He stepped over to the bedside. Dat was still pale and unconscious, his features slack, but this time Gabe didn’t let his father’s appearance spook him. He wrapped his hand around his father’s, careful not to disturb the needle and tube taped to his wrist.
“I’m sorry I’ve caused you so much trouble, Dat,” he said beneath the subdued clicks and beeps of the medical machinery. “I’ve been a pain in the butt, when I should’ve been more helpful and less concerned about keeping my music a secret. I was concerned only about my own wishes, when I should’ve been watching out for you.”
His father stirred a bit, but he remained unconscious.
Gabe gazed at the man he’d idolized all his life, more aware of the deep lines and shadows life had sketched upon the face that had determined his own appearance. “I’m giving up my guitar for gut now—taking it to the thrift store today,” he began again. “And it’s all right—because we have lots more music to make with our voices, ain’t so, Dat? We’ll sing again soon, won’t we?”
His father’s bandaged chest rose and fell steadily.
For good measure—and so God couldn’t help but hear him—Gabe repeated the words that were easier to say when Dat couldn’t rebuke him.
“I’m sorry I put you through so much trouble, Dat,” he said earnestly. “You deserve better from me, and if—when—you get out of here, I’ll try not to upset you anymore.”
His father’s lips parted very slowly. “We’re . . . not finished irritating . . . each other, son,” he wheezed.
Gabe stared at his father’s face. Had he heard the words, or imagined them because he so badly wanted to know his dat was in there and fully alive?
One eye opened, barely. “Lemme sleep . . . willya? We’ll talk . . . later.”
His pulse thumped into overdrive as he gently grasped his father’s arm. “I’m holding you to that, Dat,” he whispered urgently. “Do what the nurses tell you, and we’ll be here when you come around.”
Dat moaned softly, turning his face away. For a blessed moment, Gabe caught a hint of a smile.
When he turned to leave, a nurse was watching him from the doorway—but rather than scolding him, she smiled compassionately. Gabe was too ecstatic to speak to her. All the way down the hall, he wanted to bounce and sing and rejoice because his father had heard and understood him—
Or had Dat been floating so high on anesthesia, he wasn’t aware of what he was saying? Was it just luck that Gabe had heard a promise that their father-son quibbling would continue?
It didn’t matter. God had answered his prayers.
As he headed to the cafeteria, Gabe pondered the day’s blessings. He still had misgivings about Old Order rules and regulations, but he believed with all his heart that God had brought his father safely through his surgery—and that He’d cared enough to give Gabe a wake-up call as he’d looked in that mirror.
On the way home from the hospital, he made a detour.
“Why are we stopping at the thrift store?” Lorena asked when he drove the buggy near the donation drop-off box. “It’s too late to shop!”
Gabe winked at his mother. His nerves were a-jitter as he went around to his toolbox. Deep down, he still wished there was a way to continue playing his beloved guitar. But God had done him a huge favor, so it was only right to follow through with the promise he’d made during his confession.
As he removed his guitar from its compartment, Gabe’s soul sighed sadly. “Find a home for this, Lord,” he murmured as he gently positioned the instrument inside the drop-off box. “Help this guitar bless somebody else’s life the way it’s blessed mine.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
As Gabe entered the Detweiler house Wednesday evening for Dorcas’s visitation, he made his way toward Bishop Jeremiah—who was easy to spot because he was the tallest man in the room. Although folks didn’t speak to him, he felt blessed: he’d just visited with Dat, who was gaining strength every day. There would be no funeral in the Flaud family, and for that Gabe was grateful to God.
Deacon Saul and Preacher Ammon stood near the bishop, within a few feet of Dorcas’s plain pine casket. Gabe’s heart stilled at the sight of poor Glenn, who held baby Levi to his shoulder as he clutched Billy Jay’s hand. At seven, Billy Jay didn’t understand the mysteries of death—or why his mamm was lying lifeless in a wooden box positioned on a sturdy drop-leaf table near the wall.
“Wake her up, Dat,” the beleaguered boy pleaded. “All these people are here to visit with her, and she’s supposed to be talkin’ to them.”
Glenn grimaced, trying to maintain his composure, but he—and most of the folks around them—choked back tears. Glenn’s mother, Elva, whispered in Billy Jay’s ear and led him toward the kitchen, while Dorcas’s sister followed her with little Levi.
Gabe approached the bishop, hoping his idea wouldn’t be inappropriate. The last thing he wanted to do was upset Glenn and the others even more.
“What would you think if we sang a couple of songs?” he asked when Jeremiah leaned toward him. “Saul’s here—and I see Matthias in the corner. Maybe a couple verses of ‘Near to the Heart of God’ or ‘In the Sweet By and By’ would be a nice offering.”
The bishop’s eyebrows rose in thought. He spoke to Glenn beneath the conversations that filled the crowded room. “Would you accept the gift of some music? It would be a few of us fellows,” he explained. “If that would make you uncomfortable, we’ll respect your wishes.”
Glenn’s expression lightened as he looked at Gabe and Jeremiah. “That might be nice. My soul could use some soothing about now.”
Deacon Saul appeared doubtful about singing with Gabe at first, but because Bishop Jeremiah did the talking, he agreed. The four of them shifted toward the corner and chose two or three songs they knew. Gabe hummed a pitch.
As their united voices began “Near to the Heart of God,” people around them looked up. No one had ever sung at a visitation—and because singing wasn’t considered appropriate at funeral services or similar solemn gatherings, Bishop Jeremiah had planned merely to read the words from a hymn or two.
The lyrics about a place of quiet rest set just the right tone. When the singers came to the refrain about Jesus, the blessed Redeemer, they broke into four-part harmony—and Gabe’s spirit soared with the profound simplicity of a hymn that had blessed believers for decades. Then they sang “Abide with Me”—a song about the evening of a day as well as the twilight of life. Gabe noted the rapt expressions on listeners’ faces as the four of them continued into “ ’Tis So Sweet to Trust in Jesus.” As they brought their singing to a close, the roomful of folks let out a calm, collective sigh.
It was all the thanks Gabe needed.
As he went to offer his condolences to Glenn, his friend’s firm handshake surprised him because he was still under the bann. “You have such a gift, Gabe,” Glenn whispered. “Denki for sharing some moments that I can replay in my mind later, when my spirits have hit bottom.”
When Gabe stepped out into the summer evening, he was aware of the July humidity, the low drone of frogs at the pond, and the opalescent tint of the horizon as the sun sank behind distant trees. Such ordinary, everyday things these were, yet he cherished them. Dorcas could no longer take pleasure from them—and Glenn would be too distraught to enjoy them for a long time as well.
What a blessing it was to know his family had been spared the darkness of death and mourning. Because a surgeon’s skill had given Dat a new lease on life, Gabe and his parents and sisters had everything to look forward to.
“Flaud, that was a fine idea,” called a familiar voice from behind.
Gabe turned to see Deacon Saul, who—as always—appeared a bit better dressed than most folks even though he wore broadfall trousers, a dark shirt, and a straw hat like the other men. He was amazed that the deacon had initiated conversation, but who was he to question it?
“I think we did the Detweilers a favor,” he remarked as Saul caught up to him. “Glenn has a
hard row to hoe, raising those two boys without Dorcas.”
“Jah, he’ll lean on his friends and family for a long while,” Saul observed. “It’s a gut thing Elva and Reuben live in the dawdi haus—although, at their age, looking after two little boys won’t be easy. Especially with Elva being diabetic.”
After a moment’s hesitation, Gabe seized the opportunity that had presented itself. “I appreciate the way you joined in the singing tonight, Saul—and I’m glad my being under the bann didn’t come between us. After the remarks I made about your carriages, I can understand why you might resent my presence or—”
The deacon shrugged. “What you said that Sunday morning was true. Hartzler rigs are pricey because I have several employees to pay—but those specialty carriages I make for amusement parks are over-the-top. I build them for my own enjoyment, mostly.”
Saul thought for a moment as they walked along the shoulder of the road. “Your remarks won’t stop my building them or charging top dollar, but you made an interesting point about what is practical transportation and what counts as art,” he explained. “And you said those things to support Regina’s cause—and you confessed your own secrets despite the restrictions a bann would place on you. Most folks wouldn’t have.”
Gabe remained quiet, again surprised that Saul was speaking so positively.
“How’s Regina doing, by the way?” the deacon asked with a knowing smile. “Jeremiah told us you were consoling her because her house had sold so quickly.”
Gabe’s jaw dropped. Did everyone from church figure they were a couple now? “Well, nobody would like having to give up their family home,” he hedged. He didn’t dare admit that he’d asked Red to jump the fence with him.
“Ah. So it wasn’t you who made that offer on her house, to surprise her?”
Gabe suddenly wished he’d thought of that idea—and wished he had the money to provide Red a home. “Some young English couple wants it, along with most of her furniture, I hear.”
Saul nodded. “Well—give your dat my best. He’ll be home soon, I hope?”
“Probably tomorrow or Friday,” Gabe replied. “After that, our challenge will be keeping him from overdoing because he feels so much better.”
As Saul took the fork in the gravel road that led to the Hartzler farm, Gabe continued walking toward the business district. The steeple of the Methodist church rose against the dusky sky like a finger pointing toward heaven, but Gabe resisted the temptation to go inside and listen to the Wednesday evening choir rehearsal. Instead, he walked another block and let himself in the back door of Flaud Furniture.
While Dat had been in the hospital, Gabe had gone to the factory a time or two to see how his crew was progressing on their orders. Thankfully, no one had reminded him that he’d been banned from the premises—and indeed, the men had been pleased to see him. After flipping on the gas lights, he ran his hands over a stately maple china cabinet and matching buffet that were nearly finished. He also noted a set of twelve chairs that were in pieces, ready to be assembled on Friday because the shop would be closed Thursday for Dorcas’s funeral.
The growing pile of scraps in the corner bins gave testament to the increase in their orders since they’d opened the stall at The Marketplace. Gabe fiddled with a few odd slats and boards. He visualized how they could be made into a simple coffee table—with an irregular “distressed” top, because the largest plank had been rejected for its knots and imperfections. Setting aside this thick board, he rummaged through the bin for pieces that would become the table’s legs.
Before he switched off the lights half an hour later, he’d sketched his table on a scrap of paper and had drawn the cutting lines for an asymmetrical top to be made from the cast-off plank. It felt good to work with wood again.
It felt even better to have a plan bubbling on the back burner of his mind.
* * *
Regina was pleased to see Martin sitting up in his hospital bed late Thursday afternoon. Considering the way he’d snapped and snarled at everyone before his surgery, she hoped he wouldn’t get upset with her for coming—and if he stuck with the rules of her shunning by refusing to acknowledge her, she would respect that. But bann or not, hadn’t Jesus instructed His followers to visit the sick?
She placed a wrapped piece of peach pie on his rolling bedside table. “This is from Dorcas’s funeral lunch,” she explained. “I could’ve brought you a whole plate of food, but I thought the nurses might—”
“And I would’ve wolfed it down, too,” Martin cut in with a laugh. “They tell me I’m to be on a restricted diet when I get home.”
“Ah. So eat your pie now, while you can,” she teased.
Had Martin forgotten about her shunning because of his surgery? Regina didn’t want to ask, because he seemed delighted to see her—and visiting him was a much better option than going home to do more packing. She tried not to dwell on the fact that her boss was an older, thinner version of his son—right down to the deep green eyes that she’d often seen in her dreams of late.
Martin’s fingers trembled as he fussed with the cellophane and picked up the disposable fork, but otherwise he was recovering nicely. The cheeks above his dark, shaped beard were unshaven and his silver-shot hair had a serious case of bedhead, but his face glowed pink and his eyes held their old sparkle. “I guess we both have to behave ourselves for a while, ain’t so?” he commented. “You’re not hiding your paints someplace, are you? In case the mood strikes?”
Regina put on a smile to cover her momentary sense of loss. It had been difficult these past few days, living without her art and Gabe’s company. “Nope—I took them to the thrift shop,” she replied with more cheerfulness than she felt. “And I heard Delores saying that Gabe dropped his guitar off there, too, right after your surgery.”
Martin sighed deeply. For several moments he gazed at his pie rather than at her. “Tell me straight-out, Regina, because I trust you to be truthful,” he said in a subdued voice. “Have I been crotchety of late? Crankier with folks than I should’ve been? I’ve got some blank spots in my memory. I can’t recall things I might’ve said—especially to Gabe, after he railed at me and Saul that Sunday morning.”
Regina busied herself clearing the cellophane and some other food wrappers from his table, unsure of how to answer. But he’d asked for the truth, hadn’t he?
“We all noticed how every little thing was upsetting you,” she hedged. “After my shunning, I tried to stay in the staining room—”
“Because you were afraid of losing your job?” he interrupted softly. “Lydianne warned me not to let my attitude get out of hand, but Regina, it was never my intention to let you go. You do gut work, and I’d be hard-pressed to replace you.”
Regina sucked in her breath. At last, she felt a hint of a silver lining behind the dark clouds that overshadowed her life. It would be such a relief if she could still report to work after she moved in with her aunt and uncle.
Martin shook his head ruefully. “I’m real sorry about how things have soured because Clarence is making you sell your house, too. Between you, me, and this table,” he added, knocking on its veneered surface, “I’d run screaming into the night if I had to live at the Miller place. But you didn’t hear that from me!”
Regina’s eyes widened. She’d always gotten along with Martin—until his blood pressure and heart had gone out of whack—but he’d never expressed such concern for her. “Denki,” she murmured. “I appreciate your support. Your generosity.”
“See there?” he teased, raising his half-empty plate. “Bring me pie and I lose all sense of control. You’re a peach, Red.”
A short time later, as she pedaled home, Regina reviewed her conversation with Martin. She’d been delighted to see that Gabe’s dat was on the mend, but the deeper joy came from his insistence that he valued her work and trusted her. She treasured the sense of forgiveness she’d felt because he’d been willing to talk to her.
Let’s hope he and Gabe can
set things straight between them, too, Lord, she prayed as her house came into view. The inches between my TV tray and Uncle Clarence’s table are nothing compared to the chasm in the Flaud kitchen.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Gabe waited, trying to keep his eagerness in check, while his dat ate another cookie from the plate Mamm had placed on the kitchen table. He’d come home first thing this morning, and other than looking a little tired, Dat appeared to be doing well.
“Mighty nice to be here,” Dat remarked as he smiled at Mamm. “I suspect I’ll need a nap soon, because those nurses were always waking me up to take my blood pressure and poke pills down me—”
“Jah, you’re to take it easy for a while,” Mamm assured him. “We’re grateful to God to have you among us again, Martin. If you feel woozy or disoriented, you’re supposed to—”
“I’m fine,” Dat insisted, waving her off. He glanced at Gabe, gesturing toward his usual spot at the table. “Take a load off, son. You look as twitchy as a long-tailed cat in a roomful of rocking chairs.”
Gabe paused, proceeding carefully. “Um, my table’s over in the corner—but I’ve got something I want to show you, Dat! I’ll be right back!”
He felt a special excitement bubbling up inside him as he picked up the coffee table he’d left on the back porch. When he set it on the kitchen floor where Dat could get a good look at it, his father cleared his throat.
“Took me a minute to recall what you were talking about, son, but before you go any further, how about if you put away that card table?”
Gabe’s heart skipped a beat. “My bann’s to last another couple of weeks, so—”
“I want you back in your old spot where I can keep a close eye on you,” his father teased, tapping the kitchen table beside him. “Life’s too short to make my twenty-seven-year-old son sit in the corner, ain’t so? I’m in a forgiving frame of mind, so let’s go with that flow, all right?”
Gabe’s mouth dropped open—and then he grinned gratefully. “Denki for seeing it that way, Dat, and for bending the rules to—to let me back into the family again.”
Morning Star Page 22
