by Ruth Reid
“Yummasetti will be ready in a few minutes,” Mamm called from the kitchen.
He removed his coat. “Smells gut.”
“Danki, I made a large pan so we’ll have leftovers.”
As Caleb stepped farther into the room, another scent caught his attention. He eyed the apple pie with the sugar-sprinkled crust sitting on the cooling rack.
“Don’t even think about it,” she said. “I baked the pie to take to the fellowship meal tomorrow.”
He frowned. “You didn’t make an extra one for tonight?”
“I didn’t have enough apples. You’ll have to be satisfied with bread pudding.”
Caleb would rather have cake, cookies, or pie over bread pudding any day, but he wouldn’t complain. One of Daed’s favorite desserts was Mamm’s cinnamon bread pudding with vanilla sauce.
“Your daed is reading the newspaper in the other room. It’d be nice if you two would spend some time together before the meal.”
“We were just talking out in the barn. I doubt he has anything else to say.” Caleb wanted to remind his mother that Daed was a man of few words, especially when it came to having a conversation with Caleb, but he kept his thoughts to himself.
“Do it for me.”
His mother’s efforts to bring their family together wouldn’t fail because of him. Becoming a tight-knit family like other families in the district was next to impossible. But he would try to make peace with his daed—again.
Caleb poured a mug of coffee, then took it into the sitting room. His father was seated in the chair next to the window, The Budget held high and tipped toward the glow from the lantern. The weekly paper supplied news from various Amish and Mennonite communities throughout the United States and was often a means of keeping up with long-distant relatives. Mamm was the paper’s community reporter. She gathered information, be it gardening and weather conditions, or news about marriages, deaths, baby arrivals, and out-of-town visitors, then compiled the data for print. Except she omitted sending news about Peter’s death. Caleb assumed she hadn’t wanted to explain his cause of death to people outside their district.
Caleb took the empty chair flanking the small reading table next to Daed. “Anything interesting in The Budget this week?”
“Michigan districts are all predicting a hard winter.” He turned the page. “I’d venture to guess there isn’t anyone still planting winter wheat this late in the season—except for mei sohn.”
Caleb groaned under his breath, choosing his next words carefully. “It is a risk to plant in this weather.”
Daed peered up from his paper, his eyes narrowed. “Bishop Zook went by Edna’s place earlier today and noticed you were planting the front field—in the snowstorm.” He shook his head. “What were you thinking? Nothing will grow nau. It makes you look foolish and wasteful, but it wouldn’t be the first time, would it?”
His father took the opportunity to get a jab in about Caleb letting his last construction project sit boarded up—unfinished. Caleb agreed; he probably did look like a fool and the seed would go to waste. But how would he explain that an Englischer took it upon himself to plant the field, using Caleb’s plow horse? Daed wouldn’t understand.
And neither did Caleb. But it was done. The seed was in the ground and Anchor was in the barn. Safe.
“You should stick to construction,” his father snipped. “That is your talent.” He went back to reading his paper.
Caleb stared at the newsprint. Daed thought he had a talent in construction? Peter had been the talented brother. Caleb was . . . well, foolish and wasteful summed it up.
Chapter 15
Guilt gnawed at Jonica as she cleared the breakfast dishes from the table. She glanced at the wall clock. Sunday service would be underway, the congregation singing songs from the Ausbund.
It was just as well that they missed the church meeting. More snow had fallen during the night, and if the roads were icy, Aenti might slip and fall. Stephen could catch a kalt. Besides, Aenti hadn’t even remembered that today was Sunday.
Jonica lowered the stack of plates into the basin. Posen was no longer her district, so the bishop shouldn’t frown upon her absence. In addition, if she stayed out of Hazel and Darleen’s sight, maybe she would also stay off their minds as well. Surely Caleb would be relieved not to have Stephen pestering him about fishing or drawing unnecessary attention from others. Plus, where would she and Stephen sit? On one of the back pews with the other unmarried women?
Coward.
No matter how hard she tried to justify her actions, nothing settled the unease feeding her thoughts—she had disappointed God. Again.
You know the truth, God. Avoiding church service today had nothing to do with the amount of snow on the ground or the distance we would have to walk. I am a coward. What if someone recognized the similarity between Stephen and Peter? What if . . . ?
Jonica’s stomach roiled at the mere thought of Stephen’s father. His last words to her had been so cruel, so—heartless.
Jonica had written to him after Stephen was born. She named their son after him in hopes he would love them—accept them. Stephen—his daed’s middle name. But to no avail. He’d been given every opportunity to contact her—five years to inquire about his son—and he’d chosen not to care.
Peter Stephen Schulmann abandoned them both.
Besides, by now Peter could have returned to the Amish way. He may have grown tired of the world . . . He could be married—have other children . . . No, she couldn’t come face-to-face with him.
“Jonica?”
Aenti’s voice pierced the silence. Jonica glanced over her shoulder. “I’m sorry, did you say something?”
“I asked if you were finished with your kaffi?”
“You can leave mei mug on the table. I’m going to have more after the dishes are done.” Jonica focused on scrubbing maple syrup off a plate.
Aenti came up beside Jonica with a clean dishrag she had removed from the drawer. “Would you mind wetting this for Stephen? He’s going to wipe the table.”
“Sure.” Jonica dipped the cloth in the warm water, wrung out the excess, then handed it back to Edna, who walked it over to Stephen.
With them all working together, it didn’t take long to reddy-up the kitchen.
Stephen tugged on her apron. “Can I go play with mei wooden horse?”
“Jah, for a little while.” Jonica placed the kettle on the stove to make another pot of coffee. Then noticing the table was still sticky in some spots, she washed off the syrup that Stephen had missed.
“What do you think?” Edna brought the pink afghan she’d been working on into the kitchen and spread it out on the table.
Jonica inspected the crib-size blanket. The soft spun pastel-pink yarn was offset by alternating rows of white. “You’ve done a beautiful job.” She ran her fingers over the soft, fur-like texture. “Are you making this to sell?”
“Nay. Mei needlework isn’t suitable for the shop.” She sat at the end of the table and situated the piece on her lap, then began knitting. “I missed a few stitches here and there.”
Jonica looked at the blanket again. “The dropped stitches are nett obvious to me. I think it’s perfect.”
“You’re very kind.” Aenti’s hands shook as she worked the yarn and needles.
“Mamm used to say, ‘The flaws give it character’ about mei needlework. Mei stitches were never as even as they should be.” Jonica shrugged.
“Mei mother always said, ‘Practice makes perfect.’” Edna chuckled. “And I’ve been practicing seventy-some years nau and I’m still nett perfect.”
“The blanket is perfect to me.” Jonica filled two mugs with coffee, gave one to Aenti, then settled back in the chair. “Will you tell me a story about mei daed?”
Aenti thought for a moment, almost as if she were reliving a moment in time, then a smile broadened her face, and she laughed softly to herself. “Your daed was eight years younger than I but incredibly wise and c
omposed for his age. He was always whittling something. And he was good at it. One time he made a whistle out of a piece of oak. When he blew it, it made a horrible screeching noise that agitated the hunds. They would go to howling and get the neighbor hunds howling until it sounded like coyotes lamenting all over the countryside.
“Your father liked to embellish the story and say that he could rile up a pack of coyotes on command.” Edna picked up her ball of yarn, unwound a few feet, then set the ball and needles on her lap long enough to take a sip of her drink. “He was a character. Mamm was always harping on him to stop blowing that whistle in the haus. I think she disliked the sound more than the hunds. He eventually honed his whistle-blowing skills to various animal calls. He’d call up a flock of turkeys or a buck at almost any time of the year.” Edna smiled. “We sure didn’t geh hungahrich after he made that silly whistle.”
“I love that story.” Jonica blew on her coffee before she took a sip. Aenti’s mind was keen today. Though she would love to listen to more tales, especially about her father, she needed to talk to Edna about the farm while her mind was sharp. “You have so many gut memories here. Are you sure you want to sell the farm?”
Aenti looked up from her afghan, and for a moment, she appeared lost in thought. “You take your memories with you wherever you geh.”
“True.” There were so many special times on the homestead Jonica would always hold dear to her heart too. “As long as you’re sure.” She took another drink of coffee, intentionally giving her aunt more time to think about the decision.
“It’s the right thing to do,” Edna said, though her downcast gaze seemed to say something else. “I told the man I would.”
“What man did you tell?”
Aenti shrugged.
Jonica leaned forward. “Is the man from our district?”
Her aunt’s vacant stare sent a shudder down Jonica’s spine. Amish farms were nett usually sold. Ownership was often transferred to the next generation. Aging relatives moved into the daudi haus and the pattern repeated throughout time. This would be a new process for both of them.
Edna’s brows creased as though she was puzzled. “I asked if you wanted the place, didn’t I? I don’t remember everything Mr. Jordan said in the letter.”
“Mr. Jordan?”
“He wrote the letter for me.” She held out her hand. “Mei hands shake so that I was afraid you wouldn’t be able to make out mei penmanship.”
Jonica recalled her aunt’s scribbly writing on the supply list. It was starting to make sense why Mr. Jordan was always around the farm, having meals with Edna. He’d wormed his way into her life.
Jonica cleared her throat. “I have mei parents’ haus in Cedar Ridge.” The house was situated in the middle of their lumberyard, and she hadn’t given much thought about the business. Without her father to run the sawmill . . .
“I see.” Edna set the ball of yarn on the table. “I think I’ll give mei hands a rest.”
“Aenti,” Jonica said as her aunt started to stand. “Do you think you could hold off the sale for a while longer?”
“Why? I thought you were in a hurry to geh back to . . .” She pressed her fingers against her forehead.
“Cedar Ridge. And I do want to get home as soon as possible. It’s just . . .” She didn’t want to sign off paperwork without knowing more about the sale. “I thought Stephen and I would extend our visit. Is it okay if we stay longer?”
“I would like that very much.” Edna stood, then walked her empty mug to the sink. “If you don’t mind, I’m going to lie down for a bit.”
“Are you feeling allrecht?”
“Just tired.” She shuffled a few steps, then turned. “Jonica, this is your home too. It always has been, my dear. Since I have no kinner, I always thought of you as mei own. I hope you know that you’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.”
“Danki, Aenti.” Jonica stood and hugged her aunt. Holding her small frame reminded Jonica of the last time she’d hugged her mother. “Get some rest. We’ll talk more later.”
As her aunt ambled down the hallway toward her bedroom, Jonica went into the sitting room to check on Stephen, who was on the floor playing with the wooden horse.
“Have you thought of a name for your horse yet?”
“Nutmeg.” He pretended to jump the horse over a stick of kindling he must have removed from the box of firewood.
“Like Caleb’s?”
“Yup.”
Stephen had become attached in a short time almost as if he knew they were family. But he didn’t know—no one alive knew Stephen was a Schulmann—and it would stay that way.
She opened the side of the woodstove and fed the flames another log. Stephen came to the woodbox and pulled out a handful of small kindling. “When can I play with Daniel?” He sat back on the floor and started to stack the pieces of wood like log walls.
“I’ll talk with Faith again soon. I’m going outside to bring in more wood. Would you like to help?”
“Sure.” He placed the wooden horse on the lamp table, then went to the front door where he plopped onto the floor to put on his boots.
Once they were both wearing their winter garments, they went outside. Stephen took off toward the woodshed, slipping and sliding on iced-over puddles in the driveway.
“Careful, sweetie.” Keeping her head down, Jonica eased over the slippery surface, snow crunching under her boots with every step. At least it had stopped snowing and the wind had died down some since yesterday.
Hearing Stephen’s laughter, Jonica glanced up to find her son talking with someone bundled up in an oversize winter coat, his face covered by a scarf. As she drew closer, Jonica recognized Mr. Jordan’s voice.
“It’s a whippoorwill.” Mr. Jordan opened his coat pocket for Stephen to see the bird. “He was too weak to fly south for the winter with his family.”
Stephen studied the animal. “I’ve never seen one before.”
“Hello, Jonica.” Mr. Jordan turned toward her. “Would you like to see what the fuss is all about? I’m taking care of a wounded whippoorwill.”
She eyed the tiny bird. “He’s awfully small. Will he make it through the winter?”
“God is in control, but I have faith that it will.”
The man’s gentle nature erased some of Jonica’s earlier concern. Then she noted the knitted scarf he had on. It wasn’t store-bought. The rows were uneven, and she spotted several places where double stitches were taken. “That’s a nice scarf you’re wearing.”
“Thank you. It’s a gift from Edna. She was concerned about the weather changing.” He touched the material. “Your aunt is very thoughtful.”
“What will the bird eat?” Stephen interrupted.
Mr. Jordan shifted his focus to Stephen. “Whatever God provides.”
What Edna provides was probably more accurate.
“Did you want to say something, Jonica?”
She shook her head, guilt heating her cheeks. Jonica turned and faced the woodpile. Squeezing her eyes shut, she refocused her thoughts. Forgive me, Father. It’s You who provides for us all, including the birds. Including this stranger. Help me see him through Your eyes. Help me know what his motives are and if he’s truly helping Aenti or if he has another purpose.
Hearing the bird chirp, Jonica opened her eyes. “Stephen, you need to be careful nett to frighten the bird. Let the bird rest nau.”
Stephen frowned. “Okay.” He turned to Mr. Jordan. “Will I be able to see him again?”
“Absolutely. I’ll keep him until he’s strong enough to fly, then I’ll set him free. You can visit him anytime.”
Stephen smiled. “Did you hear that, Mamm?”
“Jah, I did.” She looked beyond her son at the small saucer sled hanging by a rope on the wall. She sidestepped the pair in order to reach the sled, then removed it from the wall. “This should work perfect to stack wood on.”
Mr. Jordan and Stephen helped load the sled with wood.
&
nbsp; “Danki for your help, Mr. Jordan.” Jonica picked up the rope and gave it a tug. “Ready Stephen?”
“Bye, Mr. Jordan.” Stephen took hold of a portion of the rope and helped Jonica pull the load of wood back to the house.
A rock skidded past Jonica and she looked back as she reached the porch steps. Mr. Jordan followed close behind with his arms full of split logs.
“Stephen, start taking the wood inside the house. Be sure to shut the door to keep the heat inside.” Once he was out of earshot, Jonica turned to Mr. Jordan. “There’s something I need to ask you.”
He stacked the wood on the porch. “Ask away.”
“I understand that you wrote the letter to me about the sale of the farm on mei aenti’s behalf.”
“I did. She was concerned you wouldn’t be able to read her handwriting. So, I offered to help.”
“That was nice of you. Were you also the one interested in buying the farm?”
“It’s a beautiful piece of property.” He scanned the area, then brought his focus back on her. “I know Edna struggled with her decision to put the house on the market. Selling is a good thing, don’t you think?”
“Nay, I don’t think under the circumstances it is.” Jonica squared her shoulders. “In fact, I’ve decided to stay.” She took in a sharp breath, stunned by her own words. Edna clearly needed more than Mr. Jordan’s guidance. She needed family. Someone who truly had her best interest at heart. After all, this was the place where her daed, his sisters, and Jonica had all grown up. The place she had wanted to raise her offspring.
“I thought you didn’t want to move back to Posen.”
She didn’t. But she didn’t want the farm going to a stranger either. “I’ve changed mei mind about leaving so soon. I might even stay through winter.” If it meant protecting her aunt, Jonica had no choice.
“It is going to be a difficult season. A test of wills you might say.”
“Exactly why Edna needs me here.” Jonica wasn’t sure what had come over her, but as she made the statement, she felt an odd sense of peace with the decision.
