by Mary Ellis
It took her a while to convey that other people would be there, men and women around their ages.
He realized that there would be plenty of delicious things to eat and drink, besides a bonfire for roasting marshmallows.
At last, she expressed that the drive wouldn’t be very far by horse and buggy. But she couldn’t convey the concept of a volleyball game—the main purpose of the social event—no matter how hard she tried. He scratched his chin and shrugged his shoulders in confusion.
Catherine decided that a man with Isaiah’s strength and agility would be able to catch onto any game easily, so she dropped her ineffective playacting. “Will you go with me or not?” she demanded.
He stared at her for a long moment, pondering a question he understood perfectly.
“Please?” she begged, with growing fear she had misinterpreted his affection.
“Okay, Cat,” he said. “For you.”
Light had faded in their hidden garden as the sun dropped below the horizon. Isaiah picked up her hand, switched on the flashlight, and led her down the path with the assurance of one who had spent ten years in the woods. Twice she stumbled on unseen rocks. More than once Catherine glimpsed the yellow eyes of critters that wondered who the intruders were in their domain. A flashlight beam illuminated a pitifully small area in absolute darkness. Yet Isaiah hiked back at nearly the same speed they had maintained on the way there.
She clung to his hand, following close on his heels, content that she had a date to a young people’s event before she was no longer young. Without tumbling into the ravine, twisting their ankles, or suffering too many bug bites, they emerged from the forest. And all too soon they rounded the path behind the barn.
Isaiah hesitated, pointing toward light streaming from the barn windows, and motioned to stop.
“Ah, you left the battery light on.” She nodded as he sauntered toward the open doors. Then on impulse, she followed him inside, despite the outbuildings being her least favorite spot. This main barn, with a loft bulging with stored hay bales, had an open ground floor so that buggies could be driven inside during foul weather. Catherine pivoted in the center of the room, scanning the walls and shelves in all directions. Farm tools, gardening implements, and children’s toys hung in neat rows from pegs. After a moment, she spotted what she sought—a beach ball, muddy and forgotten, but serviceable.
“Isaiah!” she called as he was halfway to the shower light. She tossed the ball at him.
Of course, he couldn’t hear her so the ball bounced off his head, knocking off his hat. He turned quickly, picked up the ball, and threw it back at her with an amused laugh.
She clamped her palms together, bent her knees, and returned the ball as though it had been a volleyball serve. Too bad she seldom demonstrated such athletic ability during actual games. The ball arched upward and then descended toward her target. He duplicated her movement without hesitation, sending the beach ball soaring toward the rafters. Catherine positioned herself underneath, and then she sent the ball back to him with open, flat palms. He lunged to copy this new hand position, returning the hit with a high, arching ball.
Doves and swifts roosting in the rafters didn’t appreciate the nighttime commotion one bit. They cooed and ruffled their feathers in protest. But Isaiah enjoyed the game. They volleyed back and forth until Catherine’s prowess finally gave out. Her missed shot flew into the sow’s pen and disturbed the slumbering family of pigs. Isaiah leaned over the gate to retrieve the ball. When he straightened up, he met Catherine face-to-face.
“Voll-lee-ball,” she pronounced slowly.
He repeated the word with some similarity, tossed the ball back to the corner it came from, and then switched off the lights. They walked from the barn hand in hand halfway to the house, where Isaiah nodded and headed toward his path.
But not before he placed the lightest and sweetest of good night kisses on Catherine’s lips.
Sweat soaked through Daniel’s shirt and ran down the back of his neck. His hat brim was sodden and would need replacing as soon as Abby returned home. But he wouldn’t stop working until he plucked every Japanese beetle from her roses and every slug from the hostas. He’d already pruned back the lilacs and forsythia, pulled up the dried tulip and daffodil stems, and deadheaded the spent rose blooms. Abby set great store by her flower garden, and he wouldn’t have it looking neglected no matter how his back ached.
Besides, the physical activity took his mind off his sister-in-law. He had seen Isaiah and Catherine walk from the darkened barn last night from his bedroom window. What had they been up to?
He truly liked his sister-in-law and was grateful for her help in his family’s time of need, yet he didn’t want her friendly desire to also help his cousin turn into something more serious for Isaiah. Daniel didn’t want to see him hurt. It was time to pray about the situation.
He had just come to that conclusion when he saw that Catherine was headed his way with a glass of iced tea in hand. Maybe it was also time to say something directly to her.
“You look like you could use this,” she said, handing him the cool drink.
“Danki.” He drained the contents in four long gulps.
“I wanted to speak to you about Isaiah,” she said, smoothing her palms down her skirt.
Daniel wiped his mouth. Well. Perfect timing. “That’s probably a good idea.”
“I’d like him to come with us to preaching on Sunday. It’s time he gets to know the Lord.”
He blinked as though he’d seen snowflakes falling on the cornfield. “What would the point in that be? He can’t hear the sermons or hymns, the ministers don’t know sign language, and Isaiah couldn’t follow signing even if they did. It would be a waste of time.” He handed back the empty glass and focused on pulling up weeds by the roots.
“Maybe he would enjoy being surrounded by people, for a change.”
He didn’t glance up. “I assure you he would not enjoy that. I took him to a livestock auction once, and he hightailed it out of there as soon as the room filled up with buyers. I found him waiting in the buggy, taking a nap.”
“Well, I’m buying him his own Bible on my next trip to town, an English Bible because that was the language he’d started to learn in school.” She crossed her arms, standing with that annoying hipshot posture she often took when arguing.
Daniel sighed. “Why waste your money, Catherine? Isaiah can’t read. Why can’t you get that through your head? He will never read, so I wish you would stop torturing him.”
“I’m not torturing him. I’m apparently his only friend, and as such I invited him to the district volleyball party on Saturday. You don’t need to hear or be able to read to join in the fun. I showed him how to play last night in the barn. He caught on quickly.”
“Is that right? I was wondering what you two were doing out there.”
Her rosy cheeks paled considerably. “I explained about the game, told him that folks will bring plenty of good eats, and about the bonfire when it gets dark. He seemed interested in all of it.”
“Only because you were so interested. He would probably follow you onto thin pond ice in winter if you smiled at him.” Daniel pulled up a clump of stinkweeds by the roots.
She huffed like an angry hen. “Why can’t he just try a social event to see if he likes it? If he runs back to the buggy to take a nap, I’ll never ask him again.”
Daniel shook his head and straightened up. He saw no way out but to tell her the truth. He looked her in the eye. “Who will be hosting this social event?”
“The Joshua Miller family, two roads over.” Her weight shifted over to the other hip.
“Joshua Miller was one of Isaiah’s classmates a long time ago. If the party is at his house, you can be sure his cousin Sam Miller will be there too.”
She waited for him to wipe his brow without interrupting. Sweat had run into his eyes, causing them to burn.
“Sam Miller might have turned out okay, but he went through a mea
n spell. He used to make fun of Isaiah, mocking him when he tried to repeat the teacher’s words. At first Isaiah didn’t know this was happening behind his back. But eventually he caught on that some kids were laughing every time he spoke—Sam Miller most of all.”
Catherine’s face grew even paler. “How did you find this out?”
“My aunt said he came home one day all upset. She could tell he’d been crying. The next day he refused to go to school. My aunt went to talk to the teacher, and she told her what happened. The teacher was young, inexperienced, and felt real bad about the situation, but the damage had been done. He wasn’t ever going back to that school.” Daniel picked up his bucket of soapy water, pruning shears, and long-handled digger. “What do you plan to do if Sam Miller is there on Saturday and he hasn’t grown out of his mean-spirited nature? Are you prepared to subject Isaiah to that kind of torment again?”
He didn’t wait for her answer but marched to the barn to put away his tools and take a long, cleansing shower. He wanted to rid himself of the odor of stinkweeds and bad memories. And, perhaps, wash away his bad intuition of what was to come.
Seventeen
Abby had thought she was ready for today. Her lawyer had finally returned her phone call a week ago. He had requested the next available court date on the docket and would meet with her beforehand to discuss the case. Now, as she waited for him in the small chamber dressed in her traditional Amish garb, her courage began to wane.
Please hurry, Mr. Blake, before fear creeps back into my heart.
Suddenly the door swept open. “Sorry, Mrs. Graber. I was stuck behind an Amish hay wagon and then two school buses. I didn’t think I’d ever get here. Isn’t it fitting? The hay wagon part, I mean.” He pulled a manila folder from his satchel and sat across from her at the table.
“Jah, I suppose. Probably a third cutting going to market.” Abby folded her hands primly.
“But don’t you worry. We have plenty of time to prepare before your case is called.” He tugged on his shirtsleeve cuffs beneath his coat.
She could hear car doors slamming beyond the window and then a horn blast followed by unintelligible shouting. A disagreement over a parking spot might have sparked tempers. “Like I told your answering machine, my husband and I have agreed on my course of action. I wish to plead guilty to all charges. There’s no reason to drag this out with a jury trial, and no reason to implicate anybody else. I am the sole responsible party. The sooner I am sentenced, the sooner I can serve my time and put all this behind me.” She stared at the tabletop, which smelled faintly of lemon furniture polish. Smeary fingerprints had somewhat dulled the shiny finish. The rest of the room had a musty, air-conditioned odor.
“Abby.” He tapped her forearm to get her attention. “I have better news than that.” He was grinning like a contest winner. “I’ve heard from the prosecutor’s office. Based on the evidence, Judge O’Neil might allow you to plead guilty to reduced charges—every one of them misdemeanors, no felonies. Do you know what that means?”
She looked into his clean-shaven young face and shook her head.
“The felony convictions could have gotten you nearly three years in Marysville. But with no felonies, you might be going home today.” He adjusted the knot of his already perfectly straight tie. “I say ‘might.’ Judge O’Neil’s mood tends to change with the barometer. The hotter and stickier it is, the crankier he becomes, and then his sentences aren’t as lenient as I would like. But the prosecutor’s office agreed to reduced charges, and I haven’t heard any further mention of the grand jury’s request.” His eyebrows lifted with anticipation.
“What’s the weather like outside today?” she asked, her palms damp and itchy.
He smiled. “It’s warm, but there’s a light breeze. It should have been lovely when the judge drove to town this morning.”
Abby felt some of her tension drain away. She slumped against the back of her chair. “Then I’m glad you didn’t return my phone call right away.”
He laughed. “Weather was pretty nasty last week, wasn’t it? I can’t say for sure, but I think that candlelight vigil a few weeks ago also had something to do with bringing this matter to a close. Both the county prosecutor and Judge O’Neil are up for reelection in November. That show of support outside the Justice Center made the Ohio newspapers. The AP also picked it up, and several TV stations ran the story on the nightly news. Nobody likes to see an Amish lady sitting in jail. Not under these circumstances.”
Abby could barely focus on the remaining preparations and instructions. Her mind filled instead with images of her kinner and what she would do first when she got home: Hug Jake and Laura until they squirm away in protest? Cook Daniel all his favorite foods for supper? Eat a piece of cheese that doesn’t come in individually wrapped slices? Take a long soak in my own bathtub? Maybe get down on my knees and thank a merciful God?
She entered the courtroom on wobbly legs when her case number was called. After she was seated at the defense table, she glanced briefly over the packed courtroom. But in that moment she saw the faces of the English midwives who had stood for hours on the sidewalk along with members of her district. She spotted several children she had delivered and then the weathered, lined face of her father. And she saw her beloved ehemann in the front row, looking weary but smiling.
Judge O’Neil cleared his throat, causing Abby to swifty focus on the stern-faced judge. “I have written affidavits that have been entered into evidence from just about everyone who knows you, Mrs. Graber. But it’s the statements from Dr. Weller, the responding paramedics, and the Medical Examiner that are most convincing in your case. It’s the sworn testimony of these gentlemen that your actions did not cause or in any way contribute to Mrs. Fisher’s death. In light of this evidence, I’m willing to amend the charges against you to one count of attempted unauthorized practice of medicine and one count of possession of a dangerous drug. Do you require a postponement of these proceedings to confer with legal counsel?”
“No, Your Honor,” said Abby, with her heart beating in her throat.
“Do you understand the new charges against you?”
“Yes, Your Honor. I do.”
“Then do you wish to enter a plea to these charges?”
A hush fell over the room. “I do. I am guilty, Your Honor.” Abigail spoke in a soft but clear voice.
Judge O’Neil dropped the statements back into the file. “Then I hereby sentence you to three hundred sixty-five days in jail, suspending all days but time already served in favor of three years probation. As a condition of your probation, you must prepare, have printed, and distribute a pamphlet outlining the risks of home births versus hospital deliveries to be used within the Amish community. Two different obstetrical medical personnel must approve this pamphlet for accuracy and a copy must be submitted to this court. In addition, you are hereby ordered to pay a five-thousand-dollar fine. In lieu of the cash amount, you may choose to assist a physician or licensed midwife during deliveries throughout the probationary period as community service. The key word being ‘licensed’ midwife or physician. You can accept no payment or gratuities during the entire three years.”
The gallery of onlookers broke into a round of applause. A few Amish men waved their hats.
“Silence!” The judge underscored his order with a rap of his gavel. “This is not a television show. I demand order in my courtroom.” After the crowd quieted, he refocused on Abby. “Do you understand the sentence I am about to impose, including the terms of your probation? Any noncompliance could result in the reinstatement of the full one-year jail sentence.”
She tried to sort things out, but her brain refused to cooperate. “Do you mean I don’t have to return to my cell?” She croaked like a frog.
“That is correct. Today’s proceedings will be transcribed and you will receive a copy outlining the terms of your probation in the mail. On the paper you’ll find the name and address of the Wayne County Probation Department. You must reg
ister by the date listed on the sheet to be assigned an officer to whom you’ll report.” He placed her file on the left-hand pile and was already reaching for another file on his right.
“Do you mean I can continue helping to deliver babies?”
The frosty expression he leveled over his wire-rimmed glasses did not coincide with the day’s mild weather. “Help to deliver, Mrs. Graber. ‘Help’ being the important word in that sentence. Under no circumstances are you to deliver a baby on your own. You are to wait until medical personnel arrive before entering a patient’s room. If no help is available, 9-1-1 is your sole option. And, of course, you are never to handle pharmaceuticals during any medical procedure again. Have I made myself perfectly clear about that?” He leaned forward in his chair, his eyes capable of boring holes through steel walls.
“Yes, Your Honor, I understand. I don’t intend to ever break the law again.” She had said that she understood, but when she turned around and gazed over the sea of friendly faces, she wasn’t so sure. Will I be allowed to walk out of the courtroom with Daniel? Do I have to wait until the court session concludes and everyone’s case is heard? Should I return to my cell to clean out my meager possessions and say goodbye to Rachelle?
Like a child afraid of the dark, Abby took a few steps as though walking in her sleep. Then her eyes met and held her ehemann’s. He was grinning so broadly, his face would probably be sore tomorrow.
“Come, Abby.” His beckoning wave broke her paralysis.
“You can join him, Mrs. Graber,” Mr. Blake said, prodding her with his shoulder. “A deputy will speak to you in the hallway about receiving your personal property.”
His nudge galvanized her to action. She crossed the short distance to Daniel’s waiting arms. He enveloped her and drew her tightly against his chest as though someone might try to pry her loose. Hands reached out to slap her back or squeeze her arm. One well-wisher patted her head as though she were a young child. Cradled against Daniel’s crisply pressed shirt, she heard welcoming greetings in both English and Deutsch.
