by Mary Ellis
“All right, folks, take your celebration out to the hallway. We have other cases still to hear. Bailiff, clear those people out of my courtroom.” Yet the judge’s voice had softened considerably when he delivered his final pronouncement in the case of Abigail Graber versus the State of Ohio.
The Grabers, their district members, and their English friends couldn’t comply fast enough. Abby was caught up in the tide that moved through the doorway, down the steps, and then spilled onto the street. All around her she heard words of encouragement and support. The Amish spoke in Deutsch so reporters couldn’t write down what they said. Daniel did his best to shelter her from some rather zealous newspaper people.
“What do you think about Judge O’Neil’s ruling?” one man asked.
“Are you ready to reveal who supplied the anti-hemorrhage drug, Abby?” A young woman in a short suit pushed a microphone toward her face.
“Are you anxious to get home, Mrs. Graber? What do you think you will do first?” This particular question from a petite redhead she chose to answer. She’d thought about nothing else since the meeting with her lawyer. “I believe I’ll close my eyes and thank God for His grace, and then I’ll rock in the porch swing with my children.”
Daniel hustled them through the crowd to a van idling across the street. When he rolled back the door, Abby saw her father and mother already inside. She climbed in, followed by her husband and several other neighbors. The van’s driver swung the door closed, blocking out more inane questions from the media. As he tried to shoo them away, Abby peered into her daed’s face. The ordeal seemed to have aged him a decade. “Welcome back to us, daughter. Your mamm and I have been worried about you.” He lifted his arms, garbed in his black Sunday coat, and she leaned gratefully into his embrace.
It was difficult to accept the hug within the vehicle without sitting on her father’s lap. But as clumsy as she looked, she felt utterly relieved. Her mother whispered endearments in her ear, commenting on her weight loss and what she planned to do about it. Daniel took the seat next to the driver as she settled into the space between her parents. Other folk wedged into the third row as the van crept carefully into Wooster traffic.
“Jake, Laura?” she asked, trying to hold back tears.
“Waiting at home with your schwester. No sense bringing them into the fuss,” said her mamm, still assessing her skinny frame. Abigail nodded in complete agreement.
The van soon turned onto the expressway, leaving the tall Victorian buildings of Wooster behind. However, before her mother had a chance to fill her in with the latest district news, the van exited the freeway onto a local township road. She leaned around her father for a better look. Parked close to the road on the side of someone’s driveway was a horse and buggy, oddly familiar.
“Is that our buggy?” she asked, staring out the window.
Daniel glanced over the seat as the van turned into the driveway. “It is, fraa. You and I will travel the rest of the way like a normal Amish couple. Once we get home, the kinner and Catherine will surround you for days, demanding your undivided attention. You and I have been separated for months. This is my chance to spend some time with my wife, alone.”
The van stopped and Daniel jumped out. When the driver opened the back door, she climbed over her mother into the late summer sunshine. Daniel picked her up like an English newlywed and carried her to their buggy. Then he went back for the animal’s feedbag and water bucket.
“There’s nothing wrong with Abigail’s legs!” The bishop hollered out the window, but his light blue eyes were twinkling.
Daniel waved as they drove off toward Shreve. All the way home they talked and laughed and whispered the endearments special to every couple in love. He even kissed her once or twice in his shy fashion. By the time the gelding trotted up their driveway, Abby thought she was ready to face the rest of her family.
But she’d been wrong. When Laura and Jake ran pell-mell from the house, with arms flailing and legs pumping, Abby felt the depth of her love rise up her throat and nearly cut off her air. She dropped to her knees to accept their embrace.
I’m home. At long last, I’m truly home.
“What do you see up there?” Nathan asked, stretching out on the quilt, flat on his back next to his son. He received only arm waving and leg kicking in response, but he didn’t mind. This was a good day to savor a lovely summer afternoon, fleeting as they soon would be. He stared skyward, seeing hawks soaring on wind currents known only to them. Down below, the still air hung heavy with humidity and the promise of rain. It was too hot to weed the garden or pick ripened vegetables for supper. Because the livestock all had plenty of food and water, he would wait until evening to clean out barn stalls.
Just above the two Fishers, a butterfly fluttered her colorfully patterned wings. Abraham laughed with glee. His tiny fist opened and closed as though trying to capture his first jar pet. Dressed in something Iris called the “onesie”—a combination garment of shirt and pants—he worked his arms and legs energetically. He would soon grow into the tiny trousers and plain muslin shirts his great-gefunden had been busy sewing.
Nathan rose up on one elbow, supporting his head with a palm. He watched the boppli with fascination, pride, and sheer joy. He will look like me some day. Maybe he’ll have my chin or jawline and, of course, my eyes. But he hoped the boy retained some of his mamm’s features so that Ruth would live on through him. Nathan brushed away a fly that dared to land on his son’s pudgy leg and offered one calloused finger for the child to grasp.
“What a grip!” he exclaimed. “I can’t wait to put a baseball bat between those strong fingers.”
“What makes you think he’ll take a shine to that silly game?” Iris stood with one hand on her hip, while the other clutched a basket of folded laundry to her side.
Nathan glanced up. His aunt’s face was filled with “smile wrinkles” as she called them. “Because he is his father’s son. A Fisher male grows up to love apple pie, pickled eggs, fire roasted corn, and baseball.”
Iris approached until she loomed above the quilt. “Nice to see that you finally ran out of chores to do, nephew.” She transferred the basket to her other hip.
“Didn’t run out. That’ll never happen around here. But with this heat, my helper and I decided to take a short break.”
“What, may I ask, has he been helping with?”
“Fly chasing. They don’t dare light when Abraham waves those arms around.”
“Well, if you two are hungry, come up to the house. I’ll fix you a sandwich and feed him his bottle. It’s about that time.”
“We’ll be up in a minute, danki.” After Iris headed for the house, Nathan paused to study his son a little while longer. All too soon he would be crawling and pulling himself up on the curtains. Then he’d be toddling after Iris, following her from room to room like a dog. Before too long he would venture into the barns and silos, discovering countless places to play or hide. A close eye would need to be kept on him then. Nathan dreaded Abraham’s first day of school without siblings to offer advice on what was to come. But he also yearned for the spring he could work with him in the fields, sticking young plants into each freshly dug hole. The years would pass quickly. And throughout each passing season, God would watch over little Abraham Fisher until he was little no longer. He would be there to guide and sustain him throughout his life until he drew his dying breath. Perhaps Ruth would watch over him too, proud of the son she’d given her life for. But for now, Nathan savored these perfect summer moments with the tiny helpless baby. His heart filled with so much love it might burst.
“Waaah!” Abraham’s empty belly signaled the end of father-son introspection. Nathan swept him into his arms, grabbed the quilt, and hurried toward the house. Inside the kitchen, Iris pulled the highchair to the table and placed jars of peas and creamed beef on the tray.
“I’ll feed him those,” he said, settling the boy in the chair.
Iris handed him a bib with a para
de of dancing Holsteins. “Start with the peas first. Otherwise he’ll fill up on beef and potatoes and refuse the vegetables. He loves the stuff.”
Nathan opened the jar of peas, took a whiff, and made a face. “A brave man, my son. After his nap, I’ll take him to the barn in his stroller. He can shoo away flies while I milk the cows.”
Iris clucked her tongue. “He’ll have the tougher job of the two this time of year. I’ll be in the garden if he gets cranky. I need to pick the last tomatoes before they rot on the vine. Tomorrow it should be cooler, so I’ll have two days to finish canning before the Sabbath.” She set out their sandwiches, pickles, and iced tea.
“Speaking of which, we’re going to preaching service this Sunday… all three of us.” He took a long swallow of tea.
She cocked her head to one side. “That Mrs. Daly finally set you straight?”
So like her not to let a matter slide without comment. “Jah, I couldn’t argue when she resorted to Scripture to make her point.” He took a bite of turkey and then resumed spoon-feeding green mush into Abraham.
“I think you underestimated that Englischer, nephew, right from the start.”
He didn’t look up but had to smile. “Yep, I surely agree with you there.”
Catherine must have changed her mind a dozen times during the past few days. After her conversation with Daniel, she’d decided not to subject Isaiah to Sam Miller. Isaiah’s painful memories of his final school days probably had faded little over the years. Seeing a former nemesis could tear open old wounds.
However, she then considered that Mr. Miller was now an adult… no longer a taunting, troublemaking child. He might regret his hurtful behavior and would welcome a chance to make amends. Because Isaiah lived like a hermit, Sam’s opportunities to apologize had been few and far between. The seeking and acceptance of forgiveness would benefit both men’s characters.
But how can I be certain that’s how this day will play out? Sometimes cruel children simply grew into mean-spirited adults. Not everyone learned the lessons of love, kindness, and mercy. Would this jeopardize the progress Isaiah had already made in socializing with his family? How much do my own selfish desires to spend an evening away from the farm like any normal courting couple influence my decision to take him to this party?
And so she vacillated…back and forth until she practically drove herself crazy. By Saturday morning, Catherine realized she had no choice but to follow through as planned. Isaiah had come to the porch for his lunch bag bouncing the beach ball up and down with short precise taps with his wrist. He waved at her through the window and then practiced ball control all the way back to the cornfield. If she were to cancel the date now, she would be the one to hurt his feelings. And that she couldn’t bring herself to do.
After baking a double batch of peanut butter walnut bars and a batch of banana nut bread, Catherine dressed for the occasion with care. Her dress was a flattering shade of cornflower blue, and she donned a freshly starched kapp. Packing the desserts into a hamper, she grabbed her shawl and headed toward the barn before the Grabers returned from the pond. Daniel and Abby had taken their kinner swimming after lunch. Cold-plate suppers waited in the fridge for whenever they became hungry.
Ten paces from the porch, she realized there would be no chickening out. Isaiah waited next to the open carriage with a clean blue shirt, straw hat, and a toothy grin. He’d put on sneakers as she had and had placed a quilt in the buggy for cool evening breezes. He clutched a bouquet of daisies, larkspur, and gladioli in one massive hand. Boots sat at his feet, patiently waiting to see if she would attend the party too. She wagged her tail and then lifted her paw when Catherine drew near.
“Evenin’, Cat,” said Isaiah, tipping his hat. He held out the massive bouquet.
“Evening. Danki for the flowers,” she said with a shy smile. She set the flowers on the seat and bent to shake Boots’ paw. Isaiah had tucked one daisy into her collar.
“Home,” he ordered when Catherine straightened up. Boots looked from one to the other, and then she trotted toward the path through the forest, wagging her tail.
Too bad we can’t follow the dog back to the cabin. We could eat the desserts sitting on the bank of the river, with only annoying mosquitoes to contend with, she thought climbing into the buggy. By the time Boots reached the cabin, they would be halfway to the Millers. Along the way, Isaiah whistled without an ounce of anxiety as Catherine worried, fidgeted, and perspired.
“Lord, give me strength,” she whispered when the buggy turned up their hosts’ driveway. They parked at the end of a long row of buggies and approached a party already in full swing. Catherine placed her desserts on the snack table under a canopy while Isaiah studied the action from the sidelines. Two volleyball matches were underway, with at least a dozen people per side. After rejoining him, she watched too, waving at a few acquaintances that called out her name. Finally, she touched his sleeve to get his attention. “Play?” she asked, secretly hoping he would decline the idea. Then they could head straight for the bonfire, roast a few marshmallows, and go home.
“Jah,” he said, angling his head toward the right-hand game.
Catherine assessed their play, noticing the sides were mismatched, with one team holding an unfair advantage.
Isaiah rolled up his sleeves as they approached the players. With far less enthusiasm, she called out, “Hello, everyone. I’m Catherine and this is Isaiah. Just so that everybody knows, he’s deaf and doesn’t talk much, but he plays volleyball pretty well.”
“Catherine, Isaiah, come join our side!” Several members of the weaker team called out a warm welcome.
They took places in the back row and the game resumed. Catherine’s description of “pretty well” turned out to be woefully inadequate. Isaiah played the game as though he’d practiced every day for years. Catherine? Not so well. He served and returned, volleyed and spiked, bumped and saved, and more than once rescued her feeble hits by diving for the ball and sending it soaring over the net. He sacrificed the knees of his trousers to keep the ball in play. Their team not only caught up, but surged ahead and won by five points.
Isaiah mastered game strategy the way only the athletically gifted are able to do. He and the man on his right developed and perfected the two-man spike setup that led to their team’s victory. By the end of the third game Catherine and most of the other women were breathless. “Let’s take a snack break,” shouted one girl, while the others followed her away from the net.
As the crowd wandered toward the tables under the tent or in the shade, Isaiah’s impromptu partner lingered behind. “Hi, I’m Sam Miller,” he said to Catherine, while mouthing his name wordlessly to Isaiah.
She blinked several times. This is Sam Miller? The tyrant who had caused hurt feelings and a curtailed school career?
Sam stepped forward, tipped his hat to her, and then shook Isaiah’s hand.
If Isaiah remembered Sam, he hid it well. He pumped the man’s hand heartily and slapped him on the back, mimicking one of their game-winning setups.
“Hopefully we’ll play again before dark,” said Sam. “Let’s get something to eat. I’ll introduce you two to my fiancée, Becka.” He pointed at the tent, rubbed his stomach, and grinned.
Catherine hooked her arm through Isaiah’s elbow. “We’ll join you in a minute, Sam. I look forward to meeting Becka.”
The heartless tormentor seemed to have matured into a fine man, but she wanted to make sure Isaiah was prepared for the social frenzy. Amish folks tend to talk fast when they first get together—maybe because they have been saving up things to say. She looked up into Isaiah’s face. He was grinning down at their linked arms. He pulled his arm loose only to snake it around her waist.
The gesture stopped her fluttering heart for several seconds, especially when he brushed a kiss across the top of her kapp.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. How could she explain that such displays of affection weren’t appropriate between courting cou
ples unless an engagement had been announced? She repeated the word “no” and shrugged away from him. “Let’s eat.” She angled her head toward the canopy.
He nodded, with disappointment and confusion evident on his face. They walked to the rapidly filling picnic tables. She hoped they could get in line, fill their plates from the dessert selections, and find a quiet spot to enjoy the treats.
But her fond hopes were not to be. As soon as they reached the tent, young people surrounded them…and every one of them wanted to talk to Isaiah.
“You were great in that game. Next time I want you on my team.”
“Where has Catherine Yost been hiding you all these years? Welcome back.”
“Isaiah, I’m Becka Morgan, Sam’s fiancée. I’m glad you joined us tonight and hope you and Catherine will come back soon.”
“Do you remember me? I was in your class at school. I sat two rows behind.”
“Isaiah, my grossdawdi is hard of hearing too. I’m getting pretty good communicating with him,” said a well-intentioned girl, speaking loud enough to rattle wind chimes.
All people under the tent canopy were well intentioned that night, but the end result was still disastrous. Some folks talked loudly, thinking that would make a difference, while many tried to illustrate their words with unrecognizable pantomimes. So many vied for the attention of the man who had spent his days in the company of deer, chipmunks, and his faithful dog. Catherine watched the goings-on with increasing alarm, helpless to intervene.
Isaiah valiantly tried to follow their gestures and read lips, but the situation turned bizarre—too many people, talking too fast, using words he didn’t know. After several minutes, red blotches appeared on his face and neck, while beads of perspiration formed across his forehead and upper lip. Still he tried to figure out what they were saying, balancing a plate of brownies in one hand.
