Chapter Three
With the Bakers’ addition finally under roof, Max decided to call it a day. Dan hadn’t shown up for work, but he wasn’t complaining. The man’s cranky disposition had a tendency to rub off on him, and in Max’s opinion, life was tough enough without looking for reasons to complain.
While showering, Max let his mind wander to days when scrubbing away the day’s work meant hiking back and forth to the stream, dumping bucket after bucket of water into the back porch trough-turned-bathtub, then delivering extra buckets and heating them on the woodstove to make the icy liquid a tad more tolerable. To the trestle table where ten to sixteen Lambrights gathered to share roast venison, rabbit stew, chicken and dumplings. Now, in the small bedroom his sisters had once shared, a claw-foot tub and pedestal sink shone bright in the afternoon light.
Standing at the mirror, he coated his face with soap, just as his father had done, and his grandfather before him. As a boy, he’d stood, wide-eyed and fascinated, as their straight razors scraped the bristle from their cheeks and upper lips. “Papa,” he’d asked once, “why do some of our men have beards and others do not?”
The blade’s sharp edge had caught a glint from the overhead light, and it flashed in the mirror as his father delivered his typically quiet, measured reply: “When a man takes a wife, he is, according to Ordnung, a true man.” He went on to explain how, “in olden times,” soldiers wearing fancy mustaches had persecuted the Amish; determined not to emulate them in any way, their people decided that the sect would follow the precepts of the Bible, in which most spiritual leaders felt it vain—and therefore sinful—to shave their beards. Then he’d touched a dab of soapy foam onto Max’s nose. “You will have one of your own soon enough. For now, enjoy being a boy!”
It was a fond memory, one that inspired a slow smile, and it reminded him of that day on the jobsite . . .
“You should smile more,” Willa had said, “because you’re very handsome when you do.”
It was enough to erase the smile from his face. Pride in one’s looks was sinful. But hypocrisy is, too. He needed to think on that, because his faith seemed as hazy as the plain curtains, fluttering in the afternoon breeze. Why was it so easy to go along with rules like that, and so difficult to trust that all things were God’s will?
Max opened his closet, where every article of clothing he owned hung on hand-carved wood hangers: three shirts, trousers and a waistcoat for weddings and funerals, and the heavy wool coat that kept him warm even on the frostiest of days. On the shelf above, two pairs of neatly folded work jeans, two hats—one straw, one black. Spare suspenders. A sweater. Woolen gloves. And on the floor, black boots.
Snapping his suspenders into place, he walked into the kitchen. Should have washed those up earlier, he thought, frowning at reminders of his breakfast ... dried-on egg yolk on the tines of a fork, on a plain white plate, and congealed butter covering the bottom of the black skillet. No, much better to wait until evening. Having something to do, like scrubbing day-old food from the dishes, would help him forget that while the rest of his neighbors were home, reminiscing with loved ones about the day’s festivities, he’d be alone.
Max shook his head and stepped into the bright, brisk sunshine. He gave a thought to firing up his pickup, then decided against it. The walk will clear the cobwebs from your head.
Was self-pity also a sin? If not, he thought, it ought to be. Left unchecked, he’d learned, it could lead a man into a downward spiral that—
“Max!” Gabe shouted, waving as he ran closer. “You came!”
The boy’s energy and enthusiasm were wonderful to see. Not so long ago, his heart condition would have made running impossible. Thanks to Dr. Emily, poor health was behind him now.
Max slowed his pace, to make it easier for the boy to keep up with his long strides.
“I said I would, did I not?”
“Yeah, but my dad said you’d probably change your mind.”
Max had no better friend than Phillip. Since his marriage to Emily, Phillip had gone back to speaking like the rest of the community . . . for the most part. But Gabe’s use of contractions proved that during those long, dark months when his father considered leaving Pleasant Valley, Gabe had picked up a few Englisher words.
Now, Gabe pointed at a group of young boys gathered just ahead.
“What’s going on?”
“They’re choosing up sides for the baseball game,” Gabe said.
“Sounds like fun, so why the long face?”
“All the men are busy with other things, and we cannot find an umpire.”
The hopeful expression on the boy’s face left no room for doubt: He wanted Max to volunteer for the job.
“It has been quite some time since I played the game,” he admitted. “Not sure I remember all the rules.”
“You will remember enough.”
Max watched him race ahead, straight into the crowd of boys. Within seconds, all of them turned, faces beaming. As he approached, he found himself surrounded by the happy mob. Shouts of “Thank you!” and “You are great!” blended with the din of community enjoyment that floated through the yard surrounding the meeting house, where handmade picnic tables and wooden chairs stood beneath ancient Wye Oaks. A plain white picket fence wrapped around the acreage like strong, protective arms, and at its base, colorful flowers bobbed in the breeze.
He looked toward the makeshift baseball diamond, saw two of the boys leaning on weathered bats. “One for each team?”
They nodded.
“How many of you are there altogether?”
“Seventeen,” Marcus said, sulking. “One shy of two teams.”
“The game is just for fun, so we can relax the rules. Six men per team.”
Ben took a step forward. “What will we use for bases?”
Max pictured the empty burlap sacks in his workshop. If he half stuffed them with hay, they’d work out just fine.
“I have just the thing at home. While I am gone, you boys find a stick and scratch the base lines into the dirt. A big square. Ninety steps for each side.”
Gabe nodded. “The official dimensions of a field.”
“Back soon,” Max said, and jogged toward his place.
Head down, eyes on the road, he thought. Because if the bishop spotted him, no telling how long the conversation might sideline him.
“Where are you going in such a hurry?”
Though he’d only spoken with her once, Max recognized Willa’s voice. Jerking a thumb over one shoulder, he said, “The boys need bases for their baseball diamond. I’m going home to make them.”
“I’m not surprised.”
He had a feeling that someone—Anki, probably—had been singing his praises. Max made a mental note to thank his partner’s wife for that, because basking in the glow of her admiration felt good. Real good.
The baby on her hip tried to untie her bonnet, but Willa gently grasped the dimpled little fist. “This is Frannie,” she said, love and pride glowing in her eyes.
Smiling wide, the child riveted her gaze to Max’s eyes.
“Pleased to meet you, Frannie,” he said.
“Can you say hi to Max, sweetie?”
The baby pursed her lips, blurted, “M-m-max!” then hid her face in the crook of her mother’s neck.
“She favors you,” he said.
“My mama always said that each fib paints a black spot on one’s soul. I appreciate the compliment, but . . .” She winked. “Frannie is beautiful. Perfect in every way. But I’m afraid she looks a whole lot more like her father than me.”
According to Dan, she’d run away from the man, so the buzz of jealousy that shot through him made no sense.
“Well, she is as cute as a baby duck.”
Snickering, Willa kissed the baby’s chubby cheek. “Did you hear that, sweet girl? Max says you’re as cute as a baby duck!”
Frannie met his eyes again, and this time, she echoed, “Duck!”
He tried not to notice the music in Willa’s laughter. Tried to ignore the way her pale pink dress reflected in her cheeks, and the gleaming tendrils of mahogany hair that had escaped her bonnet.
“Well, the boys are waiting, so . . .”
Fingers flicking in the universal shoo! sign, she winked. “Go then! We don’t want to delay America’s favorite pastime!”
Frannie mimicked her mother’s hand signal, adding, “Bye!”
“Hope we’ll see you later,” Willa said.
Max hoped so, too. While stuffing the sacks with sawdust, he could almost picture Willa, seated across from him at one of the weather-beaten picnic tables. Better still, side by side.
Back at the yard, he made quick work of dropping the burlap squares into place. “They will probably slide,” he warned the boys, “so take care when rounding the bases.”
“Can we nail them down?” Thomas asked.
“We could, but I fear one of you might get caught on a nail head.”
William grimaced. “That would not be good!”
Before long, onlookers gathered on all four sides of the diamond, encouraging the pitchers, the batters, and every bare-handed player in the outfield. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud when he heard Frannie doing her best to copy her mother’s robust cheers. Her clothing was similar to other female spectators’. Why, then, did Willa stand out from the rest? Because unlike every other woman’s honey-colored hair, Willa’s gleamed like polished mahogany.
Samuel launched the last pitch, his quiet oomph! bringing Max’s mind back to the game. Seconds later, the crack of Gabe’s bat sent the tattered ball up in a high arc. Puffs of powdery dirt exploded from his feet as he sprinted toward first base, and as he shot toward second, Ben threw the ball to Marcus on third. Would Gabe make it home?
It would be close, Max thought, real close.
The catcher squatted, ready to tag his pal.
Gabe slid across home plate, and even before the dust cleared, Max yelled, “Safe!”
“Way to go, Gabe!” Willa hollered. Frannie’s little fist shot into the air, too.
The look on Phillip’s face as his boy scored the winning run said it all: Good game!
He shook Max’s hand. “I admire a man who’s willing to sacrifice a clean white shirt to ensure the boys’ enjoyment.”
Max looked down, surprised by the streaks of dirt that crisscrossed either side of the button placket. “Think the women will allow me to eat at the table?”
Phillip laughed. “I can count on one hand—and have fingers left over—those who weren’t at the game. If anyone complains, we will say the dirt is the price of admission.”
Dan joined them, looking every bit his gloomy self. “Where were you this morning, Max? Writing out paychecks?”
“No, I was at the Bakers’, finishing the roof on their addition. Week or so more, I can hang siding, and then—”
“Where do we stand with them, payment-wise?”
When he’d found out that Max had accepted the job with nothing but some rough drawings and a handshake, Dan had flown into a rage: “If Baker welches on the deal, the loss will come out of your half of the profits!” Max was about to remind his partner that at the start of the last week, his friend had delivered a substantial down payment.
“If you two are short on cash,” Phillip said, “I’m happy to pay the balance just as soon as the bank opens on Monday.”
Max held up a hand. “No need for that. We will abide by the original terms. When you are satisfied with the work, you will pay the balance, and not a day sooner.”
A moment of uncomfortable silence hung between the men. “I see Anki over there,” Dan said. “Better make sure she is all right.”
Phillip watched him walk away. “How do you work with him, day in, day out?”
“He does his fair share.”
“But . . . does he ever smile?”
“He worries about Anki.”
“Why?”
He could recite the short list: Moody. Withdrawn. Fatigued. Lack of appetite. Insomnia. Disinterest, even in her shop, which had once performed well. Max trusted Phillip with the information, yet felt it wasn’t his place to provide it.
“You should ask him yourself.”
“Yeah. Right.” Phillip grinned. “Next time I’m in the mood for a good mind your own business tongue-lashing, that’s just what I’ll do.”
The longtime friends shared a quiet chuckle over that.
“I haven’t seen Emily. Is she at the clinic today?”
Phillip shook his head. “No, the baby is cutting teeth, so none of us got much sleep last night. I expect she’ll be here shortly.”
“I hope so. I’m looking forward to meeting the newest addition to the Baker household.”
“Just take care if you ask to hold him. He has—how do I put this—a sensitive stomach.”
Arms akimbo, Max said, “Maybe a little spit-up will camouflage the rest of this mess.”
“You’re a mess, that’s for sure.” He chuckled again. “But at least you don’t smell like Parmesan cheese. Yet.” Then, pointing over Max’s shoulder, he said, “Looks like the ladies are serving the food. Want me to save a seat for you?”
“Sure. Thanks. I need to check on a few things, but it should not take long.”
“Check on things? Not at my house, I hope. You’ve worked like a dog on our addition. Why, just this morning Em said she can’t believe how much you’ve accomplished in such a short time.”
Max waved off the compliment. He needed a few moments to shed the discomfort of being without a wife, children, without parents or siblings while surrounded by so much family love. “The weather has been cooperative.”
Phillip shook his head. “You need to quit doing that.”
“Doing what?”
“Shrugging off every compliment anyone pays you. You earn every word of praise that comes your way. It isn’t a sin to acknowledge it.”
“Thanks, friend. And yes, save me a seat at the men’s table. Some pie, too.”
As he left the churchyard, he wondered about what Phillip had said. Max had always felt that humility was a good thing, but had he carried it so far that it had become a source of sinful pride?
Just ahead, he saw a tiny girl, alone at the end of the local pond’s short pier. And not an adult in sight. Hollering “Stop!” might startle her right into the deep, cold water. Breaking into a full-out run, he covered the distance quickly, hoping with every step that he’d reach her in time.
She heard his boots, pounding over the weathered boards, and turned toward him. A slight motion, yet enough to disrupt her precarious balance. She leaned backward, forward, arms windmilling as tiny feet skittered left, then right. He reached out to grab her—a tick too late—for into the drink she went, plump legs kicking, arms flapping, eyes wide with terror as murky water filled her mouth, until all she could manage was a weak, choking gurgle.
Max jumped in, too, and within seconds, seized a handful of the pink skirt that bobbed like an unfurled umbrella atop the floating water plants. Clutching her to his chest and cupping one hand under her chin to keep her face above the surface, he sloshed toward the shore. Easing the girl onto her side, he gently pressed against her ribs to expel the water she’d swallowed. The impact with the water had been sufficient to dislodge her cap. It was as he brushed back her dark bangs that he realized whose child she was.
“Frannie,” he whispered. Tiny fingers wrapped around his, and she began to whimper. He held her close, and with a strength that belied her size, she clung to him.
“You are all right, little one,” he said, fighting tears of relief. “Thank God, you are all right.”
He needed to find Willa right away. But first, something to warm Frannie. Max scrambled to his feet and hurried back down the pier. He scanned the churchyard, where checkered cloths of bright blue and red fluttered brightly on every picnic table. Paying no mind to the picnic basket and jug of lemonade that held down the corners of a colorful hand-stitched quilt, Max stooped, gave it a jerk, and quickly bundled Frannie into it.
“Where is your mother?” he wondered aloud.
As if in answer to his question, a woman fell to her knees beside him.
“O, God sta me bij!” she wailed. “Wat heb ik gedaana?”
It was Anki, not Willa. What had she meant by “what have I done”?
“She was ... she was napping,” Anki said. “I must have fallen asleep, too. . . .”
And then Dan appeared. “Get up, Anki,” he scolded. “You are making a spectacle of yourself.”
A small crowd had gathered. “What happened?” one woman said. “The child fell into the pond,” said another. “Max jumped right in,” a third added, “and saved her.”
“I am sorry.” Anki reached out to touch Frannie’s cheek. “So sorry.”
“Stop apologizing,” her husband thundered, grabbing her wrist. “She is Willa’s responsibility, not yours.” He glanced right, then left. “Where is she!”
Anki sniffled into her apron’s hem. “Frannie’s fingers were cold,” she cried, “so she went home to fetch a sweater.” Fresh tears sparkled in her eyes. “She was going to bring Frannie, but the babe was sleeping so peacefully that I said not to disturb her, that I would mind the child.”
Max saw Willa at the top of the hill, a small, knitted blue sweater draped over one forearm as she returned the friendly greetings of her neighbors. At first sight of the empty blanket, her smiled vanished, like the flame of a snuffed candle. Then, brow furrowed and eyes wide with terror, she whirled around, looking for her little girl. He couldn’t stand to watch her suffer, not for one second more.
“Willa,” he called out, waving an arm over his head, “we’re over here.”
She ran toward them. In one instant, relief washed over her lovely features. In the next, the fear returned. He could almost hear her thoughts as she took it all in: Why are you holding my daughter? Why is Anki sobbing? Why does Dan look so furious? Why is Frannie soaked to the skin!
He put the child into her arms, tucked the quilt under Frannie’s chin. “I was walking by, saw her on the pier. Could not get there quick enough to stop her from falling in, but I got her out of there, fast as I could. No need to worry. She’s cold and wet, but none the worse for wear.”
Willa’s gaze traveled the length of him, from waterlogged boots to still-dripping hair. Her lower lip trembled slightly as she said, “You . . . you saved her life.” Eyes on Frannie now, she chanted, “Thank-you-thank you-thank you,” punctuating each utterance with a kiss to the baby’s face. She met his eyes, and he resisted the urge to wipe away her tears.
“How can I ever repay you?”
“No need for that.”
“But Max, if you hadn’t been there . . .” She held her breath, then shook her head, as if unable to complete her sentence.
“I am sorry. So, so sorry,” Anki said, and tried to hug Willa and Frannie.
Dan held her back. “Did you not hear me, woman? She is not your child. This was not your fault. She is the mother,” he said, jabbing a finger in Willa’s direction. “If anyone is to blame, it is her.” In response to the quiet gasps and shocked expressions of his neighbors, he tempered his tone. “Besides, Frannie is fine. Anyone with eyes can see that.”
Without another word, he led his sobbing wife from the churchyard.
“I . . . I should go home, too,” Willa said, “get Frannie into warm, dry clothes.”
After hearing Dan’s scathing accusation, Max could only imagine what he might add behind closed doors.
“I will go with you.”
“That isn’t necessary. Dan’s right. Frannie is fine—thanks to you.”
The look on her face reminded him of a conversation he’d overheard once, while in town. Two men, facing a wall of screws and nails, spoke in low tones: “Sometimes I feel like the meat in a gone-wrong sandwich,” said one. And the other replied, “Yep, sounds like you’re between a rock and a hard place, all right.” The discussion ended as soon as they noticed Max. He had no idea what had prompted the disquieting exchange, but didn’t think he’d ever forget their troubled expressions. That’s probably how Willa felt right now, forced by circumstance to live with Dan’s stern, judgmental nature ... and Anki’s uncertain hold on stability.
She took a step closer and used a corner of the quilt to blot water drops from his cheek. Her voice was soft, her smile caring as she said, “You should get into dry clothes, too, before you catch a chill. I’ll meet you back here when everyone is warm and dry.”
“What if Dan thinks it is a bad idea?”
She kissed Frannie again. “Frannie loves people and parties. He’ll understand.”
And just like that, she walked away from him.
Max wished he could agree. Dan had always been a hard worker. Dependable. Honest. But understanding wasn’t a word he’d used to describe his partner.
He caught up to her. “You are sure?”
For a second there, he thought she might say yes. Then Willa glanced toward the narrow road that led from the churchyard. Shoulders sagging slightly, he heard her soft intake of air. “Maybe . . .”
If Dan doesn’t make the price to pay too high, he finished for her.
He walked with her to the Y in the path. Any minute now, she’d go right, and he’d turn left. But already, he felt alone.