Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gabe waited, trying to keep his eagerness in check, while his dat ate another cookie from the plate Mamm had placed on the kitchen table. He’d come home first thing this morning, and other than looking a little tired, Dat appeared to be doing well.
“Mighty nice to be here,” Dat remarked as he smiled at Mamm. “I suspect I’ll need a nap soon, because those nurses were always waking me up to take my blood pressure and poke pills down me—”
“Jah, you’re to take it easy for a while,” Mamm assured him. “We’re grateful to God to have you among us again, Martin. If you feel woozy or disoriented, you’re supposed to—”
“I’m fine,” Dat insisted, waving her off. He glanced at Gabe, gesturing toward his usual spot at the table. “Take a load off, son. You look as twitchy as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”
Gabe paused, proceeding carefully. “Um, my table’s over in the corner—but I’ve got something I want to show you, Dat! I’ll be right back!”
He felt a special excitement bubbling up inside him as he picked up the coffee table he’d left on the back porch. When he set it on the kitchen floor where Dat could get a good look at it, his father cleared his throat.
“Took me a minute to recall what you were talking about, son, but before you go any further, how about if you put away that card table?”
Gabe’s heart skipped a beat. “My bann’s to last another couple of weeks, so—”
“I want you back in your old spot where I can keep a close eye on you,” his father teased, tapping the kitchen table beside him. “Life’s too short to make my twenty-seven-year-old son sit in the corner, ain’t so? I’m in a forgiving frame of mind, so let’s go with that flow, all right?”
Gabe’s mouth dropped open—and then he grinned gratefully. “Denki for seeing it that way, Dat, and for bending the rules to—to let me back into the family again.”
“I’ll put that card table away,” Mamm said happily. “You show your dat what you’ve been up to while he was gone.”
Gabe perched on the chair to the right of his father. “When I saw how big our scrap pile was getting, I wondered if it would be worth my while to use some of the pieces that aren’t perfect enough for our regular furniture,” he explained, gesturing toward the two knotholes in the table’s top. “What do you think of selling irregular pieces for less money? We could start a department called Flawed Furniture—you know, flawed with a W instead of a U—”
Dat rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “And you think somebody’ll buy a table with a top that swirls around like a couple of commas instead of having four corners?”
“Jah, I do!” Gabe shot back at him. “And if nobody snatches it up at The Marketplace for, say, fifty bucks, all we’re out is my time, ain’t so?”
His father shrugged good-naturedly. “Why not? If you can scare up some business from the scrap pile, who am I to say no?”
Dat took his time choosing another cookie, and Gabe took a brownie. “The interesting business, however, is that your girlfriend came to see me at the hospital. She’s none too happy about living at the Miller place.”
Gabe nearly choked on his brownie. “No, she’s not,” he said cautiously.
Where was this conversation going? He’d have to mend some serious fences if he expected to get back into Regina’s good graces.
Dat’s laughter filled the kitchen. “A smart man would offer her an alternative,” he said, holding Gabe’s gaze. “You were on the right path when you stood up for her before you confessed, yet I didn’t see any sign of sparkle while she was talking to me yesterday. Does your old man have to give you lessons on how to make a young lady sparkle?”
Gabe was wedged between a rock and a hard place. After his father had so graciously reinstated him to the kitchen table, he could not explain that Red had sent him packing because he’d wanted her to live English. When they heard a loud knock at the door, he rose to answer it—but Mamm hurried out in front of him.
“Keep him talking,” she whispered. “Who knows what other miraculous decisions he might make?”
Gabe nodded. His dat’s turnaround of attitude was amazing, indeed, and he wanted to build upon it. “You’re the one who’s gotten his sparkle back,” he remarked, squeezing his father’s shoulder. “Did the doctor say how long you’re supposed to be off work?”
Dat grunted. “I’ve got a follow-up appointment in a couple days, but I’m feeling too gut to sit around here at—”
“Martin, look at you!” Bishop Jeremiah’s voice filled the kitchen. “I almost didn’t recognize you without all those tubes and cables coming out of your chest. Welcome home, buddy.”
As the two men shook hands, Gabe felt a wave of relief—because the bishop had saved him from explaining why he and Red weren’t seeing each other anymore. And if anyone could convince Dat to follow doctor’s orders, it was Jeremiah.
“Gut to be here,” Dat replied, gesturing for the bishop to have a seat and a cookie. “And you might notice who’s sitting in his usual spot at the table.”
Bishop Jeremiah nodded at Gabe as he chose a brownie. “What brought this on, Martin? You’re a couple weeks early—is your new medication affecting your decision-making skills?” His tone was light, but he expected a straight answer.
Dat cleared his throat. “Maybe that’s part of it, seeing as I’m on heart medication,” he replied. “All that time in the hospital gave me a chance to think things out, and I’ve had a change of heart about the banns on Gabe and Regina.”
Gabe stopped chewing. His father had forgiven him moments ago, so he wasn’t sure what to expect now that Dat was openly challenging Old Order ways.
“Delores tells me Gabe took his guitar to the thrift store—and he’s apologized to me countless times,” Dat continued with a nod toward Gabe. “I want to fully restore my son’s standing in the church now, instead of waiting for his bann to end. Who knows if I might even be around by then?”
Gabe sucked in his breath. He wasn’t ready to think that Dat might be dead in a few weeks. Or was his father trying to soften Bishop Jeremiah?
The bishop didn’t miss a beat, however. “Which of us knows the day or the hour when God might call us home?” he countered matter-of-factly. “I’m pleased to hear about your change of heart, Martin. I believe families should handle the details of a bann’s separation as they see fit.”
“It should go further than that, Jeremiah,” Dat insisted earnestly. “I want my son’s return to the fold acknowledged at church this Sunday—and I want the same forgiveness and acceptance to apply to Regina,” Dat continued before the bishop could respond. “If we turn our backs on our young people—if we shut them out for weeks at a time—we’re telling them we don’t want them around. If their families don’t want to speak to them, they might come to think they should leave the Amish faith.”
Gabe’s mouth dropped open. As far as he knew, Martin Flaud had never questioned Old Order procedures.
Jeremiah’s dark eyebrows rose. “Maybe I should ask you again if your medications are doing the talking, Martin,” he said sternly. “You know full well that if I ask this question on Sunday, the preachers—and most of the congregation—will turn your idea down flatter than a pancake.”
“Ask anyway!” Dat shot back. “These days, it’s a lot easier for our young people to make their way in the English world. My son could start up a furniture shop in a snap—and Regina could make a gut income from her paintings,” he pointed out as he held Jeremiah’s gaze. “I, for one, don’t want that to happen! We should show more concern—more encouragement—so we don’t lose such valuable members of our church.”
The bishop fell back against his chair, gazing at Gabe. “Have you considered leaving, son?” he asked. “You know the consequences of jumping the fence—both from a membership perspective and because of the way we Amish view eternal salvation.”
Gabe sensed he might as well be honest. Dat was sticking his neck out to keep him in the family and in the community, so he felt safe voicing his true feelings. “I’ve had that thought more than once of late,” he admitted softly. “But when Dat could’ve died in the operating room, I realized how important it was for me to stay—and Red told me in no uncertain terms that she was in rather than out, when it came to the Old Order. So I’m still here.”
Dat flashed him a knowing smile. “I was wrestling with my faith at your age, too,” he murmured. “And even though I’ve been immersed in our ways all my adult life, I sometimes wish the noose didn’t feel so tight. Other faiths change with the times,” he pointed out to Bishop Jeremiah. “Why not ours?”
The bishop exhaled slowly. “All right, I’ll do as you’ve asked, Martin, because I respect your concerns—and because I’m mighty glad you’re still around to express them. But don’t expect a welling up of acceptance and agreement from those other fellows seated on the preachers’ bench.”
As Jeremiah rose from his chair, he looked at the coffee table with the asymmetrical top. “Is this a new direction your product line’s taking, Gabe? It’s um, different.”
Gabe laughed. “It’s made from wood we tossed out because of those knotholes,” he explained. “Sort of like Christ was the block the builders rejected, and then he became the chief cornerstone of something bigger than anyone could’ve imagined.”
He hadn’t intended to get preachy, but the bishop smiled as he shook Gabe’s hand. “Point well made—and I’m glad you’re still here to express your thoughts as well, Gabe,” he added. “See you folks on Sunday, if not before.”