The Tempted Soul (17 page)

Be that as it may, God was clearly working in him, and a sister could rejoice at it. But a sister also had her limits beyond which she could not go. Especially when she’d been rebuffed once already.

“Joshua, I can’t do it. I don’t have the experience, so she’ll never take me seriously. But I will talk to the other women and get them to help. She needs to see a doctor and get advice on the right things to eat and vitamins to take.”

“I don’t think she’ll take kindly to the other women. She’ll see it as meddling or being bossed.”

“Then she’ll have to open her eyes and see that they only want to help.”

“She knows that about you.”

“No, she doesn’t. I tried to butt in once before and got exactly what I deserved—nothing. I can’t do it, Joshua. Please don’t ask me.”

Blindly, she turned away and walked back to the house, out of his sight. When she climbed the porch steps, she realized every single hen in her flock had followed her and stood on the steps and planks of the porch, their necks craned up to look into her face.

She set down the nearly empty pail, sat on the step, and let their warm, feathery bodies crowd around her. But somehow, even their unselfish companionship did not offer her the comfort she craved.

W
hen Aleta came home, she was driving the Miller buggy. Joshua had been about to leave, but he tied up his horse and led Jimsy into the barn to remove his harness and brush and feed him.

“That was a neighborly thing to do,” Aleta said, removing her away bonnet and hanging up her winter coat. “Not what I would have expected of him.”

“He’s here to help,” Carrie said for what felt like the dozenth time. “A cup of coffee?”

“
Ja
, that would be
gut
. I suppose you’re wondering why your buggy is home and your husband isn’t.”

“I imagine he’s working late?”

“Yes. Mary and I went into town and we stopped at the pallet shop to visit. Apparently they got some good news in connection with that trade show they went to last month—good news that means Melvin won’t be home for dinner. He put me in the buggy with that message for you, and told me to say that Brian would drop him off later.”

“Good news means more work for the shop. I’m glad to hear it.”

Aleta settled into a chair at the table with a cup of coffee while Carrie dished up creamed corn, biscuits, baked apples, and pork chops for the two of them. She made up a plate for Melvin, too, and put it in the oven in case he was hungry when he got home…whenever that might be.

They gave a silent thanks and began to eat. Carrie never knew what to say to her mother-in-law. She was touchy on some subjects, opinionated on others, and wouldn’t speak about the rest. That didn’t leave much conversational ground to cover. Some folks believed the table was for eating at, not talking at, and Carrie was willing to live by that philosophy tonight.

“My sister agrees with me,” Aleta said when her plate was nearly empty. “That Zook girl is breeding, and your hired man is the father.”

“No, he isn’t.”

Aleta nearly dropped her fork and knife, probably as surprised that Carrie had contradicted her as Carrie was to have done it. “What?”

“No one knows who the father is except Lydia, and she’s not telling.”

“Says who?”

“Says Joshua himself.”

“Then he’s lying, and shame on him.” Aleta reached for the corn and took another helping.

“I don’t think he is.” Something perverse made her defend him, when privately she thought Aleta was probably right. “There were tears in his eyes when he told me, because it upsets him that she won’t ask for help.”

“She’ll get none from Abe, from all accounts. He never used to be such a hard-hearted man.”

“Surely he’ll see that she goes to the doctor.” Even as she spoke, Carrie wondered. Abe’s own wife had died of an infection that could have been cured by simply hitching up the buggy and taking her to the emergency room in Whinburg. There had even been talk that the police might file charges against him, but nothing had ever come of it.

“If ever there was a candidate for a project, that girl is it.”

“I’m going to speak to some of the women. Among all of us, we’ll see she’s looked after.”

“Why you?” Aleta gazed at her across the table, eyes black as sloes and missing nothing. “You’re not a mother.”

If she hadn’t already been through this with Joshua, the words might have slashed at her composure and left her trying to draw the rags of it around her. But she realized that Aleta was simply speaking the truth without the trappings of consideration or tact. As was her habit.

“In these matters I don’t have any experience. But someone has to do something, and Joshua feels—” She stopped.

“Joshua? If he’s not the father, what does he have to do with any of this? Not that I believe he isn’t, of course.”

“He’s been a friend to her, the way he’s been a friend to me.” A mocking, annoying friend, but still…she had apples in the pantry and three newly painted sheds, didn’t she?

Aleta snorted. “Sounds like he’s preying on needy women. I’ve half a mind to tell Melvin to pay him his money and send him away.”

“He isn’t preying, and he isn’t taking money from us.” She would never have believed she would be defending Joshua to Melvin’s mother, of all people. “He just asked me to help, to talk to Lydia and act as a kind of mother in Rachel’s place, but I can’t. The whole subject of children is so hard…” Her throat closed up, and the lump felt so big even the glass of water in front of her wouldn’t help.

And now Aleta was staring at her, the silence in the kitchen drawing out to the point where something must break it or Carrie would run from the room.

She gripped the seat of her chair, intending to push it back.

“Sarai was a mother in Israel long before she ever had children,” Aleta said.

“Sarah who?” Carrie sat back, feeling a little winded by the abrupt turn in the conversation.

“Sarai, Abram’s wife. Before she became Sarah, she led that congregation. Don’t you think she was called in at plenty of births, because she was the woman they looked to as their leader’s wife?”

“I see what you mean, but I don’t know how that applies here,” Carrie said. She needed to go to bed. Her mind just couldn’t keep up, what with the lack of sleep from last night and all the revelations of today.

“You can be a mother in Israel, Carrie. Much as I used to think of Abe Zook, he’s not the man any of us once knew. He’s turned to vinegar, that’s what, and gone sour in his place instead of ripening like the Lord intended. You know he’s not going to put out a single finger to help that girl. It’s got to be the women of the
Gmee
who band together, and if folk are already looking at you, then there’s a reason for it.”

“Not a very sensible reason.”

“God’s ways are not our ways,” Aleta said firmly. “And besides, can you see any girl bringing a newborn
Bobbel
into that house? For one thing, it needs repair so bad the wind probably blows through it without stopping.”

Frankly, Carrie couldn’t. Even a desperately wanted baby would find no warmth from this grandfather—and who knew how desperately Lydia wanted her child?

“A blessing it might be if she were properly married,” Aleta said, “but a sixteen-year-old girl who was foolish and careless and didn’t take seriously what upbringing she had? I don’t know.”

Carrie thought of that glowing, alive girl who had swirled her dress by the side of the road, and contrasted it with the haunted, hunched silhouette that had held the gate and climbed, oh so slowly, into the buggy.

“What can I offer?” she whispered, half to herself.

“You can be a friend to her,” Aleta said. “And who knows? Maybe she will not be able to keep that baby. Heaven knows Abe Zook isn’t going to welcome it, and he’s been estranged from what’s left of his and Rachel’s family so long it’s not likely they would, either. And here are you and Melvin with a room ready and hearts long prepared to be parents.”

Carrie heard a rushing in her ears, as if a flock of birds had taken wing right behind her chair or a fire had leaped up into a blaze. “What are you saying?”

“I’m usually pretty clear when I speak. You’ll see that I’m right. That baby will have no home unless someone reaches out a hand to give it one. And your hand will already be extended to Lydia, won’t it?” Aleta narrowed her gaze. “You’re as white as a flour sack, girl. Don’t tell me you’re about to faint.”

She was not. Carrie gripped the edge of the table. She would not faint. She had to think.

A mother in Israel? Is that what you want of me, Lord?

The sound of wings, of fire, faded into silence.

And after the fire, a still, small voice
.

She could not do this.

Carrie curled up next to Melvin’s sleeping form and wished she could sleep, but for the second night in a row, that blessing eluded her.

How was she to help, except by rallying the other women? Why, she had about as much experience in pregnancy or childbirth as Lydia herself.

No, that wasn’t quite right. There was that deliriously happy few months six years ago, before the endless, dreadful night she’d blocked out of her memory. Could she share that somehow? Bring it out of the depths of grief, where she’d stuffed it and refused to look at it, if it meant she could help Lydia?

Carrie gritted her teeth and rolled over, pressing her back against Melvin’s warm side.

All things work together for good for them that love God and are called according to His purpose.

Oh, not that thing. Surely not. That couldn’t work for anybody’s good, and she would just put it out of her mind right now. What she needed to do was gather the women together to give Lydia support and information, not frighten her with what might happen.

Somewhere between two and three o’clock, her eyes finally slid shut, and she found the place of peace.

In the morning, after she’d made breakfast and they’d said their prayers and Melvin had gone out to work in the barn, Aleta went back into her room to do her morning reading. Carrie’s path seemed clear. If a mother in Israel was a leader, then she would lead the women. She wasn’t the kind of social leader that Ruth Lehman and Karen Stolzfus were, but she’d organized her fair share of quilting frolics and work parties. A project was no different—it was just a lot more subtle.

To begin with, she would have to include Mary Lapp. She supposed it was a blessing that Aleta had already filled her in on the situation. She was probably already expecting the pretty note card Carrie had open on the kitchen table. She’d painted and stamped it herself, using a kit she’d found at the secondhand store.

She sent similar letters to Amelia, Emma, her sister Susan, and Christina Yoder. Then she got out the district directory and addressed an envelope with care.

The postman didn’t come until three, but she pulled her shawl around her and walked down the lane to put the letters in the mailbox as soon as she’d stamped them. Once they were in the box, she couldn’t change her mind.

Now all she had to do was to make sure Lydia came on Wednesday. And that meant going over to Abe Zook’s and seeing if she was there.

“Would you like to come with me?” She poked her head into the spare room.

Aleta looked up from
The Martyr’s Mirror
. “
Nei
. The last thing I want is for Abe Zook to think I was looking to warm up cold soup with him.”

“I don’t think a visit to his daughter is going to make him think that. He’s probably not even in the house. The weather’s holding—most of the men are probably out plowing the silage under.”

“I’ll keep out of it,” Aleta said. “She needs a friend and a word in season.”

Meaning that was not what Aleta herself might bring? Carrie decided not to ask.

When she hitched up the buggy, Carrie saw that Aleta had the right idea. The November wind cut bitterly, sawing right through her skirts and black stockings. At least she’d worn boots, so her feet were warm, and the buggy blanket was thick over her lap.

At the Zook place, even Jimsy wondered what they were doing there. “I won’t be long,” she told him as she tied him to the rail. “If Abe Zook throws me out, I could be back in five minutes. And then we’ll go home and I’ll give you an apple for your trouble.”

Jimsy swiveled an ear toward her, his brown eyes skeptical.

She had to knock twice before she heard movement inside and the door swung open. Abe Zook towered over her, seeming even taller because he wore his work boots in the house. “
Ja?
You’re Melvin’s Carrie, ain’t you?”

She nodded. “I came to bring you this”—she pulled a jar of applesauce out of her carry basket—“and to have a visit with Lydia. Is she home?”

He took the applesauce with an expression even more skeptical than Jimsy’s had been. “This is a first.”

It wasn’t, but she would not argue. “I don’t often get the opportunity to share, but our trees were loaded this fall.”

He hefted the jar, the way a man might who suspected he was being shorted. “Melvin’s working at the pallet shop these days, I hear. Not much of a farmer.”

If she disagreed, she’d be lying, and if she agreed, she’d be disloyal. What kind of man would say such a thing to another man’s wife? “He enjoys his work at the shop.”

“Man’s got to find what he’s good at, I suppose. Me, I was never much for farming, but it was that or go hungry.”

She was not going to debate life choices with Abe Zook. “Is Lydia home?”

“Nope. Said she was going for a walk, but she was probably meeting that no-account Joshua Steiner. Now, there’s a man who needs to find his work, and soon. Among other things.”

“I don’t think she’d be meeting Joshua,” she said cautiously. “He’s due over at our place anytime.”

Abe snorted. “Don’t know, then. Maybe she was telling the truth.”

Carrie smiled vaguely and wished him good morning, then got into the buggy and beat a hasty retreat. No wonder Lydia took so many long walks. The state of the sitting room! Why, there were probably fourth-generation spiders spinning mansions in the ceiling corners, not to mention the furniture. If someone were to sit in one of those chairs, they would wind up flat on their behind on the floor. Either Lydia had no housekeeping skills at all, or she absented herself so much that Abe just shrugged and went outside.