Phoebe's Gift

by Jerry S. Eicher

  “I’d like to hear more from Phoebe,” Aunt Millie said. “How did you arrive at your thinking, dear?”

  Phoebe hesitated, and Uncle Noah spoke up. “Phoebe seems to know about the plan. How did that happen? Earlier today you said you did not.”

  Phoebe hung her head for a moment. “I was getting to that point. David Fisher came by around lunchtime and told me that Grandma had already hired him on for this project. She paid him a year’s wages, which he could keep regardless of whether or not the plan worked out. He said he was supposed to tell me on Grandma’s behalf. Only Uncle Homer had beat David to it, or almost, as Uncle Homer didn’t give me any details.”

  Uncle Noah and Uncle Homer exchanged glances. “So Mamm did make some plans,” Uncle Noah said. He didn’t appear too pleased.

  “But she left most of the details up to us,” Uncle Homer added. “Did you notice that?”

  Uncle Noah grunted but said nothing more.

  “I’m thinking your consciences are bothering both of you—and quite a bit,” Aunt Millie said. “Am I guessing right?”

  Silence greeted the question.

  “Then we should proceed with the plan,” Aunt Millie continued. “I’m sure Rueben isn’t against leaving our share of the farm for Mamm’s worthy dream.”

  Rueben didn’t think too long before he spoke. “It does sound like a worthy cause, although quite unusual. What if things go wrong? Who will be responsible?”

  “That’s just the problem,” Uncle Homer told him. “And now there’s this new part about David Fisher. I don’t know about that.”

  Phoebe forced herself to speak. “Grandma wanted David to be part of the project, and I’m fine with that—even considering his family’s reputation. I haven’t seen that much of David this past year, but Grandma paid him to take care of the chores and the farmwork. He always did them well from what I could see.” Phoebe paused, noticing every eye was fixed on her. Had she said too much?

  “You’d be running the place, not David,” Uncle Homer said.

  “I…yah, sure,” Phoebe stammered. “That’s how it would need to be. I mean, you all have families, and I don’t have anything else to do, and David would help out the way he did when Grandma was alive.”

  “You could take the community’s schoolteaching job instead,” Uncle Noah said. “That would be much more fitting than this wild venture.”

  “I know,” Phoebe agreed, “but…” She didn’t know how to explain.

  Aunt Millie spoke up. “Mamm was a praying woman. We all grew up under her prayers and were greatly benefited. Perhaps her wishes were for others to be blessed with her faith also.”

  “That is one way to look at this,” Uncle Noah allowed. “But that doesn’t solve our problems.”

  “Mamm is with the Lord,” Uncle Homer agreed. “So I’m expecting she has His ear now as much as she used to down here.”

  Silence fell. Everyone was looking at the floor, and a tear trickled down Aunt Millie’s face. Her voice was hushed when she spoke. “My vote is for doing this—for letting Phoebe run the farm.”

  “If the farm could be self-supporting, I would agree,” Uncle Homer added. “That would be important, and we could reevaluate after a year or so.”

  “If the Lord blesses it, surely the farm will be self-supporting,” Aunt Millie told him. “And Mamm has paid David Fisher for a year already, so you don’t have that expense to consider.”

  “David Fisher,” Uncle Noah muttered, seemingly lost in own thoughts.

  “Mamm was trying to help out their family,” Aunt Millie told him. “That’s what I am thinking. She did practically raise those two children.”

  “Mamm always had more faith in Leroy Fisher’s children than I did,” Uncle Noah replied.

  “Then it’s decided.” Aunt Millie clapped her hands. “We will say no more about the Fisher family.”

  Both Uncle Homer and Uncle Noah grunted but otherwise remained silent.

  “I guess it’s in your hands now, dear.” Aunt Millie turned to Phoebe. “Do you know anything about running a business?”

  “Ah…I…no, but I feel sure I can learn.”

  “That’s the spirit!” Aunt Millie chirped.

  Both Uncle Homer and Uncle Noah appeared quite skeptical.

  “You two can keep a close eye on things,” Aunt Millie said, looking at her two brothers. Then she turned back to her niece. “That will be okay with you, won’t it, Phoebe?”

  “Of course! I mean, yah. I can use all the help I can get.”

  “You are so brave,” Aunt Millie told her. “That must come from Mamm’s prayers too.”

  Phoebe opened her mouth to protest, but Uncle Homer spoke first. “We’ll think about this and talk with the others. If they’re in agreement, we’ll send Millie over to tell you, Phoebe. You can proceed from there. Okay?”

  Phoebe nodded as they turned their attention to other things. She should offer them something to drink from the kitchen, if her legs would hold her. Phoebe struggled to stand and lunged forward. As she walked toward the kitchen, Aunt Mary and Aunt Hettie were close behind her with concerned looks on their faces.

  “That was some surprise!” Aunt Mary exclaimed. “No wonder you’re at the edge of exhaustion. All of this on top of yesterday’s funeral.”

  Aunt Hettie put out her hand and helped Phoebe sit at the table. “What were you planning to get in here?”

  “I should serve something,” Phoebe gasped. “Lemonade, maybe? I have some lemons in the refrigerator.”

  “You stay right there and don’t move,” Aunt Hettie ordered. “Mary and I will see to this.”

  Her aunts busied themselves at the counter as the conversation from the living room buzzed in the background. Aunt Mary and Aunt Hettie exchanged glances several times.

  “I suppose you think us a strange family,” Phoebe finally ventured.

  “We married into it.” Aunt Hettie attempted a laugh. “Your grandma did always seem extraordinary, but this…” She paused.

  “Is going a little far,” Phoebe finished.

  Aunt Hettie smiled. “Yah, I suppose that’s what I mean. And yet you have the courage to take on a farm. You must be a lot like your grandma.”

  “I’m not,” Phoebe protested. “Not in the least. I…”

  The two exchanged glances again.

  “It’s all Grandma’s doing,” Phoebe insisted. “She was a praying woman, but so are some of our other faithful people. It’s not so strange to…”

  Silence finished the statement. Praying or not, one didn’t regularly go about starting up farms with Assateague ponies for troubled Englisha children.

  “We will hope for the best,” Aunt Mary finally said, “but don’t miss the chance to take on that teaching job if you’re in doubt. The school board has to find someone soon.”

  Phoebe nodded. The two older ladies worked in silence until the pitcher of lemonade was finished. Phoebe looked over at the sugar bowl and the freshly squeezed lemons scattered on the counter.

  She took charge. This was her kitchen, after all. “I’ll clean up later. Let’s serve the lemonade.”

  Phoebe grabbed several glasses from the cabinet, and Aunt Hettie did likewise. Aunt Mary followed them into the living room with the pitcher of lemonade in her firm grasp.

  FOUR

  The following morning Phoebe awoke early before the dawn had blossomed in the eastern sky. She dressed, placed her kerosene lamp on the hardwood floor, and set out to clean the upstairs before breakfast. Her mind was in a whirl as she hurried down the hallway with her broom and dustpan. The day of Grandma’s burial seemed two years instead of two days ago. So much had happened in the last forty-eight hours, as if a dam had broken and the water had rushed downstream to overflow the river’s banks.

  Phoebe took a firm grip on the broom handle. A few cobwebs she must have missed at the last cleaning hung at the far end of the hall. How could that have happened? She swatted at them before picking up crumbs some young cou
sin had doubtless left at lunchtime on the day of the funeral.

  Phoebe paused to catch her breath. Only two days ago, every bedroom in the house had been packed to the hilt, with cots laid out in the hallways for the smaller children. Now silence reigned, with a stillness that crept into her bones. This old house was made for the patter of small feet and the rise and fall of excited voices. Generations had been raised here, and those who followed should also be so blessed.

  Phoebe’s heart still pounded at the thought of what Grandma’s venture would bring. She didn’t have to take the plunge. The place could be sold to an Amish family, and the home would be back to full use. On the other hand, she could follow the path that Grandma had laid out. Englisha young people would sleep here and run in these halls…perhaps tearing the place apart or burning it down as she slept restlessly downstairs.

  Phoebe gasped as the awful image of flames flickered in her mind, and the dustpan clattered to the hardwood floor. Why hadn’t she thought of this last night, instead of putting on a brave face in front of Uncle Homer and Uncle Noah? They would have been glad to relieve her of the responsibility and lay Grandma’s dream to rest. But she hadn’t expressed these fears, and now she couldn’t back down. She must be brave. This was her chance—if she could keep up her courage for more than a few moments. What a timid soul she had become. What had possessed Grandma Lapp to think she was capable of such a huge, tremendously complicated, and perhaps impossible task?

  Phoebe grabbed the dustpan from the floor and swept vigorously with the broom. The kerosene lamp flickered from the bursts of wind she created.

  “This is enough!” Phoebe declared to the empty house. “Time for breakfast.”

  She gathered up the lamp and made her way down the stairs, where her foot stopped midstep. What would running a farm for Englisha young people do to her chances of finding a husband? The voices from the past rang in her ear. She’d be forever known as a risky case for any unmarried man seeking a decent frau.

  Phoebe moaned. She couldn’t give up the farm because of some unknown future that wasn’t about to happen anyway. No Amish man was standing in line to ask her for a date. And the past was the past.

  Phoebe forced her foot onward and held the lamp high. What awful choices life pushed on her. She plunked the lamp on the kitchen table.

  “I’m making myself oatmeal. Something simple.”

  A few minutes later the water boiled, and Phoebe added dry oatmeal, along with cinnamon and raisins. She stirred while the mixture bubbled. When the prescribed five minutes had passed, she dipped the gooey goodness into a bowl and added brown sugar and milk. After a quick prayer of thanks, she began to eat.

  Her mind still raced, so Phoebe quoted Scripture between bites. “Now unto him that is able to keep you from falling, and to present you faultless…” The holy text brought some peace.

  She’d be perfectly happy if exact instructions were written down somewhere on what Phoebe Lapp and three ponies were supposed to accomplish. But, of course, there was nothing like that. There were only words that applied to all of mankind, and one had to work out the personal details. That’s what Bishop Rufus had preached several times in his sermons since she arrived in the valley a year ago. She couldn’t remember any particular instructions at home in Lancaster, but maybe things were different in a new community where the need to address fresh circumstances was more frequent—such as how to run a farm for Englisha young people.

  Phoebe finished her bowl of oatmeal and slipped out into the brisk morning air. The summer day would soon see a rise in temperature, but things were still pleasant. The ponies had been out all night in the pasture. She had left the barn door open for them—if she remembered correctly. Everything had been such confusion last night. She had hardly gotten to bed herself. There had been no time for a final check on the ponies, but they would be okay. They were wild ponies at heart and used to fending for themselves. This was a fact that hadn’t come up last night—thankfully. She was fairly certain that any mention of wildness would have been too much for either uncle to handle.

  A chill ran up and down Phoebe’s back. Maybe this was why she felt such an affinity with the ponies. She must have her own wild heart. Wasn’t that exactly what Willie Mast had called her—a wicked, wild woman? The pain of the words had gone all the way through her open heart. That day, she had vowed to change. She thought she had buried herself, but she must have failed. Her heart had been there—well hidden, she thought—but apparently visible to the observant eyes of the Amish men she had dated. All of them must have seen her wildness, whether or not they could put the dreadful thought into words. An Amish frau with a wild heart was the last thing any of them wanted. How else could one explain why she was considered for this project? No doubt Grandma had also known and made her plans accordingly—which made a wild heart a goot thing if Grandma thought the Lord could use such a person.

  Phoebe beat her forehead with the palm of her hand. What confusion—and things were only getting worse. Maybe the ponies would clear her head.

  Phoebe entered the barn and found only stillness in the stalls. The occasional thread of cobweb still hung from the ceiling, accented by the low morning light in the window. She slipped through the barn and out the back door. The ponies greeted her with hearty whinnies from the pasture and raced up to nuzzle her with their outstretched necks.

  “And a goot morning to you. I am glad to see you again, but you only want grain, I’m thinking. Is that it?”

  They whinnied together, and Phoebe managed to laugh. “Coming right up, then.”

  She retreated into the barn, and they followed to wait with swishing tails as she filled three buckets with grain. They stuck their noses into their breakfast the moment she lowered the offerings to the ground.

  “Better than swamp grass?” Phoebe teased.

  She stroked their necks while they chewed hungrily. “I should name you. Maybe that would help me make up my mind…sort of transfer the ownership from Grandma to me. Do you think that would work?”

  They chewed and plunged their noses back in their buckets.

  “Let’s see.” Phoebe touched the mane of the brown pony with the white face and white tail. “I name thee Aladdin. Is that goot? Do you like that?”

  The pony continued to chew. “Then Aladdin it will be,” she told him.

  “Now you, the all-white one. Shall it be Snow Cloud? Yah, I like that.”

  Snow Cloud neighed, and Phoebe laughed. “You agree, yah? A goot name.” She stroked the horse’s nose before Snow Cloud returned to the grain bucket.

  “And now you.” Phoebe stepped closer to the brown-and-white horse painted in splotches across the back. “How about Lady? Would you like that?” Phoebe studied the pony who chewed busily. “Lady it will be,” she decided. “And now we’re done.”

  She waited and petted them a few more minutes until the grain was gone. They left willingly, without prompting from her, as if they understood she had to move on.

  Phoebe watched them trot back out to the pasture with the first of the sun’s rays low on their backs. They seemed to sparkle and glow, but that wasn’t possible. She wouldn’t take this as some kind of sign as to what should be done. No, the answer must come from somewhere else. But from where? She had not gotten herself into this fix, and she couldn’t get herself out.

  Maybe she should take a brisk walk down to the graveyard and pay Grandma’s burial site a visit. The dirt would still be piled high, with the grass trampled in a circle where hundreds of mourners had stood only two days ago.

  She could hitch up Grandma’s old driving horse. Misty stayed in the back pasture during the summer months, and one had to make the trip down and bring up the mare by hand. Misty didn’t like to stir more than she had to. Nor did she like to trot on the roads. Phoebe only drove Misty when absolutely necessary, so a brisk walk down to the gravesite would be the best option. Even so, Grandma was in heaven by the Lord’s side, and visiting her grave for reasons other than re
spect might not be wise.

  She would wait and rack her brain because she couldn’t help it, but she already knew no answer would come from that direction.

  Phoebe stepped outside the barn and turned her face toward the rising sun. Who was she to think that she could minister to hearts torn and injured? She was a troubled soul in her own right.

  “Oh, Grandma,” she cried to the heavens. “What did you think you were doing? Are you tempting me?”

  But this was no temptation. Grandma wasn’t like that. Grandma was the epitome of kindness and goodness. Eccentric, yah! Grandma must have thought she could do this, but why? That was the question. Would Phoebe have to find the light on her own?

  FIVE

  David strode slowly up Burrell Road from his parents’ place early on Saturday morning. He shouldn’t bother Phoebe at this hour, but he couldn’t help himself. Phoebe would be up by now. Surely a decision had been made about the pony farm. Phoebe had said she would tell him when it was, but he couldn’t wait. He also wanted to see her again. He hardly dared to think such thoughts, or imagine that his love would ever be returned. Thankfully, Phoebe didn’t know what lay in his heart—his deep admiration of her, his shortness of breath in her presence, his hope that stirred when he gazed into her eyes. He would never show his face in her presence again if she knew, and if the pony farm fell through, she would be gone from his life forever.

  David walked with his eyes on the ground. Grandma Lapp must have known about his attraction to her granddaughter. Had Grandma approved? He had never been able to tell. He had wondered if this was what lay behind Grandma’s request when she had asked if he would be involved in the farm project, but that hope had been dashed after his talk with Phoebe. Grandma would not have made such vague plans if she had considered him a serious suitor for Phoebe.