13

After the very unproductive attempt to see the family Bible at the Freeman Glick household, Abigail decided she needed to go about her interviews in a different way. But she also decided she needed reinforcements. On Saturday afternoon she found Molly baking bread in the kitchen while Ruthie sat at the kitchen table, leafing through a magazine that Abigail was quite sure Mammi would shred, if she happened to be home, which she wasn’t. “Ruthie, would you come with me to the Sisters’ House?”

Ruthie gave her a curious look. “Why?”

“Molly said that they are the oldest inhabitants of Stoney Ridge. I’m hoping they might be able to shed light on a genealogy project I’m working on.”

“I don’t know why you enjoy this genealogy stuff. It looks boring.”

Boring? Boring was one thing it wasn’t. “I don’t think boring is the right word.”

“Dull? Dreary? Unexciting? What would you call it?”

“Thrilling.”

“I think it sounds mind numbing,” Ruthie said. “Trying to keep track of who’s related to whom and how families all link together.”

Mind numbing? Boring? Incredible. “You take all those dates and names, and start to fill in the blanks of a person’s life.”

Abigail could see in her eyes that Ruthie wasn’t impressed. How could she make her understand the importance of genealogy? Then she forgot everything she wanted to convey because standing right there at the kitchen doorjamb was Dane Glick, grinning, with his squared-off cleft chin and eyes the color of root beer. When had he arrived? How long had he been standing there?

“Door was unlocked,” Dane said, answering the question in her eyes, “and I saw you all in the kitchen, so figured I’d just come on in.” He sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m a hobby genealogist too, for the same reasons you just described to Ruthie.” He reached out for a red apple in a wooden bowl and polished it against his coat. “Genealogy is the story of the people we come from, who they were, what they cared about. It’s a way to record the lives of ordinary people.”

In one deft move, Ruthie closed the magazine and slipped it under her bottom on the chair. “If they’re so ordinary, why does it matter?”

“Because they’re part of us. We’re pretty ordinary too. I like to study genealogy to see what in my ancestors resembles what I’ve experienced. Sometimes, I’ve found that my interests match my ancestors’ interests. It’s making history personal.” He took a loud bite of apple.

Ruthie looked at him blankly. “But why? What does it matter?”

Dane chewed, then swallowed. He had all the time in the world. “You start to understand what you’re made of, the kind of stock you come from.”

Abigail hadn’t considered genealogy from that angle. To her, it was like piecing together a puzzle, a mental exercise. It also startled her to hear Dane refer to himself as a hobby genealogist. What did that mean?

Ruthie still looked blank.

“Look at it this way, Ruthie,” Dane said. “When I want to breed one of my sheep, I would look carefully at the bloodlines for multiple past generations—to find out if there are any health concerns, or personality issues. Will a sheep be healthy? Will it be stable?”

“Oh! You want to find out if you’re going to die young.”

“No. No! I’m just trying to show you that there’s a link to how bloodlines—or people—develop.”

Molly was thumping her dough over at the counter by the stove. She held the dough up—which seemed to always have a slightly gray tinge, which Abigail found rather alarming—in the air. “Like this! The starter is super old.”

Why, Molly was correct! “Yes, Molly!” Abigail said. “An excellent illustration from the natural world. The yeast in bread dough could be likened to bloodlines. A little bit of the past continues on into the future. Same with a person’s DNA.”

Ruthie remained unconvinced. “So you’re saying that my life is fixed. That the personality and interests I have are kind of . . . genetically determined into me.”

Fixed? Abigail looked at Dane, who looked back at her. Genetically determined? She didn’t know how to respond to that question, mainly because such a question had never occurred to her. She saw things in black and white; Ruthie seemed to only see gray. She was a baffling teenager, Ruthie was, and she clearly could not understand the critical value of genealogy.

The silence grew immense, maybe twenty or thirty seconds long, until Dane finished his apple, set down the whittled core on a napkin, and took charge. “There might be something to that in animals, Ruthie. When I breed a horse, I’m looking for certain traits and characteristics to carry forward. But God gave human beings free will. It’s the driving force behind who you become. Genetics certainly are a factor, but you can either reinforce a genetic bent or not reinforce a genetic bent. No one lives a fixed life—every person has choices about how they’re going to live their life. It’s how you respond to those choices that makes the difference.”

An interesting point. This was exactly the sort of input that Abigail valued—subtle explanations in areas that she was not skilled in, not conscious of, nor felt any need to bother with.

And then there was Dane. He was interesting too. He might be more focused than Abigail had initially presumed him to be. Perhaps with a higher intelligence, as well.

Which prompted another question. Why was Dane here?

He seemed to read her mind. “I wondered if you might want to go on a walk with me.” He looked out the window. “It’s a beautiful fall afternoon.”

Abigail’s mind went blank. Completely empty.

“She’d love to,” Ruthie volunteered, a little overly eager and overly loud.

“It’s not possible. I have a meeting scheduled at the Sisters’ House.”

“They don’t know you’re coming,” Ruthie said, “so they won’t be expecting you.”

Yes, but Abigail’s mind was entirely focused on interviewing the sisters. It wasn’t possible to shift lanes of thought so quickly.

She hesitated, trying to come up with a rational explanation to politely turn down Dane’s offer, but he jumped right into the opening. “I’ll take you there. They live across town.” He jumped up, took a few steps, and stood at the doorjamb, waiting for her.

Ruthie grabbed Abigail’s arm. “Go with him!” she whispered. “And try not to act so funny.”

Funny? Abigail had been called many things, but never funny.

This turn of events was incredibly annoying to Abigail, but she could not think of an excuse that would satisfy anyone. Dane helped her into his buggy, then ran around to the other side to climb in. He picked up the reins and flicked them to get the horse moving. His large hands looked roughened by hard work, but he held the reins with a touching gentleness.

Abigail rolled down her window and breathed in the smells of fall, the crispness in the air, sweet as apple cider on her tongue. Unfortunately, she could think of nothing to say. Then she remembered Laura’s basic rule of asking a man to talk about himself. Dane had already raised the topic of training difficult horses, so she asked him to elaborate. This was an excellent move and Dane seemed quite, quite pleased by her interest.

A memorable moment.

When he finished with that topic, he kept up a running description of every farm and field along the way. They passed weather-beaten barns and outbuildings, a few cows grazing at pasture that would look up at them curiously. In all directions were brown, withered fields, empty of crops. He was quite an enthusiastic talker, that Dane. She nodded and smiled as he talked, so he would know she was listening. Laura had often said that was just the way to encourage a young man to talk. Nod and smile.

But Dane seemed to realize he was the only one who was doing the talking because he stopped abruptly and his cheeks reddened.

“So . . . I’ve got some questions for you about genealogies,” he said.

Relief! Abigail took a deep breath, finally able to relax. She was back in the world she knew.

Dane pulled the buggy up to a weathered, white-framed two-story house. Paint peeled off the wooden clapboards, the roof was missing shingles, a downspout hung perilously from the gutter, but the garden looked well tended. “This is the Sisters’ House,” he said, as he slid open Abigail’s door. “They’ve lived in Stoney Ridge most of their lives.”

“How many sisters are there?”

“Five, I think. Ella is the oldest.” He hesitated, then added, “I have to warn you. Her memory isn’t very keen. Or her mind. You can’t take everything she says as fact. Or to heart.”

“Understood.”

“Sylvia is the youngest. She’s the heart of the family. They all count on her.” He grinned. “Funny how birth order has a way of catching up with you.”

“How so?”

“Well, I’m the youngest in my family. No one ever listened to me. Maybe when my brothers are all old and gray and toothless, then they’ll listen.”

“I’m the middle one in my family, and no one ever listens to me.”

“Well, that shoots a hole in my theory.” Dane laughed. “Maybe it’s us.” He knocked on the front door a few times, waited, then knocked harder. Harder still. Just when they thought no one was at home, the door slowly opened. Four wrinkled faces with shoe-button eyes peered at them.

“Visitors!” one old sister said. Her back was quite stooped, as curved as a question mark.

“Hello, ladies. I brought David Stoltzfus’s niece with me,” Dane said. “She had some questions about your family tree.”

“Oh, do come in,” another sister said. “We were just having our afternoon tea. Won’t you join us?”

“That one is Sylvia,” Dane whispered. “Follow her lead. She’s the boss.”

Inside, clutter filled the living room, floor to ceiling, in such a way that Abigail stopped abruptly and gasped. “Oh, we’ve come at a bad time. You’re in the midst of moving!”

“Moving?” Sylvia gazed around the room. “I suppose we’ve gotten too accustomed to our clutter. Our eyesight isn’t what it used to be.”

“We like to think of ourselves as historians,” one sister volunteered.

“Savers,” said another sister.

“That’s Ada,” Dane said. “I think. Maybe Lena.”

“Hoarders,” said another in an accusing voice.

“That one is definitely Fannie,” Dane whispered.

A diminutive woman sat hunched in an armchair, knitting needles clenched in her gnarled hands. The center part of her scalp was balding beneath her prayer cap, worn out from a lifetime of hair twisted tight and neat and pinned into place. She lifted her head to reveal milky eyes. “One never knows when one might need something.”

Abigail felt Dane glance her way. “That’ll be Ella.”

Sylvia still seemed embarrassed by the condition of the room, though the other sisters didn’t seem to mind at all. “Bethany Schrock was helping us get organized, but then she started working at the Bent N’ Dent. Without her . . .” She hesitated.

Fannie leaned in. “Without her constant pressure and nagging.”

Sylvia frowned at Fannie. “I was going to say, without Bethany’s gentle encouragement, we seem to have gone back to our messy ways.” She lifted some Budget newspapers out of a chair. “Do sit down.” She moved a knitting project out of another chair. “Dane, you sit there.”

Dane waited until everyone found a seat, then he sat down and yelped. He bolted up, turned, and found a stray knitting needle on his chair.

“Ah, there it is,” Fannie said. She took the knitting needle from Dane and stuck it down the front of her dress. She looked at Abigail. “Now, David Stoltzfus’s niece, what name do you go by?”

“I’m Abigail. I’m here because I’m trying to research the Glick family tree.”

“Why, we have Glick blood!” Sylvia said. “We were all Glicks, until the turn of the century.”

“The last century,” Fannie said. “Not this new one.”

“At that point, our branch of the tree split off.” Lena sighed . . . or was she Ada? “And now we’re the last leaves on our branch. None of us sisters married.”

“Ada nearly did,” Lena said. “Remember that fellow who came around that long, hot summer? It was the drought year. The well ran dry that summer.”

Ada’s eyes sparkled. “Oh, he was a handsome fellow.” She twirled one capstring, lost down memory lane. “But he wanted to move to Texas and I couldn’t leave my sisters.”

“No, that was asking too much,” Fannie said. “Too, too much.”

Abigail could see how conversations among the sisters might seem like five balls of yarn, unrolling at the same time. Prudently, she decided to veer the conversation back on course. “I was hoping you might have some information about the Glicks. Information that goes back into the 1700s and 1800s.”

All five sisters lifted their heads at once, like baby birds in a nest, and talked at the same time, offering up partial names and calendar dates and confusing details, correcting each other on misinformation, of which there was an abundance.

Abigail sighed. Relying on the old sisters’ sketchy, drafty memories was going to take some work. And patience. “Actually, I hoped you might have some paperwork I could look through. Old diaries or letters. Or maybe a family Bible that I could look in.”

The sisters looked around the living room, cluttered from floor to ceiling with books, newspapers, boxes. A silence fell.

“It might take a little looking,” Sylvia said. “We’ll add it to our to-do list.”

Abigail’s heart sank to her shoes.

The old codgers had gone home for the day, Bethany had left early for a dentist appointment, and David was alone in the Bent N’ Dent. Snatches of solitude were something he had always treasured, even more so in the last few weeks. These moments were becoming increasingly rare.

He walked around the store. His mother’s reorganization was in full swing. Boxes lined the aisles. Shelves had been emptied. The hardwood floors had been rubbed with lemon oil. The next time Jesse dropped by, the two of them would move the shelving around the store. His mother had drawn a revised floor plan to allow for more shelving space, as well as a much easier flow of pathways for customers pushing carts. He stopped in the middle of the store and turned slowly in a circle.

She was right. His mother was right. The store’s floor plan was going to be significantly improved. It already was. She had moved small single-purchase items close to the register at the counter, like gums and candies and breath mints, and sales for those items had quadrupled in the first week.

This, this was the side of his mother that he admired. She had a business savvy that far surpassed his own meager ability. She could see things he couldn’t see, whether it was his clumsy store layout or better product placement.

Tillie Yoder Stoltzfus was not an easy woman to work with. She steamrolled over people, unaware of her effect on them. But the truth was that she did often know best. That was the challenge, right there.

After all, she had picked out Anna for him.

He remembered as if it were yesterday. He was twenty-two years old and painfully shy, downright tongue-tied. He’d hardly ever spoken to a girl other than his sisters, much less dared to ask one out. His life consisted of working in the family store and reading books. Until one day, his mother decided it was time he start thinking about a wife. They were alone in the store, on an afternoon much like this one, and she insisted that he invite their new neighbor’s redheaded daughter to a volleyball game at the youth gathering. “She’s not interested in me.” She hadn’t even noticed David. Hardly anyone did. And everybody—every single fellow!—had noticed Anna.

“You have to try, David. There’s someone for everyone.”

“Ken Schuh basst alle Fuus.” No shoe fits every foot.

His mother lifted her finger in the air. “Let’s try my way first. Ask Anna out. Then decide if there’s no one for you.”

So he did. He gathered every ounce of courage he could muster, stammered a weak request to drive her home from the volleyball game, and to his surprise, she smiled brightly and said, “Why, I thought you’d never ask.” As if she had just been waiting for him to ask. And it turned out later, indeed she had.

That moment changed his life. That pivotal event was the very reason he was willing to accept and adjust to the things his mother insisted on, as annoying as they could be. So often, without a doubt, she was right.

A horse’s loud, nose-clearing snort cut into his thoughts, and he crossed the room to look out the window and see who had arrived, so late in the day. He saw his son Jesse tie the harness reins of his horse to the hitching post with a practiced motion, then run a hand down the horse’s mane in a small show of thanks to the animal, something David always did. He was growing up, Jesse was, in leaps and bounds. It filled him with pleasure to see his son make these small steps forward into manhood.

Then he felt his heartbeat give a hitch as he realized Jesse wasn’t alone. Birdy Glick climbed out of the passenger side and clapped her hands together. Jesse’s puppy leaped out of the buggy and sped toward the bushes as Birdy slid the buggy door shut. She took a few steps to join Jesse; they were laughing over something, and he wondered what could be so funny. He felt curiously left out.

He opened the door for them. “Jesse, Birdy, come in from the cold.”

“Dad! I was heading to the store to check on a delivery, and picked up Birdy along the way.”

“Hello, David!” Birdy said, smiling wide, as she came up to him. “Isn’t that the most beautiful sunset you’ve ever seen?”

He looked past her toward the setting sun, a glowing red ball. “It surely is.” It was glorious. How had he missed it? The puppy came flying out of the bushes, leaped up the store steps, and darted past David.

Jesse had gone behind the counter and returned with a brown package in his hands. “Got what I came for. Some new parts for Eli Smucker’s rickety old buggy.” He walked up to them. “Birdy, come for supper,” Jesse said. “Meet my grandmother.”

Birdy, always eager, said, “Why, I’d love to.”

David blew out a startled breath. Meet his mother? Without any preparation, any warning? For either of them! His mother, no doubt, would drill her with questions, and Birdy would be especially sensitive to pleasing her, which would be impossible.

“Molly’s not cooking anymore,” Jesse said. “You’ll be safe.”

Birdy looked to David and her smile faded. “Perhaps another time?”

David quickly masked his concerns with a smile. “Tonight would be fine. Just fine. I’ll go get my coat and we can head home.” He gave her a warm smile, which she returned, relief in her eyes.

In his office, David felt a jab of pain in his gut. He reached for the Tums that he kept in his top desk drawer, grabbed a few, and chewed them rapidly as he slipped an arm through a coat sleeve. “Lord, let me feel your presence.” To feel it. The Word of God said that his presence was always with him, that it could never be separated from him, but right now he needed to feel it, to sense it. He paused for a moment, expectantly. Waiting for something. Anything. If not a feeling, then perhaps . . . a word? Again, he waited.

Honesty. That was the word that came to him.

At the house, Jesse took the horse into the barn while David and Birdy went inside. His mother saw them approach and came to open the door. “Birdy, meet Tillie Stoltzfus. Mom, this is Birdy.” Honesty, he sensed again. “Birdy Glick.”

David’s mother had a fixed expression on her face, but he knew her quick, determined mind was connecting the dots. She peered up at Birdy, who towered over her. Birdy blinked down at David’s mother.

“Glick?” His mother’s voice was flat.

Birdy stepped forward and tripped over the doormat, barely catching herself by grabbing onto the doorjamb to avoid stumbling into his mother. “Oh, clumsy me,” she said with a girlish giggle.

“Let me take your coat,” David said.

Birdy spun around sharply to face him, not realizing he was closer to her than she had assumed. He took a step back to avoid her, just as Jesse opened the door after coming in from the barn. In the next instant, David tripped backward over the open threshold and elbowed Jesse hard, knocking the wind out of him.

“You’re a Glick,” his mother repeated, before spinning around and heading into the kitchen. “Good heavens, they’re everywhere,” she grumbled, loud enough for all to hear.

Jesse wheezed for air like a dying man as he stumbled toward his chair at the table. David gave him a look to cut the dramatics. Birdy remained frozen against the entryway wall, a look on her face as if she wished she could be anywhere but here.

He smiled at her. “Come, Birdy. There’s a place for you at the table.”

But there wasn’t.

There wasn’t an inch to spare at the table and his mother was unconcerned about setting another place. She’d gone straight to the oven to remove the roasting chicken and cover it with foil. David crossed the room and opened the silverware drawer to pull out a fork and knife.

“You should have told me you were bringing someone home, David. I would have added a leaf to the table.” Again, she spoke in a raised voice, just loud enough for Birdy to hear.

By now David was steaming mad. He went to the table and pushed Gabby’s plate over so that she would be squeezed against Laura. The girls watched him, wide-eyed, unaccustomed to seeing David riled up. “Ruthie,” he barked. “Go get the chair from my desk.”

Ruthie jumped up and hurried to fetch the chair.

“David, perhaps—” Birdy started.

“Sit.”

Birdy sat. They all sat, including David’s stony-faced mother, as he offered a prayer of thanks for the meal. In that blessed and brief silence, he asked the Lord for an extra measure of patience tonight.

The moment heads lifted, hands reached for bowls of mashed potatoes, gravy, string beans, applesauce. Birdy jumped right in, accustomed to fending for oneself in a large family.

“Where’s the chicken?” Jesse asked, fully recovered.

“I wanted to let it rest a few minutes,” Tillie said. She cast a sly look at Birdy, who was scooping a second spoonful of mashed potatoes onto her plate. “I do hope there’s enough.”

“There’s always enough,” David said.

Birdy jumped up. “Let me get the chicken, Tillie. I’m closest to it.”

Tillie rose to her feet from the far end of the table. “No! I want to carve it first.” But Birdy was already in the kitchen, tearing off the foil that covered the chicken and lifting up the platter. She spun around with the platter in her arms just as Tillie hurried to intervene. Birdy collided with Tillie and the slippery chicken slid off the platter and went sailing. It hit the wall, leaving a greasy mark on the pale green paint, before dropping to the floor with a thud. Jesse’s dog leaped on the unexpected bounty as all eyes at the table watched, dumbfounded.

“Oh dear,” Birdy said. “I’m terribly sorry.”

“Terrible is just the right word for it,” Tillie snapped.

David felt as if he was watching a sled go downhill, pick up speed, then hit a rock and fly out of control.

After David had taken Birdy home, listened to her profuse apologies about the flyaway chicken, and provided equally profuse reassurances that all was well, he returned to a quiet house and an empty kitchen. Everyone was in bed, for which he was very grateful. He loved the silence of this time of day.

A piece of cake waited for him on a plate in the middle of the cleared table. He found a fork and carried the cake to his desk in the living room. He added a log to the woodstove and sat in his chair, stretching out his legs. It had been a long day.

David took up his slice of cake. It was a sponge cake as he had never experienced before: light and moist. He supposed it was the freshness of the eggs. His mother’s cooking, it was . . . heavenly.

“I don’t like her.”

His fork froze in midair. He looked up to see his mother, standing by the jamb, arms crossed against her chest. Her face registered disapproval.

“Birdy.” His mother puffed out her chest. “I don’t like her.”

“And why not?”

“She’s ungainly, awkward, oversized. Clumsy too.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear such shallow words from you.”

“She knocked over a box of spaghetti sauce jars in the Bent N’ Dent. An entire box! I saw it happen with my own eyes.”

“I suspect you made her nervous.”

“She nearly did you in tonight. You and Jesse both.”

“It was just an accident. Too many people standing at the door.”

“And how do you explain the chicken mishap?”

“She was trying to help.”

“Nonsense. She’s completely unsuited to be a bishop’s wife.”

David put his fork down and pushed the plate away. The cake no longer appealed to him.

“I don’t approve.”

“Of what?”

“Not what. Whom. I don’t approve of Birdy Glick.”

“Did I ask for your approval?”

“I’m your mother, David. Sons should always listen to their mothers.”

“If they’re fourteen. But I’m forty-four. Soon to be a grandfather. I think it’s time for me to choose my own friends.”

“We’re not talking about a friend. You’re thinking of marrying her, aren’t you?”

“Mother, that’s really none of your business.”

“I can see the writing on the wall. You’re in for more heartache.”

David sighed. “And why is that?”

“She’s a Glick. Blood is always, always thicker than water.”

He should have spoken up. This was the only way with his mother. One had to be firm with her. One had to stand up to her.

The difficulty, of course, with standing up to his mother was that it appeared to make little difference. “You don’t know her at all, Mother. You don’t know the kind of person she is. You haven’t given her a chance.”

She raised a hand to interrupt him. “David, you must be wise about this. You’ll be tarred with the same brush as Freeman Glick. Everyone will assume you were all in this lot-switching business together. You need to be careful.”

What did that mean, to be careful? Her next remark made this clear.

“You need to break things off with her.”

“I don’t want to do that,” David had intended to say, but for some reason the words came out as, “I’ll think about it.”