The Choice

by Suzanne Woods Fisher

  She nodded.

  “They’re wild creatures. Keeping them in a barn is no place for them.”

  “I’ve said as much to Andy, but he won’t part with them. I think it’s the last link he had to Daniel.”

  In a voice low and kind, Abel asked, “Carrie, was Daniel good to you?”

  She dropped his hand as if it was a hot coal. Abel’s gaze was steady—he looked at her with brown eyes that were warm and concerned. He made her uneasy, though, asking her questions that no one ever asked. Sometimes she couldn’t believe he and Daniel were related. He must have been a perfect complement to Daniel. Abel liked to talk. He probably filled in the emptiness of Daniel’s silences, she decided, turning her attention back to the splinter, ignoring his question.

  “Done,” she said. “Best to put a bandage on that.” She turned away quickly.

  Abel put his hand on her forearm. “Was he good to you, Carrie?” Her gaze shifted to the birds in the stall, staring at her with their beady black eyes.

  Abel waited. And waited. The silence in the barn took on a prickly tension. Carrie knew he expected her to pour out all the grief and sorrow she had stored up for so long. She felt close to tears and she didn’t know why. How could she admit to him that the sadness she felt whenever she thought of Daniel was caused by guilt, not grief?

  Keeping her eyes averted, she answered, “Daniel was always good to me. Very, very good to me.”

  Walking back to the farmhouse, she realized she had spoken the truth. Daniel had been good to her. Still, her feelings about Daniel were a tangled mess. She felt terrible about how things had been left between them. She felt a deep guilt that shadowed her, the way Daniel’s burden had shadowed him. But 127 most of all, she felt a sorrow that things were left unfinished between them.

  The following day, Veronica McCall came to Carrie’s house and walked right into the kitchen without knocking. She didn’t close the door tight, so Carrie hurried past her to shut it before hot sticky air could rush in.

  “Where’s Abel?” she asked.

  “I heard him nailing some boards on the back side of the barn,” Carrie said. “That barn is so old it’s nearly falling apart.”

  “I came to ask him if he could do some carpentry work for us at Honor Mansion. A carpenter is having surgery for a hernia or a kidney or something like that.”

  Carrie tilted her head. “A hernia or a kidney?”

  “Well, something’s wrong with him.” Veronica waved the thought away. “So he’s out for a while and we need to get the interior woodwork finished. I thought of Abel. Don’t all Amish men know carpentry?”

  Carrie turned to Yonnie, who was watching Veronica McCall with a curious look on her face. “Yonnie, does Abel do carpentry?” “Oh sure,” Yonnie said. “And he knows all about electric. And motors too.”

  “He’s an electrician?” Veronica asked. “Even better! Our electrician hasn’t shown up in three days. They all keep quitting. Perfect! I’ll go talk to him.” She blew out the door, not bothering to shut it. Hot, heavy air swooped in.

  If Veronica McCall hired Abel on, Carrie thought, maybe he would stick around and help them get through the harvest. Just one harvest, she prayed, whispering cautiously to God above, if she could just make it through this first harvest without Daniel. She closed the door and turned to Yonnie. “What else can Abel do?”

  “He’s good at fixing things. Abel can fix anything.” She looked up to the ceiling, pensive, as if trying to pull down a memory like a book from a shelf. “I’m pretty sure he could build a nuclear submarine if he put his mind to it.”

  Carrie stared at Yonnie, trying to make sense of her. “Yonnie, what do you know about nuclear submarines?”

  Yonnie smiled, and the wrinkles on her face fell into their natural grooves. “I know about all sorts of things.”

  Carrie went over to sit next to her. “Well then, what do you think Abel plans to do with himself, now that he’s out of jail?”

  She picked her quilting up off her lap. “Stay here, of course, and help us. We’re his family. He belongs here.”

  “I’m not so sure that others are going to understand an English-looking fellow just set free from jail is family.”

  Yonnie kept her eyes on her quilt pieces. “Abel is still in his Rumspringa.”

  Carrie doubted that. Abel seemed a little old for running-around years. “So you think he just hasn’t decided yet about joining the church?”

  “Oh sure,” she said, but not with conviction. She started to concentrate on a row of tiny stitches.

  “Yonnie, was Abel so . . . ,” she hunted for the right word, “. . . devout before he went to jail?”

  She gave a short laugh. “Oh my, no.”

  “He’s changed, then?”

  Concern pulled down her wrinkled features. “Haven’t we all.” She started humming, which was her signal that she was done talking.

  Abel didn’t return for supper that night. He wasn’t even home in time for evening prayers. Carrie was nearly asleep when she heard a car zoom up the driveway, skidding to a halt in front of the barn. She got out of bed and looked out a corner of the window to see who it was. In the full moonlight, she saw Veronica McCall reach out to plant a kiss right on Abel’s lips. She quickly stepped away from the window and jumped back in bed, ashamed of herself for spying on them like, well, like Emma. But one thing she did notice: Abel didn’t seem to be objecting to the kissing.

  A few days later, about dinnertime, the bishop’s grandson, John Graber, showed up at the farmhouse, carrying a big smoked ham. “My mother thought you might be needing this,” he said in his awkward way.

  “Oh my, yes. This will feed us for . . . weeks,” Carrie said, taking it from him. Months, even.

  Abel came in from the barn, bursting through the kitchen door. “Well, hello there!” he said. “Just noticed your buggy out front.” He reached a hand out to John Graber. “I’m Abel, Yon-nie’s grandson.”

  John Graber looked at Abel’s hand as if he didn’t know what to do with it. Then his head turned from Abel to Carrie, completely confused. But then, the wheels in John’s mind had always turned slowly.

  “This is the bishop’s grandson, John,” Carrie said, filling in the silence.

  John just stood there, looking ill at ease and bewildered. It was one of the many reasons Carrie thought he was strange. He ran clean out of words after the first greeting.

  Abel, not a bit put off by John’s lack of loquacity, went on merrily ahead and invited him to stay for supper. Carrie tried not to let a relieved smile spread over her face when John declined and abruptly turned to leave. She could only imagine what John would report to his grandfather after hearing Abel pray like he was on a first-name basis with the Lord God Almighty.

  “Another time, then, John!” Abel called out cheerfully from the kitchen door.

  Carrie scowled at Abel after he closed the door.

  “What? What did I do?” he asked her.

  “John Graber is sweet on her,” Yonnie whispered. “She doesn’t want to encourage his attention. She thinks he is strange.”

  “He does seem a little strange.” Abel grinned at Carrie. “Maybe a little weak on the social skills.”

  As Carrie watched John’s buggy turn onto the road, she wondered how long it would be until Esther showed up. She hurried upstairs and pulled open a trunk where she had stashed Daniel’s clothes. She had meant to pass them on to someone in need but hadn’t found time yet. She picked up the shirts and trousers and held them close to her, burying her face in them and inhaling deeply. There was still a lingering hint of Daniel in them—the sour smell of wood smoke mixed with the sweet smell of hay. She took them downstairs and handed them to Abel.

  He lifted his dark brows at Carrie, puzzled.

  “Perhaps you could look Plain while you’re here,” she told him.

  Abel frowned, scratched his chin, then dropped one hand to rest on his dead cousin’s shirt.

  The next morning,
after breakfast, Esther arrived in her buggy with Emma and a large suitcase. “I’ve decided you need help,” she told Carrie, eyeing Abel suspiciously. “Emma will stay for a while.”

  At least Abel was wearing Plain clothes, Carrie thought. Daniel was much taller so the pants legs puddled around the ankles, but Abel could pass for an Amishman.

  Emma clomped upstairs to claim a spare bedroom while Carrie made coffee for Esther and brought out a day-old cake. For as long as Carrie could remember, Esther had an effect on folks like a thundercloud that had just poured rain on their picnic. Abel stayed for coffee and did his best to try to engage Esther in conversation, but she nearly ignored him. It wasn’t long before the conversation at the kitchen table drizzled to a cold stop.

  Esther waved away Carrie’s offer for a second cup of coffee, hurried to her buggy, and left. Carrie stood at the kitchen door for a moment.

  Abel came up behind her, folding his arms across his chest as he watched Esther slap the reins to get the horse moving. “So, that’s your mother.”

  “No, no,” Carrie quickly said. “That’s Emma’s mother.”

  “So what happened to your mother?”

  “My mother died right after Andy was born. My father moved us to Stoney Ridge to be closer to a hospital for Andy. When Dad married Esther, he took over managing her land.”

  “Oh,” Abel said. “So Esther brought into the marriage her farm.”

  The farm and her godly self, Carrie thought but didn’t say. Instead, she just nodded.

  Abel gazed at her as if reading her thoughts. “She has a way of making clear her expectations.”

  Carrie’s gaze shifted to Esther’s buggy, turning right onto the street. “Even heavenly angels would find it hard to live up to Esther Weaver’s expectations.”

  That evening, Carrie tried to avoid Emma’s glare as Abel read from his Bible, but inside, she was cringing. After he finished, she hurried upstairs to check on Andy. He always kicked off his covers as he slept, so she smoothed the sheet over him. She had just changed into her nightgown when Emma knocked on the door. Carrie braced herself.

  Emma came in, wringing her hands as she sat on the bed. “Carrie, Abel ought not to be reading that Bible. It ought to be in our language. You know that as well as I do. And he shouldn’t be praying like that at dinner, either. When Mother hears of this—”

  “Emma, this is not Esther’s home. This is my home,” Carrie said sharply. “And it wouldn’t do you any harm to listen to Abel.” The words spilled out so fast she surprised herself with their boldness. Emma was only saying things Carrie had thought herself, just a week or so ago when Abel first arrived.

  Emma’s brow wrinkled, creased with worry. She drew her lips in a tight line as she folded her arms against her chest.

  “I’d rather Esther not be told about Abel’s way of Bible reading.” Emma went to the door. “It’s not our way.”

  “I’m a Miller now.”

  “Amish is Amish. There’s no difference.” Emma closed the door behind her.

  Carrie used to believe that, but now she wasn’t so sure.

  Sol had been named Pitcher of the Month for August. His image flashed up on the large screen in the stadium the day it was announced, and he was interviewed by three newspapers—one of which was the Philadelphia Inquirer. His baseball career was taking off, just like he had planned.

  In his apartment, he kept a stack of copies of all of the newspapers that wrote about him, even though there was no one to show them to. Not yet, anyway. Soon, he hoped, when the season wrapped up, enough time would have passed that he would be able to call on Carrie. He was sure she’d have forgiven him by now and things could go back to being the way they were before. The way he had planned.

  It had been over a month since Abel had come. The long hot summer had flown by fast and the end of the growing season was almost in sight. The tree branches in Carrie’s orchards were heavy with fat, ripening apples.

  One afternoon in late September, threatening dark clouds raced across the sky. The wind blew so strong that Carrie took the clothes off of the line, still damp, before the rain started. As she took the last sheet down, she raised her face to the molten gray sky and felt a foreboding. This had the makings of a winter storm. The rain began as the day drew to a close. By supper, the rain had turned to stinging ice pellets.

  “Good thing our neighbors got their third cutting of hay done last week,” Emma said.

  “But not good for apples,” Carrie said quietly.

  “What’s so bad about the rain?” Abel asked, reaching for the butter.

  “There’s nothing wrong with rain, but it’s cold enough to hail,” Carrie said, more to herself than to him. “Between the wind and the hail, a lot of apples could get knocked to the ground.”

  In the middle of the night, Carrie woke to hear hail bouncing off the roof. She looked out the window and couldn’t believe her eyes. The hail looked the size of Ping-Pong balls, ricocheting off the ground. “Oh God,” she whispered. “Please help.”

  In the morning, the sun shone bright and cruel. Carrie dressed quickly and rushed out to the orchards. Andy heard her and followed close behind. Abel was already out there, turning in a circle, stunned. Bright red apples covered the ground like autumn leaves. Carrie picked one up. When she saw the bruise and cuts on it, she nearly cried. Most of the crop had been damaged.

  Why, God? she asked silently. Why do you have to keep knocking me down?

  Without a word to Abel or Andy, she turned to walk back to the house.

  She was almost to the barn when she heard Abel yell out, “Cider!”

  Carrie stopped and turned toward him.

  Abel ran up to her, holding a bruised apple, and held it out to her. “Andy said you made the best cider in the county.” He spun around. “Didn’t you say that, Andy?”

  Andy nodded, not understanding what Abel meant.

  Carrie looked at all of the apples on the ground. “You think we could salvage the crop by making cider?” A glimmer of hope showed in her eyes, but then faded as practicality swept in on its heels. “I only have one old cider press.”

  “I can put a gasoline motor on it to speed things up.”

  Carrie shook her head. “Can’t. You can’t have gasoline around food. I know that from working at Central Market.”

  Abel’s brow furrowed as he scanned the farm. Then his eyes rested on the old waterwheel, attached to the barn. His face lit up. “There’s nothing wrong with using water power, is there?”

  Carrie nodded slowly. “But that old waterwheel hasn’t been used in years.”

  “Just the other day I took a look at it. Nothing’s broke, it just needs a little elbow grease. And thanks to last night’s storm, there’s plenty of water running in the creek. Won’t take much to get it turning. You clean out the cider press and get it ready. I’ll work on the waterwheel—a couple of belts and pulleys and we’re in business. Andy can ride Strawberry over to the Zooks’ and see if Mattie’s brothers can spare some time to get these apples picked up today.” He turned to Andy. “If you don’t mind, you might need to stay home from school today. I’m going to need a partner.”

  A wide grin spread across Andy’s face.

  Carrie looked around again at all of the apples. Maybe Abel was right. Maybe it could work. Why not try? She had nothing to lose. “I’ll need empty jugs.”

  “Make a list. Write down everything you need and we’ll get it today.”

  She looked at him, amazed and excited by the idea. “Denki, Abel.”

  By noon of that day, the waterwheel slowly creaked to life, then spun as a gust of wind sent it whirling. Abel had rigged a system of belts and pulleys to turn the screws on the cider press. As pressure pounded down on the apple mash, sweet clear cider spilled out.The Zook boys, all eight of them, even their father, had arrived to help pick up the apples and load them into crates.

  Carrie and Emma had washed the apples and started adding them into the press, trying to get
just the right blend of flavors, as Grace Patterson rode her bicycle up the driveway. Carrie wiped off her hands with the rag and waved to her. Though they were only a few years apart, Carrie’s heart felt a motherly tug when she saw Grace. Today, Grace was dressed with a long flowing skirt and a man’s shirt rolled up at the sleeves. On her feet were combat boots. Her hair was now blond, nearly white. Watching her, Carrie thought it seemed as if Grace wasn’t quite sure who she really was, so she kept trying on a different façade until, one day, she might stumble on the one that suited her.

  Grace bit her lip. “I came to ask you something.”

  Carrie filled up a paper cup with the cider and handed it to Grace to sample. “So, ask.”

  Grace took a sip of the cider, then her face lit up. “That is money! Tastes like I bit into a ripe apple.”

  Carrie smiled. “It’s my father’s recipe. The storm knocked the apples down so we had to make the cider, just to save the crop. I’m surprised at how good it tastes, though. I was afraid the apples would be underripe but they seem to be plenty sweet.” She pointed to the cider press. “That old thing was made in the 1980s and still works.”

  “Dang, that is old.” Grace filled up another cup of the cider. “So . . . ,” she took a sip, throwing a glance in Emma’s direction, “so my arraignment has been scheduled and I hoped . . . you . . . might be able to come to it. To talk to the judge.” She swirled the cider in the cup and watched the bubbles form on top.

  “I’ll be there, Grace,” Carrie said without hesitation. “I’ve already written a letter.”

  Grace’s eyes flew up to hers. “Thank you so much,” she said, almost a whisper. She drank down the cider and looked around at the filled jugs as Abel and Andy pulled up in a wagon. “Won’t the cider go bad without refrigeration?” she asked Carrie. “Unless you’re making hard cider. A kid in my biology class did that. Took about two weeks to ferment.” Her forehead furrowed. “Then he came to school drunk and got suspended.”