Chapter Twelve
Having shocked herself, Miriam stood unmoving on the lawn in front of Esther Schwartz’s house. She couldn’t forget that strange moment after she’d brought his horse home when she thought David might kiss her. If he’d given her time to react . . . Now she knew she had felt a flare of hope.
Her calling up Levi’s name right then hadn’t been a deliberate defense. Maybe some buried part of her had thrown it up without asking permission even though she wasn’t thinking about Levi at all. It was David she saw, David she’d been thinking about, David’s fingers imprinting themselves on her arms. David’s intense gray eyes burning into hers.
Panicking seemed like a fine idea right now. Especially when he walked around the corner of the house at that very moment, his eyes finding her as if no one else were there on the lawn. But before he reached her and Mamm, she realized that Esther accompanied him. Speaking of deliberate, Levi’s mother looked right past Miriam, as if she weren’t there, nodding at Mamm once she was close enough.
“This is kind of you, Deborah,” she said, going right by Miriam without so much as a glance. “I’ve told David it wasn’t necessary, but I’m glad for the help anyway.”
Mamm hugged her. “We don’t see you often enough. I knew David and Gideon were plotting this without telling you, which is a shame because you make the best half-moon pies of all of us. Your sourdough biscuits, too. Well, we’ve done our best—”
“I did bake biscuits this morning while the men started work. I made my sausage and cabbage dish, too. When we’re ready to eat, I’ll bring it out.”
Well. Miriam lowered her head, occupying herself with laying out silverware and napkins.
A man just behind her murmured, “Are you under the meidung and I didn’t know it?”
David, of course.
“I do feel like it. Invisible, was what I was thinking.”
“I don’t understand, when Levi loved you.”
Barely speaking over a whisper, she said, “I think she always believed he’d do better with another girl.” Because Esther knew Levi hadn’t really loved her? Or because she truly believed Miriam was too frivolous, too inconstant for her beloved son?
He frowned. “I don’t remember seeing you and Esther together.”
“We spoke at fellowship meals.” Even then, she’d been hurt because Esther never asked her to join in preserving the fruits of her garden or to make the honey she’d then been known for. Others must have noticed that Esther hadn’t treated Miriam like a future daughter.
David’s eyes were watchful, but he only said, “From those Sundays, I mostly remember watching you play volleyball.”
She made a face at him. “I wasn’t very good at it. Considering I couldn’t leap high enough to spike the ball over the net . . .”
“The net you could walk right under without even ducking,” he suggested.
Miriam huffed with mock indignation, even as she realized he’d cheered her up. Just as he’d intended, no doubt.
Seeing her expression, he grinned. “I’d better get back to work, since I’m in charge.”
She widened her eyes. “Is giving orders such hard work?”
He bent his head and spoke close to her ear. “Watch yourself or I’ll start to sympathize with Esther.”
Her peal of laughter surprised her. His eyes seemed to darken to charcoal, but he was smiling when he walked away.
Several hours later, the men were well-fed and back to work. Several were using brushes to paint trim on the house, while a generator set up by the barn hummed as two men used sprayers. The smell of fresh paint was so strong, Miriam wrinkled her nose.
Arms full of dirty dishes, she smiled her thanks to Mara Eicher who, on her way out, held the door for her. Mara and she had been friends since they were toddlers. Since Reuben Eicher farmed the land across the road from the Bowmans, Miriam had grown up playing with the Eicher kinder.
She continued to the kitchen, stopping in the doorway. Putting food away, Esther had her back to Miriam, but there was no time to retreat. Esther turned, as if she’d heard a creak of the old floorboards.
The two women stared at each other.
Miriam made herself smile. “Your house looks good, Esther. Although the men have almost as much paint on themselves as they managed to get on the siding—”
Esther snapped, “Are you here to remind everyone that you’re the poor, grieving girl who should have been Levi’s wife? If people knew the truth . . .”
Miriam’s hands were shaking. She needed to put down the dishes before she dropped them. She stepped forward and carefully set down her load beside the deep sink.
Why was Levi’s mamm so determined to hurt her? Was she filled with agony that must be released?
“What is the truth?” Miriam asked carefully. “Whatever you think, I did love Levi.”
Esther snorted. “You and that Miller boy, all you ever wanted was to steal Levi away.”
Stunned, Miriam hardly knew how to reply. But words came. “I wanted to marry your son, love him, give him kinder. Share this home with him and you, my second mother. How was that stealing him?”
“He wasn’t ready for marriage. He wouldn’t have even thought of it if you weren’t pushing,” she said bitterly. “If he’d done as I begged, he’d be alive. I’ll ask you not to come to this house again.”
Clutching her apron with a white-knuckled grip, Esther hurried past Miriam. A moment later, a door opened and closed. Miriam couldn’t tell if Esther had gone outside or barricaded herself in another room.
Her hands still trembled. She couldn’t start washing dishes, or she’d break some of them, she would for sure. Nausea swirled in her stomach. Her chest felt as tight as a quilt stretched taut in a frame.
Why had Esther clung to such anger? She must have known then that Levi would never marry Miriam. Did she resent the sympathy people had felt for Miriam, feel it should all have been saved for her?
I did love him.
Taking slow, deep breaths, Miriam sought for composure. Returning anger for anger was wrong. Words from Matthew came to her as if her Lord spoke them.
But I tell you not to resist an evil person. But whoever slaps you on your right cheek, turn the other to him also. If anyone wants to sue you and take away your tunic, let him have your cloak also. And whoever compels you to go one mile, go with him two.
Anger erased, burning regret filled her. She would have tried to love Levi’s mamm, for his sake and for her own. She’d never lash out at a woman who needed kindness more than anyone else Miriam had ever known. Yet, what was the right thing to do? To keep offering a helping hand? Or to do as Esther asked, and stay away?
Did David know how much vitriol she felt for him?
Should I tell him? Miriam wondered. But she knew he still suffered from guilt for failing to prevent Levi’s death, and what good would it do him to know that Esther blamed him as much or more than he could ever blame himself?
He’d already chosen the path of a righteous man, taking heart from the counsel of Jesus, determined to do for her what he could. Miriam had come to admire him for that. No one would have questioned a decision to focus first on getting his own land and farm in shape, his business started.
The sound of a door and voices told her she wouldn’t be alone for more than a moment. Making a decision, she resolved to do the same as David was. She’d try not to be alone with Esther again, but in her own way, she could turn the other cheek. Do what good she could for Levi’s mamm without forcing her to feel grateful—or even aware of who had baked those pies or canned that applesauce.
Right now, she’d wash the dishes. She turned on the water and reached for the dish soap just as Judith Miller and her own mother brought more dirty dishes into the kitchen.
Judith smiled. “If you’ll wash for a bit, I’ll dry, and then we can trade places.”
“And I’ll put away the leftovers,” Mamm declared. “Esther should have enough to eat for days, giving her time to catch up on her other chores.”
Her brooding, too. That was what she was likeliest to catch up on.
Disappointed at her own lack of charity, Miriam scrunched up her face when the other two women wouldn’t see her.
Ach, well, she consoled herself, the Lord expected his followers to strive for perfection, but understood they sometimes fell short.
Several sparrows swooped high above the heads of the people invading their barn on Sunday. They were probably worried about their young in nests tucked among beams somewhere up there, not understanding the intrusion.
Miriam didn’t realize how inadequately she was attending to the service until the third or fourth—or it might even be the fifth—time she turned her head to catch a glimpse of David among the men.
She chided herself. Fussing, that’s what she was doing, when she should be thinking about God. She hadn’t even realized how worried she was for him.
David had been too busy to stop to talk to Miriam, even assuming he’d wanted to. Gossip had it that his confession was to be offered today, although no one had said for certain.
He sat up near the ministers, as he had during the previous services since he came home. There was no change in that, but she had wondered that her father had maneuvered so that he sat with Isaac Miller directly behind David . . . and Luke and Elam behind Daad. One of her cousins on Mamm’s side of the family, Jerry Yoder, had also joined them. The men in her family acted as if they knew more than she did. Did David even knew who was behind him, or that the Bowmans were showing their support?
Amos had cast a keen eye toward them, since none of them were sitting where they ought to be. The oldest men came in first, the married men next, the younger men and then the boys last, but she thought she detected a suppressed smile.
He hadn’t said a word when, three years ago, Miriam had given up sitting among the young unmarried women to join the friends her age. In fact, nobody had disputed her right. Probably they all assumed she’d remain a spinster.
The hymns were usually Miriam’s favorite part of the service, a time when the entire congregation lifted their voices in praise of God. It didn’t matter who sang well or poorly; their voices blended into one. Next to her, Julia sang, expression radiant. Not even six months married, and she’d already learned the most commonly sung hymns from the Ausbund. That was quite an achievement, since she’d first had to learn to speak Deitsh before starting on the archaic German of the Bible and hymnbook used by the Amish.
Miriam didn’t stumble over the familiar words, but her mind continued to flit about like those sparrows above.
The opening sermon was given by Josiah Gingerich, who spoke about avoiding temptation and worldliness. As he often did, he paced, rarely meeting anyone’s eyes. Miriam had found him to be a powerful speaker despite having been chosen by draw, as was their custom, rather than for his ability to speak or the depth of his faith. As she’d told David, he had a way of lingering at the end of the barn where the boys and girls sat. There were no rustles or whispers among those groups today, only complete attention. Josiah was known for his gravity, not for any twinkle in his eye.
She didn’t hear his words, but rather imagined a small red ball bouncing, then rolling right toward him. She prayed, for David’s sake, that he wasn’t cringing at that particular memory.
The silent kneeling prayer allowed everyone to move. Once they resumed their seats on the backless benches, Miriam stole a look at David again. From what she could see of his face, he stayed solemn and gave away no anxiety, though surely he felt some.
After the scripture reading, a visiting minister rose to give the main sermon. Earlier, Miriam had noticed a fourth man standing to join Amos, Josiah, and Ephraim when they left the barn at the beginning of the hymns to confer and decide who would give the sermons today and what their themes would be. This was an older man with a long white beard and a voice so soft, she had to strain to hear him and sometimes failed.
Or maybe that was her own restless mood.
Dear Lord, forgive me, she prayed. Surely it wasn’t a sin to worry about a friend.
Sin or not, she couldn’t seem to help her mind’s wandering today, unusual for her. She always loved worship, joining with the people who were family, community, sharing their faith and joy. Today, she fretted about those same people—including the five women she knew to be pregnant, each at a different stage. Did they suffer from backaches while sitting on the hard benches for three hours? How did their unborn babies react to the hymns? She’d never thought to ask anyone before. How had Julia persuaded Abby to be so patient today? Sitting between them, she’d hardly squirmed. What if she wasn’t feeling well?
Affirmations came at last, followed by acceptance of the affirmations. Also familiar, so comforting, so agonizingly slow.
Lucky she didn’t wear a watch or have a cell phone that displayed the time, Miriam thought ruefully, or she’d have been checking hers as compulsively as Englischers always seemed to do. The last time she’d been so aware of the length of the service, she’d been ten or eleven years old, maybe, feeling as if she might scream if she couldn’t move. What must David be thinking?
He might be giving his entire attention to the words they all needed to hear. He might even be praying for forgiveness.
Rather belatedly, she closed her eyes and let words from Psalms wash over her.
And those who know Your name will put their trust in You; For You, Lord, have not forsaken those who seek You.
With recovered serenity, she wondered why she’d ever worried. Of course God had never given up on David, would never forsake him! Neither would the members of this church forsake him, the boy and young man many of them remembered well and loved, whatever his failings. Nothing gave her people more joy than welcoming a member of their faith back when they’d feared he was lost.
She gave herself heart and soul to the closing hymn.
David walked in a daze out of the barn after he’d been excused from the members’ meeting. He hadn’t let himself look directly at anyone, although he’d seen with surprise that the Bowman men had formed a semicircle behind him.
He especially didn’t let himself look for the Bowman women.
The first part of the members’ meeting he had both dreaded and longed for had passed more swiftly than he’d imagined. Once the service was concluded, children and unbaptized young adults had left the barn, leaving only full members of the church to agree on any business.
It turned out, he was the only business.
The bishop could have made his confession much worse for him. For the most serious transgressions, penitents had to kneel before the congregation. Clearly, Amos and the two ministers were pleased with their multiple conversations with him. He’d been allowed to stay sitting on a bench at the front, although he wouldn’t have minded kneeling.
As it was, Amos talked about David having left the faith out of grief for his friend and about his subsequent confusion that led to his foolish use of alcohol and the anger it awakened in him. Even the time he’d spent in jail, during which he’d prayed about his future.
When it was David’s turn, he spoke the traditional words of repentance and hope.
Then Amos looked kindly at him and said, “Please leave to give us time to confer.”
Feeling strange, David turned his head now to distract himself. Already, a group of boys had started a game of baseball, the girls playing volleyball instead at a net this Sunday’s hosts had set up. Younger children were supervised by older, undoubtedly at the order of their elders, but nobody seemed to mind. The scene was so familiar, so comforting, for a moment he saw double. He was winding up to pitch, muscles smooth, the smell of new-mown hay in his nostrils, feeling free after the agonizing three hours trapped inside. The batter, his best friend Levi, was taunting him. Then, with a blink, he returned to the here and now.
The Lord’s Prayer had been part of today’s service. Like any member of the Amish faith, David knew it as well as his own name. Perhaps that’s why he heard it in his head as he waited.
Our Father who art in heaven,
hallowed be thy name.
Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
“Are you scared?” someone close by asked.
He gave his head a slight shake as he sought the source of the voice. “What?”
“Well, I just thought . . . I mean, I’d be scared.” The speaker was the boy who’d arrived at the work frolic with David’s daad. Abram Yoder. Embarrassed, he said, “I heard people talking. They said you became Englisch. That you drove a car and everything.”
To his astonishment, David realized he was smiling. “It’s true, but driving a car isn’t nearly as much fun as you’d think. I much prefer my horses.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“You’re going to stay this time?” Abram asked as if he truly wanted to know.
David clapped him on the shoulder. “Ja. This is where I belong. Where God has called me to be.”
“Oh.” The boy studied him with unexpectedly solemnity. “I’m glad. I heard you’re going to train horses.”
“I am.”
“I want to do that, too.”
David looked back at Abram with equal interest. Who knew he’d find a perfect assistant so easily?
The barn door opened behind him, and, eyes wide, Abram faded away.
David squared his shoulders and walked back into the huge, shadowy space of Tobias King’s barn.