The Amish Seamstress

by Mindy Starns Clark

  The call was over, just like that, leaving Frannie exhausted. I had a feeling she would fall right to sleep.

  I returned to the dishes I had been washing, and after a moment, Marta joined me in the kitchen. I finished drying the pan and put it in the drawer under the stove.

  “I hope that wasn’t too stressful for her,” she said, glancing over her shoulder at her mother.

  I shook my head. “I think it would have been more stressful if you hadn’t tried to convince Giselle to come.”

  “Well, it’s done. Call me if she gets out of sorts.”

  I promised her I would.

  She left and Frannie napped for a while, but as soon as she awoke she asked, “Is Giselle coming?”

  “I don’t know,” I answered, patting her arm. “I hope so.”

  She looked so distressed that I sat down beside her bed, trying to distract her by telling her about my current historical research. I just meant to touch on it briefly, but she was so quiet that I kept babbling on until I had talked about all sorts of things, including my own ancestors’ apparent support of the Paxton Boys.

  Frannie seemed pained, though I doubted the actions of my ancestors were what was bothering her. “These things happen,” she said with a sigh. “We raise them to walk a certain path, but sometimes they detour away…”

  Her voice trailed off as she closed her eyes. Somehow, I had a feeling the path she was talking about was Giselle’s.

  Later, after Frannie woke up, she seemed much more alert.

  “Maybe I dreamed this,” she said as I raised the head of the bed and smoothed the covers around her, “but did you say something earlier about the Paxton Boys? And the Conestoga Indian Massacre?”

  “Ya. I’m researching my ancestors and looking for information.”

  “That’s right. Well, I just remembered something. I might be able to help you.”

  I sat up straight. “Oh?”

  “I know for a fact that among my husband’s family papers is a small pile of pamphlets about the massacre. Several of them were even written by his ancestor, the nine-greats-grandfather Zed told you about.”

  I gasped. “Zed showed me one of those. But are you saying you have additional pamphlets about the massacre, written by other people?”

  Frannie nodded.

  I hated the thought of it, but I knew there was a chance my ancestors had written some as well, though taking the opposite stand, of course.

  “Where are they? Do you have them?”

  She thought for a moment. “I think I do. They would be in the attic in a cardboard box labeled ‘Malachi’s Mementos,’ or something like that.”

  “Would you mind if I looked for it?” I asked, trying not to sound as excited as I felt.

  “Of course not. Take the flashlight with you.”

  She gestured toward the cupboard by the front door. When I looked inside, I saw that it was a big, black, club-like type that didn’t fit in my apron pocket.

  “Oh, and get the step stool from the kitchen to pull on the rope. You should be able to reach it that way.”

  I followed her directions, taking the stool to the hallway. I easily grabbed the rope and pulled on it, unlatching the stairs from the ceiling with a loud, rusty boing. I continued to pull as I stepped down, moving the stool with my other hand and clutching the flashlight at the same time. Once the stairs were secure, I turned on the light, shone it upwards, and started ascending. We had a similar set in our house, although on the second floor. I always felt as if I were walking up toward heaven until I reached the attic. Then it was either really cold or really hot and obviously not anywhere I’d want to spend much time.

  Frannie’s attic welcomed me with an icy wall of cold air. I shivered, wishing I had thought to put on my cape. I shone my light around as I reached the top and saw that there wasn’t an actual floor—just boards positioned across the rafters. Rows of boxes, mostly cardboard of all different sizes, were stacked on top of the boards along each side. Taking them all in, I could only hope that the one I wanted wasn’t too far back—and that it wouldn’t be too heavy for me.

  I stepped onto the wide center board and inched forward along it as I shone the light at the boxes. The wind had picked up outside, and a branch that had been scraping against the siding was louder up here. I hoped Frannie wouldn’t get chilled from the trapdoor being open.

  I tried to move quickly, playing the flashlight along the sides of the boxes. Only one had Malachi’s name on it that I could see, but instead of mementos, the label said, “Malachi—Miscellaneous.”

  Downstairs, I could hear voices, and I realized someone had come into the daadi haus. Thinking this was better than nothing, I grabbed that one box—grateful it was lighter than I’d expected—and headed for the stairs.

  It wasn’t as easy getting down as it had been going up, but somehow I managed to juggle the box and the flashlight without breaking my neck. When I reached the bottom, I lifted the stairs back into the ceiling, holding onto the rope to stop the whole thing from snapping up too quickly. Once it had eased its way upward, I let go and the steps clicked into place.

  Feeling as if I’d been shirking my duties, I hurried to the living room, where I found Marta talking with Frannie. She looked at me questioningly, so I simply gestured toward the box with my head and said, “Doing research for Zed’s next film.”

  “That’s all I need to know,” she replied with a laugh, holding out one hand to stop me from elaborating. We smiled at each other, two veterans of our beloved Zed’s creative energies.

  I showed Frannie the box, turning it so she could read the label.

  “That’s the one. Malachi Miscellaneous. Sorry about that. Open it up.”

  I did, and after rustling through a couple of worn maps, some old agriculture department brochures, and an ancient manual to a threshing machine, I came across two rubber-banded packets of pamphlets. They were old and yellowed, and there looked to be about ten in total of varying sizes. The rubber band holding them together popped the moment I tried to remove it, but the pamphlets themselves seemed intact enough to be handled—with care. This I did, flipping through them, my heart pounding as I searched their covers for the name Vogel. Would one of these pamphlets contain the information I’d been seeking?

  Sadly, there did not seem to be a Vogel among them, though I still wanted to take a closer look. I decided to set them aside for now and do that later, when I was alone. I started to put the pamphlets back in the box, but then I noticed a zippered bag of fabric in the bottom. Placing the yellowed booklets on the table, I turned my attention to the bag, pulled it out, and set it on the edge of the bed.

  “Unzip it,” Frannie said.

  Marta stepped closer.

  The zipper caught in a few places, but I worked it back and forth until I got it all the way around and could pull open the flap. There was a blanket on top or, more accurately, a coverlet, a woven bedspread that had to be an antique. Next was another woven piece of fabric, much smaller, that looked like velvet. I took it out, unfolding it carefully.

  “Oh, my,” Frannie said. “Isn’t that fancy?”

  “You found this with Daed’s stuff?” Marta asked. “What on earth would he have been doing with this?”

  Frannie didn’t seem too concerned. “I don’t know. These must be some of Judith’s leftovers.”

  “Judith?” I asked.

  “Judith Lantz, my mother-in-law, God rest her soul. She was a seamstress, a very talented one. She specialized in fabric repair. Vintage and antique fabric repair in particular.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked, intrigued.

  “She took in work from the local antique shops and a museum or two. Whenever they would obtain a fabric item in need of repair—an antique pillow or seat cushion or quilt or toy—they would usually look to her. Not only did she do excellent mending work, but she had a huge collection of fabric to pull from, some dating back a hundred years or more. With the right cloth, she could usually piece
things back together in such a way that you’d never even know the items had been damaged.”

  “Wow.” I was quiet for a moment as I gazed at the fabric, wondering if this was all that was left of her collection. “How far back do you think these pieces date? This coverlet has to be at least a hundred years old. Is that possible?”

  Frannie shrugged. “Sure. Everyone in the community knew to give their old material and fabric goods to Judith rather than throw them away. She had a storage area in their old house, so there was plenty of room. For her, the biggest issue was keeping it all organized so that she could find what she needed when she needed it.”

  “I can imagine.”

  Marta reached out and ran a finger across the velvet. “I wonder why Daed kept these particular pieces, the coverlet and a scrap of velvet. Do you think they were important in some way?”

  Frannie leaned back against the pillow, looking tired. “They could have been, though I can’t imagine why. I know his siblings got rid of most all of that once their mother died. He probably just grabbed these things to keep as mementos.”

  Marta shifted her attention to the coverlet. “If this is as old as Izzy thinks, I wonder if it could be valuable.”

  “Probably so.” I picked it up and studied it. The weave was looser than what modern machines did, though the stitches along the seams were impeccable. “You should get it appraised, just in case.”

  “Giselle might know what they’re worth,” Frannie said. “Keep it out for when she comes.”

  Marta and I shared a glanced, and I knew we were both thinking the same thing. If she comes.

  I placed the velvet on top of the coverlet and then slid them both into the plastic bag. “If it turns out that it’s not valuable, I know Zed would love to borrow it. This would make an amazing prop for his next film.”

  “You don’t think it would fall apart the minute he tried to use it?” Marta asked.

  “It might.” I zipped the bag shut. “Even so, I could still use it as an example to replicate. And it would be helpful when choosing the costuming fabrics too. I’d like to find ones that emulate this weave.”

  Just the thought of it got all of my creative juices flowing, but Frannie was starting to fade, so I left her with Marta and carried everything to my room. Later, I would return the box to the attic, minus the fabric and the pamphlets, which I couldn’t wait to read through. I also couldn’t wait to show all of this to Zed.

  The brief interaction had worn Frannie out, but she slept fitfully after Marta left. I kept busy, checking on her, preparing her dinner, and then readying her for bed. It wasn’t until I went to bed myself that I could finally take a closer look at the pamphlets.

  I started by laying them all out on the bed and again checking the names of the authors. Right away, I spotted the one by NGGH I’d already seen plus two more I hadn’t. To my disappointment, there didn’t seem to be anything written by any of my ancestors. Still, these items were useful for our research, so I started back at the top of the pile and began skimming through them anyway.

  Two were especially well written and caught my attention. The first was against the massacre, and I, of course, agreed with it wholeheartedly. The second was pro massacre. There was nothing I could condone about the argument, but I did find the logic of the writer fascinating as well as disturbing. Of course, there was no mention of the many treaties broken with the Indians, the land taken, and the slaughter of Indians of all ages by settlers, not to mention the European diseases that wiped out so many of the Native Americans. There were, however, many accounts of Indians murdering settlers and of kidnappings too.

  Although I would never endorse violence against any human being, I could see how the events that happened led to fear, which led to panic, which resulted in the massacre. And that was just it—this particular tribe was a remarkably easy target because they were peace loving and had already been decimated by disease.

  Later, knowing it was the only choice I had, I took it all to prayer and thanked God that I was given a heritage of nonviolence. It was the only way to stop the vicious cycle because violence always begets violence.

  The next morning after breakfast, as I watched Frannie nap, I decided to work on the cloth bags I’d been making as Christmas presents for the women in my family. I realized I ought to make something for the women in this family as well—Frannie, her daughters, and granddaughters—some item that would be both lovely and useful. I was mulling over what I might create when I remembered the bookmark I’d found right before Verna died. I went down the hall to my room and dug it from my purse. I read the embroidered words again, “My help cometh from the Lord.” I knew it was from the Psalms. I would show it to Frannie when she woke up and ask her if she had ever seen anything like it.

  Perhaps I could make bookmarks with the verse embroidered on it for the Lantz women. That was something they could use.

  I returned to the living room, sat by Frannie, and resumed my sewing. The time passed quietly until Marta, looking as if she’d slept in her clothes, burst through the front door. “She’s coming,” she croaked in a voice hoarse with emotion. “Giselle is coming home.”

  Frannie stirred but didn’t wake up.

  Marta clutched the metal bar at the end of the bed and for a minute I thought she might collapse. I stood, my sewing falling to the floor. I hurried to her side, putting my arm around her.

  She was shaking.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  She shook her head and then whispered, “I’m glad Mamm is asleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  I didn’t respond. I’d never seen Marta like this. I never would have guessed she was capable of so much emotion.

  She took a deep breath.

  “I’ll get you some water,” I said, not knowing what else to do.

  “Danke,” she whispered, leaning against the railing.

  When I returned, she downed the entire glass. “Maybe I’m a little dehydrated. I don’t know. I fell asleep on the sofa, and then Giselle’s call woke me. I came straight here.”

  “When is she arriving?”

  “Tomorrow,” Marta answered and then exhaled, slowly. “By tomorrow night, we’ll all be together. For the first time in almost thirty years.” She looked at her mother, her eyes filled with a myriad of emotions.

  Frannie began to stir, and Marta skirted around the edge of the bed to her side, while I took the glass back into the kitchen.

  “Mamm, I have some news.”

  “I hope it’s good,” Frannie said.

  “It is. You’ll be so pleased.”

  I stepped back into the living room as Marta said, “Giselle is coming. Tomorrow.”

  Frannie grabbed Marta’s hand. “Are you sure?”

  “She called. Just half an hour ago. I came straight here. She promised she’s coming. She bought the ticket online as we spoke.”

  Frannie’s whole body relaxed, and then she smiled. She looked as beautiful as an angel.

  “Kumm esse,” she whispered, which was a funny thing to say. It was what mothers said when inviting everyone to the table.

  But Marta must have understood what her mother meant because she just nodded and said, “Ya. Kumm esse indeed.”

  TWENTY-TWO

  After Frannie drifted off to sleep, I made Marta some tea and we sat talking at the kitchen table. She couldn’t stop talking about Giselle coming home and was relaying the specifics of her itinerary. “She’ll leave Zurich at twelve thirty p.m. tomorrow and will arrive in Philadelphia tomorrow afternoon around a quarter of four.”

  “How will she get from the airport to here?”

  “I’ll go pick her up. Barring any traffic, we should be back around six or seven tomorrow evening.”

  “And she’s staying in a hotel?”

  Marta shook her head. “No. Believe it or not, she said no hotel. If she’s coming all this way to see Mamm, then she wants to stay with Mamm. Klara won’t be happy about her being so close, but
Mamm will be thrilled.”

  “Should I move into the main house so Giselle can have my room?”

  “No, you stay where you are. Giselle can just use Mamm’s room.”

  I stood to carry my cup to the sink. “Will you be picking up Lexie also?”

  “No, she’ll rent a car and drive here herself. Her flight gets in at nine thirty in the morning, so she’ll be here around noon, which is good. That will give her time to get settled and maybe rest a bit from the redeye before she meets Giselle for the first time that evening.”

  I thought about Giselle being Lexie’s birth mother, and that Lexie and Giselle had never met in person before—or, at least, they hadn’t seen each other since Lexie was just a toddler. Giselle was Ada’s birth mom too, but they had met when Ada went to Switzerland a few years ago.

  Footsteps sounded on the porch and then a rapid knock startled us. I thought it might be Klara, but she wouldn’t knock. Alexander might, but not so loudly.

  Confused, I walked to the door to see who it might be. Standing there was my own mother. My hand flew to my throat.

  “Is everything okay?” I whispered, sure just as things were looking better for Frannie’s family that something horrible had happened to mine.

  “You worry too much, Izzy,” Mamm said as she stepped inside and slipped off her black bonnet. “I just stopped by to say hello and deliver some soup and bread for Frannie—and for you too.”

  I closed the door behind her as she gave Marta a quick hello. I led her to the kitchen, asking how things were going with everyone.

  “Fine,” she said, placing the basket on the counter. She handed me the soup and directed me to put it in the fridge, as if I didn’t know to do that. She took out the bread, put it on the counter, and then looped her hand through the basket again.

  “Will you be coming home next weekend as planned?” she asked.

  “As far as I know. But we’ll have to play it by ear as it gets closer.” I didn’t add that it depended on how Frannie was doing by then.

  We heard a shaky voice from behind us. “Is that you, Peggy?” The commotion had wakened Frannie.