by Sarah Price
“A widower?” she repeated with an odd sound to her voice.
“That’s what I believe I said.”
“And a bishop?”
Lizzie glanced over their heads to catch Jane’s eyes. As usual, the two sisters shared a silent laugh between them. It was as if their maem were transparent, the way that her mind operated. With the wheels in motion, she would be hard to stop at matchmaking one of her dochders to this newly widowed bishop who was coming to visit.
“Where is his g’may?”
Daed squinted and looked at the letter again. “A town I have not heard of, much farther west of here and in Ohio, near the Dutch Valley. He’s hired a driver so he can come meet his family in Leola, Pennsylvania,” he said, exaggerating the word family with an undercurrent of sarcasm. “Clearly that means only one thing,” he added, leveling his gaze at Maem and lifting an eyebrow.
“But why here?”
“We shall certainly find out next Monday when he arrives, shall we not?” Daed folded the letter and slid it back into the envelope, signaling that the discussion was over about this strange and distant relative, Wilmer Kaufman from a g’may so far away that he needed to hire a driver to come visit family that he had never before expressed any interest in meeting.
Chapter Eight
WHEN THE CAR pulled into the driveway Monday afternoon, Maem was busy cleaning the kitchen counter and directing Mary and Catherine to put away the broom, mop, and bucket. Lizzie watched her maem with an amused look on her face, wondering—or not—why she was so concerned about the house being perfectly immaculate. A visit from such a distant relative, even if he was a bishop, did not warrant such attention to cleanliness.
“He’s here,” Maem said, standing on her tippy-toes and craning her neck to watch the man emerge from the car.
“It’s just a relative!” Lizzie pointed out. “And one who has never come before. I fail to see the importance of impressing him.”
Maem glanced over her shoulder and scowled at her daughter but immediately dismissed her remark by returning her attention to the window.
Lydia hurried to Maem’s side and peered over her shoulder. Her reaction told Lizzie all she needed to know about this relative: he was not impressive to the eye. “Are you sure that we’re related?” Lydia asked. “I see no resemblance at all!”
“Oh, hush,” Maem scolded.
It took a few minutes for the men to settle and come into the house. By that time Lizzie was seated on the rocking chair near the open window in the back room, crocheting a doily, while Jane did the same but from the recliner. Her ankle was still sore and Maem had insisted that her daughter do nothing but heal until there was not a trace of a bruise or an ounce of pain. She also spent as much time as possible telling anyone who would listen about Jane’s injury at the Beachey farm. Lizzie knew this as she was the one selected to accompany her maem to the dry goods and natural food stores the day before last.
Of course, Maem had also made certain to always mention that Charles Beachey had been over three times since Jane had returned to the farm. He spent a proper amount of time visiting, no more than twenty minutes. But he always came with a smile and something kind to say to everyone. Lydia and Catherine would watch from the stairwell as Charles sat beside Jane to converse during those visits.
The door to the mudroom opened and Daed walked in, an odd expression on his face that piqued Lizzie’s curiosity. She set down her crocheting and waited for the appearance of this ever-so-important bishop. When he finally emerged from behind her daed, she all but dropped her crochet hook at his appearance. Indeed, Lydia had spoken the truth, for the man clearly bore no resemblance to the Blank family.
Instead of being lean and of medium build, he was short and round. His clothing was impeccable, not a speck of dust on his black coat that had hook and eyes for closures, not the typical black buttons worn by most Old Order Amish. Yet, with his rotund appearance, the jacket didn’t quite shut over his protruding girth, and his white shirt stuck out from beneath it.
His straw hat looked as if he had just bought it from the store, yet it sat squat upon his head with his graying hair poking out from underneath the rim. There was a black ribbon around it, typical of the straw hats worn by Amish men, but, unlike others in the community, the ribbon also looked new: not one fray or tear in the ribbon could be seen by the bare eye.
And his beard . . .
“Gut mariye,” he said, with a nasal quality in his high-pitched voice, as if he had a cold despite it being summertime. Lizzie stared at the man’s beard, which looked as though it had never been trimmed once since the day he started growing it. It was gray and frizzy, poking out in every direction. He glanced around the room, his eyes pausing on Jane for a moment, although the thickness of his round spectacles gave Lizzie reason to doubt he saw anything at all.
In a word, he looked ridiculous.
After the introductions were made, Maem invited the cousin to sit at the table while she bustled about the kitchen to pour him a hot tea, his preference over coffee. Daed did not join him but stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and that same odd expression on his face.
Lydia and Catherine ran back upstairs, giggling to themselves, which caused Maem to shoot them a disapproving glare.
“Why, danke,” the bishop gushed as Maem set down the hot tea before him on the table. “And fresh cookies too?” Before Maem could answer, he had reached his hand out for not one but two cookies from the bowl sitting atop the table. Lizzie watched in amazement as he dipped the treats into his tea then ate them with great relish, claiming them to be the best peanut butter cookies that he had tasted in years. Then he reached for two more and dropped one into the teacup. With his bare fingers he fished out the drenched cookie and slurped the liquid from it.
Glancing at Jane, Lizzie suppressed her smile but saw that Jane too was trying hard not to show her amusement at this “cousin” of theirs. Almost simultaneously they picked up their crocheting and focused on it instead of Wilmer. Yet they listened with great curiosity as Maem continued to fluster around the cousin-bishop as if trying to impress this very peculiar man with odd manners and dubious social graces.
“Will you be staying for supper then?” Maem offered.
Daed responded for Wilmer. “He will be staying for a week and will attend church service with us.”
Ah, Lizzie thought. Now she understood her daed’s odd expression. He was vexed by the idea of this man being underfoot for so many days. Surely he would not be of much help around the farm, for which Lizzie was grateful, as she could use outdoor work as an excuse to escape being trapped indoors with him for the next entire week.
“And what brings you to Leola, then?” Maem ventured to ask, a question which answer everyone in the room was beyond curious to hear.
Setting down his teacup onto the saucer, Wilmer used his fingers to dab at the corners of his mouth. “Christiana Bechler, the previous bishop’s widow, had suggested that I should travel a bit and meet with other bishops.” He tapped his finger on the edge of the saucer, a gesture that hinted far too much of a feeling of self-importance for Lizzie’s taste. “During non-worship weeks it is encouraged to visit and learn what is occurring in other g’mays.”
“Oh,” Maem said breathlessly. “That’s very wise!”
“Indeed,” he replied as he lifted the teacup to his lips once again. “Christiana is quite a wise woman, as I may have already mentioned. And she was most supportive of me at the untimely death of my fraa.”
A moment of silence fell upon the room, for it was not usual for the deceased to be spoken of, especially outside of the immediate family. Therefore, no one was certain of how to respond to the mention of his wife.
It was Jane who broke the silence by asking the bishop whether he expected to find similarities between his g’may and their own or if he were more interested in the differences between them. To her dismay, the bishop replied: “Indeed, my dear child, it is the latter that co
ncerns me the most. As a man of God, I must admit to you that there have been certain rumors circulating in Berlin that disturbed me more than just a little, and I wanted to make sure of them for myself . . . ”
“Rumors? What would these be about?” Lizzie interjected after another moment of silence, only deeper this time, that quickly befell the room.
“Well, for one,” the bishop replied, “it is said that the young ladies around Leola are much more interested in their rumschpringe than in adequately preparing themselves to take their baptism, to become good wives under the Lord our Savior, to raise large families, and to devote themselves to their boppli and their husbands as any good Christian wife would.”
Lizzie stared at him incredulously, mouth gaping. Just as Maem brought her hand before her mouth to quickly but unsuccessfully repress an “Oh, my,” Wilmer went on: “I have also heard of instances when these young ladies dress inappropriately, going as far as showing their thighs and knees while riding in the wagons, for the sole purpose of enticing young men to take them out. Several of our youth came back from visiting this area and tried to emulate the practice, you see.”
“Whoever is spreading those rumors must be quite ferhoodled, then,” Daed said, a slight smirk on his face, as a means to breaking the silence that, for a third time, had been brought about by Wilmer’s remarks. “I have not witnessed these things, although I must say we are not happy that many of the young people crowd into the buggies, some of them sitting on the floor behind the front seat. It’s dangerous, that practice. But showing flesh and enticing young men? Certainly not in this church district, of that I can assure you.”
“I’ve heard about that,” Wilmer fussed with his cup. “Dangerous to have them crowd so many into the buggies. However, with the rumors that our own youth claimed to have experienced the leg showing while spending time out here in Lancaster, I am most curious to try to find the source . . . ”
“But before giving credence to those . . . rumors,” Daed interrupted, obviously bored with such a conversation, “mayhaps it would be a right gut idea to discuss these matters with our own bishop, wouldn’t you say, Wilmer?”
Wilmer lifted his head up from the bottom of his cup of tea that he had been staring at during the latter part of the exchange and glanced over at Jane. “Indeed, I was hoping,” he slowly began, moving his eyes to stare directly at Maem, “to visit with your bishop later this afternoon. I know that my cousin has much work to do, but . . . ” He paused as if for effect. “Mayhaps I could borrow your buggy and your elder daughter might ride along with me, to show me the way, ja?”
Maem glanced at Daed and, to Lizzie’s horror, saw that Daed merely looked up at the ceiling. His eyes looked tired and strained. It was clear that there was more to this visit than just social niceties, and Lizzie was beginning to understand the core purpose had nothing to do with rumors, rumschpringe, or ruination of reputation.
“I . . . I would certainly agree to such an escort,” Maem started slowly. “However, I do believe her special friend will be visiting this afternoon, as he always does.”
Lizzie looked at Jane, who flushed at the mention of a “special friend” while looking relieved at the same time.
“However,” Maem suddenly burst out, as if in a moment of clarity, “our second eldest dochder, Lizzie, would be happy to accompany you . . . to show you the way.”
“Maem!” Lizzie hissed between clenched teeth. The thought of having to spend any time with her father’s strange cousin horrified her. “You know that I help Daed with the chores.”
Her maem waved her hand at Lizzie dismissively. “Now, dochder, it will be right gut for you to visit with the bishop and his family. And Wilmer will appreciate your lively company, for sure and certain.”
Two hours later Lizzie found herself seated on a hard bench at the bishop’s house, nursing a glass of weak lemonade that had far too much sugar and not enough lemon. The buggy ride to the bishop’s home had taken only fifteen minutes from the Blanks’ farm, but it had felt like an eternity to Lizzie. During that time Wilmer had cleared his throat often and spoke in stilted tones, telling her about where he lived and the state of the farm. It was quite far away from the Blank residence and in a town she had never heard of. He also had spoken at great length about his g’may. Rarely did he ask her a question or an opinion. When the buggy had finally pulled into the bishop’s driveway, Lizzie said a silent prayer to God, thanking Him for a disruption to Wilmer’s lengthy monologue.
“I’m certain things have seemed quite the whirlwind since you were chosen to be bishop of your g’may,” the bishop’s wife said as she set down a plate of homemade bread for the guests in the center of the table. “Why, I do remember when our lives changed! It came as such a surprise to us when my husband drew the lot to become bishop! For you too, I reckon, ja?”
“Most certainly,” Wilmer said. “You see, I was quite close with Bishop Bechler. In fact, his fraa has been most supportive of my taking over the leadership of the g’may. While the church is always run by the men, of course,” he continued with a strong lifting of his chin, “she is quite a persuasive woman who knows Scripture almost as well as I do! She supports the church and even counsels the other women when they are in need. I could not ask for a stronger matriarch in our district.”
“Do you reside near her farm, then?”
Wilmer seemed pleased with the direction of the discussion. “Ja, indeed!” He smiled too broadly. “My farmette is directly across the street from their farm. She was quite instrumental in assisting me during my own fraa’s passing.”
Lizzie fought hard against rolling her eyes, despite being curious about something he had said. If Wilmer lived on a small farm, as he had just admitted, she had to wonder from whence came his income. Living on a farmette would not bring in enough money to support him and a family, that was for sure and certain.
“A hardship, indeed,” the bishop’s wife replied, tsk-tsking and shaking her head.
“In fact,” Wilmer continued, addressing both the bishop, who had just joined them, and his wife, “it was Christiana Bechler who encouraged me to come to Leola. She has a nephew that knows of the area, and when she learned that I had family here, she was most insistent on my travels.” He glanced at the bishop’s fraa. “I was especially impressed at her encouragement since I do work on her farm to help her and supplement my own farmette’s income. She is most appreciative too. She is oft to invite me with my kinner for Sunday supper at the Bechler farm. Christiana Bechler likes to have people visit, especially since her husband passed. You see, she lives alone, except for her husband’s young niece, Anna, a wisp of a young girl but certainly agreeable enough. She is quite helpful with organizing social functions for the youth.” He said the last part of the statement with a lowered voice.
Lizzie was thankful that no one seemed to take notice of her presence as the two bishops began to converse more about Ohio and the differences between the two g’mays. She held no interest for either, bored with listening to compliment after compliment being paid to this Christiana Bechler or hearing the two bishops discuss religious philosophy. Instead she concentrated on her own thoughts, particularly the irony of so many Amish people from Ohio suddenly descending upon their small town in Lancaster County. A small world, indeed, she thought with an inward sigh born out of boredom.
On the buggy ride back to the Blank farm Lizzie sat as far apart from Wilmer as possible. With the doors to the buggy open, she was able to lean a bit out of the doorway, professing to be hot when he inquired about her odd position. Her answer seemed to satisfy him, for he asked no further questions.
“It is most kind of the Beachey family to host the service this weekend,” he stated, breaking the silence, much to Lizzie’s dismay. “With the other family suffering illness, it would truly be a hardship to have to prepare for such a great day. I am most impressed with that Charles Beachey showing such generosity.”
She didn’t really want to respond, knowing tha
t to do so would only encourage more conversation. However, he continued to glance at her as if expecting a reply. When the silence became so uncomfortable that even she could not stand it, Lizzie responded with a simple, “Indeed he has shown that, ja.”
“And I’m quite honored that your bishop has asked me to give a sermon,” he continued, pride apparent in his voice, which took her by surprise. It was not unusual for visiting ministers or bishops to give a sermon. Yet Wilmer looked especially pleased with this invitation.
Again, she knew that he was waiting for a response, but she was uncertain what to say. Silently she willed the horse to walk faster, but Wilmer was holding the horse back, intentionally taking longer to get home. “I am certain the g’may will be agreeable to your sermon,” she finally said. “It will be a nice change to hear someone new preach.”
Immediately she knew that those were the wrong words, for Wilmer beamed, mistakenly interpreting her comments for a compliment.
Another buggy approached, and Lizzie stared out the open door, watching as it neared. Being that she sat on the left side of the buggy seat, it was easier for her to see passing cars and buggies . . . and a welcome distraction. However, as the two buggies were about to pass, she was horrified to see Frederick Detweiler at the reins, his piercing eyes staring at her. Wilmer lifted his hand in a friendly wave and Lizzie looked away, embarrassed to have been seen with Wilmer and hoping against hope that Frederick did not think she was partial to this strange, distant cousin of hers. It wasn’t that she cared what Frederick Detweiler thought of her. No, that was not it. She merely did not want any speculation from anyone about her private life.
Wilmer remained oblivious to her discomfort as he returned his attention to the road. “I must say that man looked like the nephew of Christiana Bechler from the Dutch Valley in Ohio!”
