7
The spring was gone in Hank Lapp’s step. He hunched over to where Jesse was working on a buggy—the first time Hank had actually stuck around long enough at the buggy shop to teach Jesse something about buggies, but he was distracted and irritable and moody. More than usual. “What’s got you so discombobulated?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Hank said, his wide forehead crinkling in confusion.
“Agitated. Disquieted. In a dither.”
Hank nodded, but he still looked confused. “The weather. Thought it was going to rain.” He peered at the gray clouds in the sky. “Always promising, never delivering. That’s what I keep telling Edith.” He spun around to frown at Jesse. “She doesn’t want to get married.”
“To you?” Jesse was incredulous.
“YES. Me.”
“Did she give her reasons as to why she’s refusing you?” Jesse could think of dozens. Hundreds.
Hank tugged his ear thoughtfully. “She says things are just fine the way they are. And if I keep pestering her about it, she says she’ll have to break things off with me. She’s done it before.” He shook his head mournfully. “I might’ve poked a hornet’s nest.” He whistled softly, as he sometimes did in moments of crisis. “This is very bad, very bad.” He frowned. “I must seem like a crazy old codger.”
“Nonsense! You had perfectly sound sense to hire me.”
“So what am I going to do?”
“Hank, I have had considerable experience in matters of the heart.” Jesse leaned forward. “Ignore Edith. Give her the cold shoulder. Drives women crazy. It works every time.”
Fern snorted and Jesse jumped. That woman had a terrifying habit of materializing out of nowhere. “As if you should be the one giving advice to the lovelorn. Mim Schrock won’t give you the time of day.”
How insulting! And what could Fern Lapp possibly know of Jesse’s temporary setback with Miriam Schrock? Were a man’s private affairs of the heart not sacred in this town? Mindful of his manners, Jesse stifled his outrage and politely asked her what she might recommend.
“Yes, what do you suggest, Fern?” Hank asked. “I’m listening.”
She had her answer ready, along with a slight smile. “Women like kindness. Sweet gestures.”
The two watched her trail away, considering her words. Hank looked at Jesse. “Could be a trick.”
Freeman, Levi, Deacon Abraham, and David met together at the store on Monday morning, after Sunday’s church service at Windmill Farm. They had about an hour before the store opened. David made fresh-brewed coffee and poured himself and Abraham a cup, waiting to hear why Freeman felt such an urgency for a meeting today.
“David, you’ve complained that you’re not involved in decisions, so I wanted to get you up to speed on something.”
Abraham and David exchanged a glance of words: Brace yourself.
“Two more families are leaving Stoney Ridge for greener pastures: the Hochstetlers and the Nisleys.” He announced the names with a long look at David. This is your fault, it said.
David knew the Hochstetlers, a family of nine, had scouted out land in Montana last summer. But the Nisleys? That was news to him. “Where are the Nisleys going?”
“With the Hochstetlers. They can sell their land here and buy three times as much out west. They’ve got four sons, you know.” Freeman stroked his long white beard. “Something must be done.”
“Must be done soon,” Levi echoed.
“The church of Stoney Ridge will soon dwindle down to fifty baptized adults.”
“Fifty faithful,” David pointed out.
Freeman ignored that. It was a perilously small number, because the chance of the trend reversing itself was remote.
“I have found a solution that works for everyone,” Freeman said. “Even you, David, won’t find something to object to.” He leaned back in his chair and settled more deeply, one heel resting on one knee. “Tractors.”
“Tractors?”
“Yes. I spoke to my cousin in Somerset. The oldest Amish settlement. They allow tractors in the field. It’ll double farmers’ yields. Maybe more.”
A shortcut. Another path toward a quick turnover. Always, always about money. “Freeman, have you given any thought to the long-term effects of a tractor?”
“Of course I have! And the benefits outweigh the negatives.”
“What about soil compaction?”
“That can be fixed with a better plow.” He stomped his feet down and leaned forward in his chair. “It’s done. I’ve bought a tractor with church funds and am allowing any farmers who want to use it to do so.”
“Church funds? You used church funds for a tractor? Without discussing it with anyone? Without getting a vote from the church?”
“He discussed it with me,” Levi said. “And I think it’s a grand idea. Positively inspired.”
“What about those who object to tractor use?” Abraham said, the words so soft they sounded as if they came out of his short collar rather than his mouth.
Freeman waved a hand in the air. “If there are some who prefer a horse and plow, then they have that choice. But with all the rain we’ve been getting lately, a tractor will help farmers bring in the hay in half the time.”
“Maybe a quarter of the time,” Levi said.
“You’ve used church funds,” David repeated. “While Ephraim Yoder lies in a hospital bed, you used church funds to buy a tractor.” He was amazed. “Freeman, this is the kind of thing that causes a church to split in two. Once you do something like this, you can’t undo it. You can’t take it back.”
“I have no intention to take it back. Thunderation, David. Sometimes you make me sound like someone who flagrantly disregards all that we hold dear. Do you think I haven’t laid awake for nights, wondering if accepting some new ways might be the best way to ensure our church’s survival?”
How could David make them understand what was at stake? “There’s a story of a woodsman who, at eighty-five years of age, was still using the same ax. Sometimes the blade would wear out and he would replace it. Sometimes the helve would wear out and he would replace that. But it was always the same ax.”
“That’s it exactly!” Freeman said. “Think of it as the blade wearing out, and it’s time to replace it.”
David shook his head. “You’re missing the whole point of the story.”
Freeman gave him a probing look, one he couldn’t read. “Maybe you’re the one missing the point.”
Levi snickered.
David ignored Levi. He usually did. “The church will survive, and its survival has nothing to do with us.”
“It has something to do with us,” Freeman insisted.
“Well, if anyone asks me,” David said, “I will discourage them from using a tractor.”
Later that night, after the girls were tucked in bed, David went outside and sat on the porch stairs. He didn’t know what to do, and whenever he felt that way, he liked to gaze at the stars, pinned to the evening sky. At times, it worked better than a prayer.
Sometimes, it is a prayer.
Rain had started this afternoon, right after Fern Lapp had picked Thelma up in her buggy to head to the hospital to visit Ephraim Yoder. Katrina peered through the windows at the rain obscuring everything with a blurry gray.
Restless and bored, she thought about going down to the greenhouse to see if she could find something to do, but then she saw Andy head into it and changed her mind. After the long talk they’d had in the buggy on Sunday, she had tried to avoid being alone with him. She could tell he was drawn to her, and she had to admit that she found him quite appealing. His thoughts made her think more deeply than she was used to. In fact, she couldn’t remember ever having such a meaningful discussion with a man, other than her father. Far more meaningful conversations than she’d ever had with John. Still, her life could not handle another complication.
She decided to start dinner while the house was quiet and settled on chicken pot pie—one recipe she knew by heart and never failed. On the counter, she lined up her ingredients: onions and garlic, a bunch of flat leaf parsley culled from the garden, carrots and celery, a good boxed chicken broth since time was too short to make her own. She decided to poach the chicken rather than roast it, though roasting, bone-in, made a big difference in the depth of flavor. She smashed garlic cloves and minced them, slid the wrapper from an onion and set it aside.
If Katrina had her way, she would tear out a wall in Thelma’s tiny kitchen to expand the space. It was so small that only one person could move around comfortably. She didn’t know how Thelma and Elmo and their son had managed, but she supposed that those two males rarely ventured into it. In that way, her dad was different than most Amish men. He was a pretty good cook and didn’t mind doing dishes. He could make a grilled cheese sandwich exactly right, with the bread turned just barely crisp, light golden brown.
She wondered how her family was doing without her. Since her mother had died, she’d been the one who’d made school lunches, pinned hair for her sisters, kept the laundry rotation moving from washing machine to clothesline to closet. Did they miss her? She hoped so, but to her surprise, she didn’t miss them. Maybe a little twinge, now and then, but mostly she was relishing the time she had to herself. The quiet. The peace. The freedom to not be responsible for everyone. Always, always, there were obligations.
For the first time in a long time, she had time to think. And feel.
That was a good and a not-so-good thing. But she knew it was an essential thing.
She heard a bark, then an urgent knocking at the door. “It’s me, Katrina,” Andy called. “It’s raining out here, you know?”
She yanked open the door. “Sorry! I’m in the middle of cooking.”
Andy leaped up the steps, bringing the storm with him. Rain slicked him from head to toe, the damp ends of his hair curling at his shirt collar. She gave him a dish towel as Keeper scooted behind him and shook, sending water all over them both.
Katrina shrieked and covered her face. “Oh no! Stop him, stop!”
Andy bent down and swiped the wet floor with the dish towel. Satisfied, Keeper curled up by the woodstove, pleased with himself.
“It’s raining so hard that I can’t get any work done. That old greenhouse is leaking like a sieve. Does it always rain like this?”
“Seems like we’re getting more than our usual share this fall. Very bad news for the farmers who are trying to bring in hay.”
“Very good news for moss on a hillside, where the water drains quickly,” Andy said with a grin. “It’s cold out there.” He glanced at the teakettle whistling on the stove top. “Thought I could come up for a cup of tea.”
Katrina put a tea bag into a mug and poured in the water. “This will take the chill away, and then you can go back to the barn.”
He ignored her hint and lifted his chin at the chopping board with onions, carrots, and celery lined up in a row. “You’re cooking? How about if I help?
She handed him the hot mug. “There’s not a lot of room in here.”
He grinned and she noticed that his teeth were not quite perfect but they were very white, and his tanned skin glistened with the rainwater. “You mean you want to be alone to mope.”
She frowned. “More like think things over.”
“And is all that thinking making you feel better?”
She sucked her top lip into her mouth, let it go. “Not exactly.”
He picked up the knife she had left on the counter and started to slice the onion into two halves, then diced each half, making sure each piece was the same size as the next.
“There really isn’t room for two,” she repeated.
“I’m pretty accustomed to small spaces.” He scraped the diced onion into a bowl and picked up a celery stalk. “How much celery?”
“Two stalks. Thinly sliced.” She poured olive oil into the pot with the diced onion and stirred. The heat was not high. She added the minced garlic, stirred again, sprinkled in a little bit of salt, then took a carrot and began to peel it.
“Next?”
Next? He needed to go, to leave her be. “The rain has stopped.”
“But I want to help.”
“You’re in the way.” She turned the heat up on the poaching chicken.
“I’ll make myself useful.” He grabbed the carrots she had peeled. “These need slicing, right?”
She tried to ignore him as she adjusted the heat under the sautéing onions. “Fine,” she snapped. “Slice the carrots.”
“Wow, that’s a pretty intense scowl,” he said. “Any chance you’ve been avoiding me lately?”
Yes! Of course she’d been avoiding him. She had already been down that particular road and she did not want to travel that way again. So yes, I’m avoiding you, she thought, and you just don’t seem to get the hint. He was like Keeper that way. She glanced back at him, trying to look stern, but a corner of her mouth quirked. “You know—” her grin spread—“you are not exactly what I expected.” She turned back to the stove to stir the onions.
“Hmm . . .” His voice rumbled up through his chest. “Such as?”
“Such as, I had you figured as the silent type,” she said. “You’re very talkative, actually.”
“Not with everybody.”
“It’s just that, I usually have a sense about people.” Maybe that—along with her confidence, her sense of well-being, her happiness—had abandoned her.
After a long moment he asked, “So what do you sense about me? Something bad?”
“No,” she said, trying to capture the feeling she got when she was around him. “More like . . . sad . . . I guess. Like you have to get something off your chest.”
“Funny . . . ,” he said.
She heard him move, felt him take a step toward her.
And then he was behind her, standing closer than he had any business being. “That’s the same feeling I get around you.”
She let the spoon rest on the skillet’s edge, then turned and looked up at him, and he reached down to curl one of her prayer cap strings around his finger and give it a little tug. She knew she ought to pull away, that she ought not to encourage him, that she needed to keep their interaction businesslike. A soft glow filled the air as they stood there, inches apart from each other. A stillness came over them. Andy’s gaze took in her face, then slowly dropped to her mouth, and for a minute she thought he might kiss her. She thought she might want him to . . . and that awareness shocked her.
For the first time in a long time, she thought about what it might be like to be kissed by someone other than John. She could feel the color building up in her cheeks. The silence in the room took on a prickly tension.
Suddenly a wet black nose came between them, Keeper’s nose, and they both startled, jerking away from each other.
Grateful for the timely interruption, Katrina turned back to the onions and gave them a stir, added the carrots, and picked up a potato to dice.
A new relationship wasn’t the answer. She wasn’t over the old one.
Andy was a bit too close again and she had to scoot around him to get to the cutting board. He gave her a slow sideways glance. “So, how are you at giving haircuts?”
A laugh burst out of her. “Have you seen my brother Jesse’s hair?”
“I don’t think I’ve met him yet.”
“You’d know it if you’d met him. He’s one of a kind. Wait until you meet him, then you can decide if you still want me to cut your hair.”
“His haircut is that bad?”
“No, no, it’s that good. For a girl, anyway. He’s got gorgeous, thick, wavy red hair. The best hair in the family. We five sisters are very envious of that hair of his, but he insists it’s nothing but a bother to him.”
Andy’s gaze searched her face, resting on her prayer covering. “I can’t imagine anyone having prettier hair than yours.”
She did have nice hair, though she knew it was vain to think so. Not as nice as Jesse’s, not as red, but it was thick and long, curling down to her hips, strawberry blonde in color. She gave him her best schoolmarm look, the one she used on her little sisters to get them to behave in church. “Andy Miller, are you flirting with me?”
He grinned. “Would I do a thing like that?”
“You might be trying to cheer me up.”
“Maybe.” He brushed her elbow with his own. “Is it working?”
Again, he made her laugh. “Yes.”
Jesse was passing the schoolhouse one afternoon as the door opened and children poured out, happy to be set free. His attention was caught by a curious sight: that same skinny boy running for his life as three big boys—Luke Schrock in the lead—were hot on his trail after him. Jesse had never seen anyone run so fast. One by one, the big boys gave up and dropped to their knees, puffing and panting and gasping for air.
But Jesse, fortunately, had a scooter. He pumped the scooter with one leg and started to gain on the boy. “Wait! Hold on. I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to talk to you.” The boy only sped up and dashed away on his storky legs, one arm flailing and the other holding down his hat, running for his life as if he were being chased by a swarm of yellow jackets.
When the boy made a fast turn off into the woods, Jesse gave up and turned his scooter around to ride back and talk to Luke Schrock. He and Luke had a cautious friendship—Luke was a few years younger than Jesse and had a reputation for meanness, all points against him, and Jesse didn’t like bullies. Yet Luke had a swagger that was admirable. And, there was always the fact that he was Miriam’s younger brother. Jesse hadn’t seen Luke since last spring and was surprised at the change in his appearance. He must’ve grown six inches this summer, with the beginning of fuzz on his upper lip. Luke would be, according to Jesse’s sisters’ assessment of manhood, quite a looker. A heartbreaker. “Luke, who was that boy you were chasing?”
Luke and his two friends were throwing pocketknives into the ground. When he saw Jesse, he straightened to his full height, pleased to be culled from his posse. “He’s new this year. Just a punk.”
“What’s his name?”
“Stick. Er is nix wie Haut und Gnoche.” He’s nothing but skin and bones.
“Actually, it’s short for Yardstick,” piped Ethan Troyer. “’Cuz he beat Luke in a race on the first day of school by yards and yards.” Luke stared at him in consternation, but it went unnoticed. “That’s why Luke picked him as his project this year.”
Luke jabbed Ethan with his elbow.
Jesse looked from Ethan to Luke, back to Ethan. “Project?”
“For a daily beating,” Ethan said. “But Luke hasn’t been able to catch him.”
Luke shoved him. “Schtill sei,” he ordered, “un schwetz net so viel!” Be quiet and don’t talk so much!
A year ago, Jesse might have been interested in this school yard squabble. No longer. He returned to the issue at hand. “He sure looks fast.”
“Fastest boy in school,” Ethan said.
Luke lifted a fist to threaten Ethan just as Jesse’s sister Ruthie approached. As soon as Luke saw Ruthie, he dropped his fist and straightened to his full height, ramrod stiff. His eyes were riveted on her. “Hey Ruthie,” he said, but she didn’t so much as blink in his direction as she passed.
Ruthie? Jesse’s head swam. His sister, Ruthie?
Clearly, Luke wasn’t accustomed to being ignored. His face turned red enough to ignite. For a few brief seconds, he looked completely humiliated.
Jesse saw it all.
David set out a Grocery Shower box on the front counter to collect food for Ephraim’s family. This afternoon, he planned to stop by the hospital. Ephraim’s condition had stabilized, but the doctors had said that he couldn’t live without the ventilator. With great effort, Ephraim was able to communicate short words at a time. There was no doubt that his mind was clear. He had told his wife, Sadie, that he wanted to be taken off the ventilator and she refused. She didn’t want to let him go. He told her he couldn’t live like this.
One of the burdens on David’s heart as a minister was to prepare God’s people for a good death. Much of the world was suffused with a great fear of death, it seemed, if not actual denial of it. But there was another way to face death—by resting in the sovereignty of God. By trusting that one’s life, though it may be short, would be complete.
Easier to say than to do—that, he knew.
The door opened and Gertie Zook and Lizzie King came into the store on a gust of cold air. They didn’t notice David in the back of the store and continued their conversation. When he heard the word “tractor,” he stilled to listen, his spirits sinking rapidly.
“I’ve lived through a church split before,” Gertie said. “It’s the same thing. A battle to hold on to the old ways or accept new ways. It never ends well.”
Was that the battle of their church? David hoped people understood the issues were not so simple as the age-old fundamentalist vs. liberal battle. He wasn’t trying to hold on to old ways for the sake of tradition but because he felt that the very foundations of the faith were getting eroded. Freeman was running the kingdom of God on his own terms. Every single decision he had made since he became bishop had been motivated by money.
Lizzie King noticed David was at the far end of the aisle and nudged Gertie to stop talking. David said good morning to them and asked how they were, but the conversation felt uncomfortable and forced.
After they left, he leaned his forehead against the doorjamb. Anna would know what he should have said to those two women to reassure them that the church was not in danger of splitting into two factions. She always knew the path to draw people together. These were the moments when missing Anna went from its usual dull ache in his chest to a sharp pain. It seemed impossible that more than a year had passed since her death. At times it felt like she’d been gone for years, other moments he forgot she wasn’t there. Last night, his dream about her was so vivid that it startled him awake. In the dream, he had asked her a simple question—what were they having for dinner?—and waited for her reply, eager to hear her voice, but she never answered him back.
Anna, he knew, had had a good death. Her life was complete. It was those left behind who struggled to hold firmly to that truth.
Jesse had made three bill collector calls in one morning, though only two were successful. He brought out the cash he’d been paid for Hank’s buggy repairs and counted it again. He would’ve thought Hank would be more pleased about the money he was bringing in, but he didn’t seem to care much about it. All he cared about was wooing Edith Fisher to the altar of matrimony.
If this were his money, he would make it work for him. Under the right conditions, he could double or triple it.
He made a quick detour into the drugstore. Ruthie asked—no, ordered—him to buy some bobby pins for the little sisters’ hair, and he found it very aggravating to have to be in the women’s beauty aisle, for all the world to see. He turned a corner looking for hair products and thought he caught sight of his sister Katrina just as she was leaving the store. He strode down the aisle to go after her . . .
And stopped dead.
On the glass door of the drugstore, the clerk was taping up a prominent poster about Stoney Ridge Founder’s Day next Saturday, including a BBQ hosted by the town mayor. Including a hundred-yard dash.
Maybe . . . the right conditions for Hank’s money had just arrived.