11

Outside the house, Abigail was intercepted by her grandmother, whom she generally avoided due to the probability of some sort of complaint.

“Ora Nisley is willing to give it another chance. He’ll be here for supper tonight. You must be here.” As Abigail opened her mouth to object, Mammi lifted a hand in the air to stop her from continuing. “You must. No excuses.”

“Mammi, I don’t think your matchmaking is a good idea.”

“Ora Nisley is different. He’s highly motivated to find a wife.” Mammi extended her hand toward her. “I think you’ll find if you just try harder—”

Try harder? In what way? When it came to working with people, particularly male people, Abigail made mistake after mistake after mistake. That’s why she preferred deceased people in old family trees. Much easier. But her grandmother wasn’t able to comprehend a thing like that.

“—and focus on the ones who are here and now, not long gone. That is a far more valuable pursuit than tracking down old letters and diaries.”

“That’s it!” Abigail clapped her hands together. “Why, Mammi, you’ve given me a wonderful idea! I can interview the oldest inhabitants of Stoney Ridge and see what information I can track down.”

Molly walked past them and stopped to chime in. “Oldest inhabitants? That would be the sisters of the Sisters’ House. They’re as old as the hills. Older. But don’t listen to Emma. She’s kinda—” she whirled one finger around her ear—“loopy.”

“I really want to finish this genealogy for my father. This one. I need to do this for him.”

Mammi had been listening to her, head cocked, eyes narrowed. “Is it for him or for you?”

Maybe both. “Just let me finish. I started it and I need to finish it. I need to see this through.”

“Why? Why is it so important to complete it? You’ve already done plenty of work on it. What does it matter if it’s got some holes?”

“Because . . . this client needs the whole picture. Everybody does. You can’t just pick and choose the parts you want to.”

Mammi laid a hand on her arm. “I didn’t realize you felt so strongly about it.”

How could she have missed that? Mammi didn’t realize anything! Abigail tried another tack. “Finishing this family tree will make all the difference to Dad.”

“I’m sorry, Gabby, but the well-being of your father is not up to you.”

“Then to whom? Who else? Sometimes I think I’m the only one who believes that my father will get well.”

Mammi’s head rocked back a little, as if she’d just been slapped. She looked at Abigail as if she didn’t quite know who she was anymore. Her eyes grew suspiciously shiny. “Gabby, life isn’t as simple and logical as you think it is. As much as you want something, it doesn’t mean it’s going to happen.” She turned to leave the room, but stopped at the jamb to turn back. “I only want you to be happy,” she said, almost like a command. “Be here for dinner.”

Abigail grabbed her coat and went outside to take down some laundry, stiff in the cold. As she unclipped the laundry pegs and folded the frozen sheets, she made a mental list of the problems that had accumulated in the past forty-eight hours and which now required urgent attention:

1. The Meddling Mammi Problem. Tillie Yoder Stoltzfus was a one-woman hurricane: unexpected and everywhere.
2. Then came the Ruthie Laundry Problem, which had now escalated to include the Ruthie Canned Goods Problem. Apparently, Ruthie was no longer speaking to Abigail. Molly had to tell her that late-breaking news because Abigail hadn’t noticed. There was an obvious reason for Ruthie’s quick-to-take offense attitude. In Abigail’s mind, and in the mind of most, no doubt—Ruthie had in her veins a fair measure of Yoder blood.
3. The Glick Family Bible Problem. This issue was of serious concern and occupied every waking moment. How would Abigail be able to get a look at that Bible? True, as a Stoltzfus, she was viewed with suspicion by Freeman Glick, but he also seemed to be a man who might enjoy having someone show interest in his heritage. Why would he be so resistant to letting her look through it? Unless . . . unless he had something to hide.

Interesting.

Her father often told her she could find the solution to any problem in her own unique way. That was always an extremely helpful remark to hear; however, it often struck her as a polite way to wave her away and failed to address any immediate dilemma.

Jesse was flabbergasted. He had never in his entire life seen a house that was filled with more objects, bits and pieces, and junk, than the Sisters’ House. It was like walking through the basement and attics of the Smithsonian in Washington, DC, a place he’d never actually been to, but his cousin Gabby spoke of it so often, and in such infinite, exhausting detail, he felt as if he had.

The sisters were delighted to have someone show interest in their belongings and suggested that he start his hunt for square bolts in their carriage house, the most likely place for old hardware to be. “Papa saved everything,” Sylvia assured him. “He said things today weren’t built of the same quality as they were years ago, when he was young.” When that would have been, Jesse could only guess. The sisters were as old as Methuselah; which century would their father have lived in when he was a young man?

He spent a few hours hunting and pecking through bags, boxes, jars, old chests. It was apparent that someone had started to organize things—Bethany Schrock, he recalled, had begun the massive task but then was offered a job at the Bent N’ Dent, so she happily abandoned the cleanup project for the old sisters and he could see why. Organizing the Sisters’ House was not for the faint of heart. It was overwhelming. He had come across quite a few mouse skeletons, two shed snake skins, and something flattened and furry he didn’t dare try to identify. But he did find an old wooden trunk, filled with junk, that might be of interest to his cousin Gabby.

By suppertime, his stomach was complaining and he hadn’t found the bolts, but he wasn’t at all discouraged. Just the opposite. He felt like he was a detective, on a hunt for clues. He was confident that square bolts could be found in this carriage house and, even better, the hardware Mim Schrock needed for her wheelbarrow, which would make her indebted to him. He blew out the kerosene lantern, determined to return tomorrow for more happy hunting.

Life suddenly seemed to be brimming with possibilities.

But when he got back to the buggy repair shop, he was met by a hungry puppy that had chosen the interior of Eli Smucker’s buggy as the site to relieve itself. And Jesse’s favorite screwdrivers had gone missing.

David was engrossed in a book, swept off to the time of the Reformation, when he heard someone clear her throat. He looked up to see his daughter Ruthie in front of his desk in the living room, waiting to be noticed, fists at her hips the way his mother often stood, a strident pose. In fact, she looked remarkably similar to his mother. It was a startling thought.

“Dad, what are you going to do about Molly?”

He put his book down. “What do you mean?”

“Didn’t you notice how much she had to eat for supper tonight?”

Yes, in fact, he had noticed. Three helpings of Amish Haystack, two of sweet potato pie. “Did something happen at school to upset her?”

“One of the horrible boys made up a song about her. ‘Molly, Molly, 2x4, can’t get through the kitchen door.’”

Oh. His heart sank. He remembered something Anna used to say: “A mother is only as happy as her saddest child.” A father too.

He had been aware that the fragile confidence Molly had gained as the Bent N’ Dent’s sole bread maker had slipped away in the last two weeks. In its place was an insatiable appetite. A source of comfort, he realized.

“I can’t believe what Birdy is doing about it.”

“What?”

“Nothing!”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing of any impact. She’s having Molly come to Moss Hill tomorrow afternoon to bake cookies. Molly is going to leave the cookies on the boy’s desk.”

“I see. And you think that won’t have any impact?”

“No. They’ll just tease her all the more. If I were the teacher, I would have that boy clean out the outhouses for the rest of the year. And wear a sign on his back saying I AM A BULLY. That would stop him.”

As David pondered Birdy’s strategy, he was suddenly filled with a great sense of pride. She was helping Molly to attack the bully with kindness. There were some teachers who would be only too eager to shame that boy. Shame could be a very strong means to encourage children to behave well, but was it a lasting lesson? Would it truly change a child’s heart? He thought not.

“Let’s give Birdy and Molly a chance to solve the problem their way. The outhouses will always be there, and if that boy had to wear a sign that proclaimed his sins, it wouldn’t be long before everyone would eventually have some sort of sign.” Besides, this way Molly would be getting extra attention from Birdy, someone who could be very beneficial. That was reassuring to him, evidence that Birdy knew what she was doing about this teasing problem. “Ruthie, is Luke Schrock behind this?”

“No!” She glanced at her feet. “He used to tease her, but he’s stopped. It’s Leroy Glick. He’s the one who teases Molly. He’s awful.”

Leroy Glick. Freeman’s son. Why wasn’t David surprised that Leroy would be part of this?

She lifted her head abruptly. “But I could ask Luke to take care of it.”

He turned sharply to look at her. “What does that mean?”

She hunched her shoulders and squinted at the lantern light on his desk. “He could just scare him. He doesn’t have to beat him up.”

“Ruthie.” The word came out in a hoarse whisper. He looked at his daughter, the one who most resembled his wife, and couldn’t believe those terrible words had come out of her mouth. She’d said it so easily: He could just scare him. He doesn’t have to beat him up.

“Violence is never justifiable,” he said, his voice nearly shaking. “Vengeance belongs only to the Lord.”

Ruthie frowned. “I’m trying to do something to help Molly. That’s all.” She spun on a dime and left the room.

David leaned back in his chair and let out a deep sigh. The lantern on his desk hissed and sputtered as the small flame died out, throwing the room into darkness.

What kind of influence was Luke Schrock having over his daughter?

Mammi answered the door to warmly welcome in Ora Nisley. He was fiftyish, trim, silver-haired, and quite earnest. “I’m glad you could come, Ora.” Mammi waved a hand in Abigail’s direction. “Here is my granddaughter Abigail, whom I’ve told you so much about.”

Abigail forced a tight, fake smile and offered her hand to shake Ora’s, but he seemed startled by the action and flinched, lifting his hands slowly in the air as if surrendering. An awkward moment followed until Abigail realized that Ora didn’t intend to shake her hand. Ah yes! He was germophobic. She could understand his concern. Uncle David’s household was teeming with germs.

Mammi stepped in. “Abigail was so sorry to have missed meeting you last Sunday.”

“Not really,” Abigail said, and Mammi’s eyebrows shot up.

“May I see you in the other room?” Mammi said to her, which meant that Abigail had made a social blunder. She followed her grandmother to the living room. Mammi glared at her. “You must be more polite to Ora.”

Polite? How was being honest considered to be the opposite of being polite? Laura had tried to explain it to her once—that little white lies could be used to avoid hurting someone’s feelings. But what was the difference between a little white lie and a giant black lie? Where was the line drawn? It was always a conundrum to Abigail. But from the look on Mammi’s face, now was not the time to pursue an explanation. She nodded and followed Mammi back into the entry hall. Ora was no longer there.

They found him washing his hands at the kitchen sink. As he reached out for the soap, Abigail gave a shout. “Ora, stop! If you think shaking a hand is germy, you wouldn’t believe what kind of bacteria is on a wet bar of soap!”

Ora dropped the soap on the floor. “I had no idea!” He reached for a rag on the counter to wipe his hands.

“No! Not a rag! Filled with microbes.”

Ora held his hands in the air, panic-stricken. “I don’t know what to do!”

Abigail hurried over to tear off a paper towel to hand to him. “There. This is safest.”

Again a look of warning from Mammi, but less severe this time.