't think Isaac would agree.

“I know what you're going to say. That Isaac won't think so. That I have to do what Isaac says because he's my big brother.” He flung the words at her.

“Not exactly,” she said mildly. “How soon would you have to sign up to take the class?”

Hope flared in Joseph's eyes. “There's another two weeks before the cutoff date. You mean you'll help me?”

“I'll try,” she said cautiously. “Give me a little time to think how best to approach it with Isaac.” And give Isaac time to recover from the events of Saturday, as well.

“Denke, Judith. Denke.” Joseph's face lit with happiness, making her realize how long it had been since she'd seen him look that way.

She'd be happy, too, if she had any idea how she was to get Isaac to agree to Joseph's plan. And if she didn't have the feeling that Joseph hadn't yet told her everything.

Lancaster County, August 1953

Mattie tried to concentrate on the hot tomato juice she was pouring into canning jars. Instead, she found her thoughts straying again to how oddly Adam had behaved yesterday. She'd have said she knew Ben's young cousin as well as she knew her own kinder, but at the moment she had no idea what was in his mind.

“Watch out, Mammi.” Rachel grasped the kettle and steadied it as she poured, probably preventing a splash of hot juice on her fingers.

“Denke. I was daydreaming a little, I think,” she said quickly, hoping neither Rachel nor her mother-in-law had noticed that she had something on her mind.

“Best not to daydream when you're bottling tomato juice,” Mamm Becky said, wiping her forehead with the back of her arm. “I'm just as glad this is the last batch, that's certain-sure.” She looked with satisfaction at the rows of filled jars ready for the canning shelves. “We did a fine big batch today.”

“It goes fast when you have people to work with, ain't so?” Mattie took a step back to allow Rachel to wipe the jars and fasten the tops. “Rachel or the boys can bring your half over in the pony cart after the jars have cooled.”

“Now, don't be foolish, Mattie. You have a family to feed, and they were mostly your tomatoes anyway. I'll chust take a few jars.”

Mattie exchanged smiles with Rachel at hearing the familiar wrangle begin. Ben's mother always tried to get them to take the lion's share when they did the canning together.

“You have the bigger eaters at your house,” she pointed out. “My little ones will go for the apple juice instead of the tomato most of the time, so you should take more, ain't so?”

“Ach, well, I guess half and half then,” Mamm Becky said. “But next time—”

“Next time you two will say the same things again,” Rachel said, her eyes twinkling. “Now why don't you go outside and cool off in the shade while I finish up this last batch?”

“I'm not leaving you with all the work,” Mattie began, but Rachel shook her head. With a pang, she realized that her little Rachel was almost more woman than child.

“It doesn't take three of us to start this last batch in the canner. There's some lemonade cooling in the spring house, and you can have a nice gossip.” Rachel shooed them through the door and onto the porch. “Nate!” she called. “Bring the lemonade for Mammi and Grossmammi.”

Nate waved to show he'd heard and then darted off toward the spring house, and Rachel went back inside.

“Our Rachel is getting to be so grown up,” Mamm Becky said, settling herself next to Mattie on the swing. “I wish Ben could see what a fine young woman she is.”

Mattie nodded, her throat tightening. “Ja. I wish it, too.”

Mamm Becky grasped her hand. “I didn't mean to make you feel sad. I've chust been thinking about Ben lately. It
wonders me to know how he would have handled this business with the school.”

“I know. I think of that as well.” Mattie hesitated, glancing around, but Rachel was busy in the house and Nate hadn't reappeared from the spring house yet. “You've heard that the bishop was disappointed by his meeting with the school board president?”

Mamm Becky nodded, her forehead wrinkling. With a pang, Mattie realized that the brown hair pulled back from a widening part was more than half gray now, and the lines in her mother-in-law's face seemed a reminder of the sorrow she'd dealt with in her life.

“I've prayed and prayed. We all have, ain't so? But Bishop Thomas said the man didn't even seem to be interested in what they had to say. He'd already made up his mind before they even started to talk.”

“Gossip has it that some of the other board members aren't so set on forcing us into the new school.” Mattie repeated the only hopeful news she'd heard recently. “Maybe the bishop should talk to them. Maybe they could sway the president.” She had a feeling she was grasping at straws, trying to find a way to escape what she feared.

“Maybe.” Mamm Becky sounded doubtful. “You know the whole family stands with you in this, ja? Adam says we should be sure you know that, so you won't feel you're alone. He's more worried than I've ever seen him, I think.”

“That might be why he's acting so strange lately,” Mattie murmured, thinking aloud.

“Strange?” Her mother-in-law picked up on the word right away. “How is he acting strange?”