An Amish Garden

by Beth Wiseman

  “Why would they? I’m a burden to them. One more mouth to feed in a home that’s already too crowded. They’re probably glad I’m gone.” Bitterness filled his voice, which cracked, accentuating the fact that he was teetering between boyhood and manhood. “I never did anything right anyway. You can’t make me go back. You can’t, and I won’t.”

  Emma checked Danny’s reaction. He shrugged.

  She stood and straightened her dress. Her toes were nearly numb, as were her fingers. She’d learned enough so that she’d be able to sleep. Joseph wasn’t sick, and he didn’t seem to be planning to rob her blind during the night. Anything else could wait until morning.

  “That’s it? You’re just going to let me . . . let me stay?”

  “Breakfast is at six thirty. We’ll talk tomorrow about how you can earn your keep until we figure out what to do.”

  Joseph’s mouth fell open, but he didn’t argue.

  They were leaving when Danny paused and turned back. “You’re welcome to come to my house. I live next door and have an extra bedroom.”

  “Nein. I’d rather stay here.”

  “Suit yourself.” Emma put her hand in the crook of Danny’s elbow and tugged him out of the stall. “Morning will be here soon. We best get to sleep.”

  Instead of talking outside the barn, she invited Danny into the house, set the kettle on the stove, and brewed them both a cup of decaffeinated herbal peppermint tea.

  Danny was quiet as she moved around the kitchen, gathering cups, saucers, and a slice of the leftover lemon cake.

  “I believe your gift is feeding people, Emma.” The words were said in jest, but the look in Danny’s eyes was solid admiration.

  It occurred to Emma that if you served a man a piece of cake, he would believe you could solve the problems of the world. Give him cake in the middle of the night, and he’d likely burrow in and refuse to leave.

  Did she want Danny to leave?

  He looked completely at home in her kitchen.

  “I wasn’t much of a cook when I first married Ben. It didn’t take long for his mother to teach me, to ensure that I had the basic skills. That first year, I think Mamm was afraid that she’d be called home to heaven before the lessons were done. I suspect she was motivated by the fear that her son would be left here to starve with a well-meaning but unskilled cook for a wife.”

  “Were you that bad?”

  “I burnt my share of casseroles, and bread was completely beyond me.” She sat at the table, ignoring the cake—though she wanted some. She’d learned long ago that late-night snacking meant disaster for her waistline. Emma had heard an Englisch woman at the market commenting on how nice it would be to be Amish—to not worry about your figure or the gray in your hair. It was true that they believed vanity to be a sin, but most women she knew worried at least a little about their weight. Emma could stand to lose five or ten pounds. Hopefully that concern was for health reasons and not because of vanity.

  Why was she even worrying about such things? Emma had enough on her plate at the moment without counting her sins at forty minutes past midnight.

  “After a few years I understood that cooking was Mamm’s special talent, and she wanted to share it with me.”

  “I’m glad she did!”

  They sat together in the near darkness. She had lit one of the gas lanterns but had turned it to low. No use disturbing Mary Ann, not that she could see a lantern in the kitchen. She had a way of sensing such things though, and Emma knew she needed her rest.

  It surprised her that she was so comfortable with Danny. Around most folk, even Amish folk, she was often seized by the urge to make some sort of conversation. Danny appeared content to silently enjoy the tea and cake. Emma wanted a few moments to process what they’d learned in the barn.

  Finally he carried his plate to the sink, rinsed it, and returned to the table.

  “It’s good of you to allow the boy to stay,” Danny said as he sat back down.

  “I’m only doing the Christian thing. I hardly deserve praise for it.”

  “But you do.” He leaned forward, arms folded on the table, his eyes locked with hers. “Because you spoke to him with compassion, and you offered him kindness, which sometimes is as important as a place to sleep.”

  Danny’s words flowed over her, settling some of the questions in her heart. “What do you think happened to Joseph? To cause him to leave his home?”

  “Hard to say. I didn’t notice any bruises on the boy, but sometimes abuse takes other forms. It’s not something we see a lot in our communities. It is present though, same as any other group of folk.”

  “You saw things like this? While you were traveling?”

  “Ya, and it’s handled differently in each community it seems. Overall I’d say the bishops provide gut guidance, attempting to provide help for the families. Sometimes . . .” He stared down at the old oak table. “One place I stayed in for about a year had a case like this. The dat needed help for his moods, needed some of the Englisch medicine—truth be told. But they wouldn’t hear of it, and the community decided to sweep the entire situation under the rug.”

  “And?”

  “And it didn’t work. Something like this, ignored, will always fester until it sickens the body of believers.”

  Emma thought about that, thought of the day last summer she’d caught a splinter in the palm of her hand. She had been in a hurry that afternoon, and then tired by the time she fell into bed. She had thought she could ignore it for a day. When she woke, the spot was swollen and warm to the touch. It had festered and was much more painful to treat than if she’d dealt with it immediately.

  Ignoring things rarely worked.

  “What if he’s making it up?” Emma rubbed her forehead as she envisioned the boy sleeping soundly in the barn.

  “That’s possible. You know more about Joseph’s age group than I do—”

  “The fear in his eyes seemed real.”

  “It did indeed.”

  “Tomorrow we’ll feed him properly and set him to work, and then I’ll walk down to the phone shack and call the bishop.”

  “I can do that for you.”

  “You don’t mind?”

  “Shadow enjoys a morning walk.” He reached across the table and squeezed her hand, sending sparks zipping like fireflies through her nervous system. “I want to help however I can.”

  She walked with him through the mudroom to the back porch.

  Emma didn’t know what caused her to utter her next words. Perhaps it was the feeling she’d had back at the table—when Danny had touched her hand. “I still miss him.”

  Danny turned and looked at her. “I’m sure you do.”

  “At times I still expect to see Ben walking across the field, carrying his water jug and raising a hand to wave when I come out onto the porch.”

  “His life was complete, Emma.” Danny didn’t move closer, didn’t reach out to touch her this time, and she was grateful for that. At the moment, she felt as fragile as the specially carved glass figurines sold at the shops in town.

  “Ben would be glad you’re helping the boy.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “He’d want you to be happy. You know that, right?”

  Emma nodded, then whispered a good night.

  As she watched Danny make his way home under the May moon, she thought about the deep ache she’d endured since Ben’s death. For the first six months, it had seemed as if some foreign object was lodged under her right rib. Strange that despair would choose such a specific place to hide. She’d rub at the spot, wondering why it wasn’t on her left, near her heart.

  Now the ache was gone, though the memory lingered. It had somehow softened over the last year, and though she missed Ben every bit as much as the first morning she woke after she’d found him in the barn . . . she could now smile at their memories, their time together, and the love they’d shared.

  Like the green garden that had replaced the snow outside her window, life had moved on.
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  She remained on the back porch, thinking of Ben, and Danny, and the boy in the barn. She stood for a long time, watching Danny as he made his way in the moonlight, crossing from her property to his. Long after she could see him, she stood there, until the coolness of the late hour forced her inside.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Emma was standing at the stove frying bacon and scrambling eggs when Joseph knocked on the back door. He came inside when she called out to him, but he stood in the doorway between the mudroom and the kitchen, as if he was unsure what to do next.

  Glancing his way, Emma could see he’d attempted to wash, though the water outside must have been quite cold. His hair, several inches too long, was combed down. He’d also put on a different shirt and pants, so he must have had at least two sets. He didn’t look particularly healthy—a little too thin and a little too pale. But he didn’t appear to be sick either. Mostly, he gave the impression of a lasting misery.

  Mary Ann shuffled into the room as Emma carried the plate of bacon to the table. They had spoken earlier about Joseph, when they’d each had their first cup of kaffi. She had told Mary Ann about their late-night meeting. Mary Ann approved of Joseph staying and even had some ideas of chores he could do.

  “You must be Joseph.” She patted the seat beside her. “Sit. Sit and eat. Do you drink kaffi or milk?”

  “Either is fine.” Joseph didn’t make eye contact with Emma or Mary Ann. Instead he stared at the table. His stomach growled when Emma set the bacon in front of him, causing Mamm to laugh.

  “The sound of a growing boy is a blessing indeed. Ya, Emma?”

  “It is, Mamm.” She placed kaffi and milk in front of him. He reached for the milk and then stopped himself, tucking his hands under the table.

  Emma returned with a plate of eggs and biscuits.

  They bowed their heads, and Emma silently prayed for Joseph. How long had it been since she’d been so worried about someone else? Someone outside of their family? Yet it seemed God had brought Joseph to them for a reason. After all, he could have stopped at any barn. She prayed for wisdom, for guidance, and that Joseph wouldn’t decide to run when he learned what chores he’d be doing.

  Mary Ann reached for a hot biscuit, breaking it open and releasing steam and the rich, yeasty smell. “My dochder makes the best biscuits around, Joseph. And her pies are gut too.”

  Joseph watched them begin to eat, then hesitantly reached for his glass of milk and downed it in a single long drink. As Mary Ann passed him each plate, he took a minimal amount. Emma could guess easily enough that he wanted more. The child had manners.

  “It’s only the three of us, Joseph, and I cooked extra for you. Fill your plate.”

  He wasn’t speaking much, but then again, he was completely focused on his food. She let him enjoy the meal, then refilled his glass of milk and cleared her throat.

  The massive amount of calories he’d just consumed would be hitting his stomach, so she guessed he’d be less likely to put up too much resistance when he heard their plans for the day.

  She thought about offering him some of the lemon cake.

  In the end, she decided the extra sugar might push him over. The last thing they wanted was him in the bathroom chucking up his first meal in several days.

  “Let’s talk about your situation, Joseph.”

  Mary Ann had moved to her rocker in the corner of the kitchen and was leafing through her Bible. She acted as if she wasn’t listening, but Emma knew she’d hear every word they said. And she’d jump in if needed. Bolstered by her presence, Emma ignored the panic on Joseph’s face.

  “I gather from what you said last night that you’re not ready to return home.”

  “I’m never going back there.”

  “Never is often longer than we imagine,” Mary Ann said.

  “It’s not something we need to decide now. But there are a few rules you’ll need to agree to.”

  Joseph’s glance darted left, then right, but he remained in his seat.

  “First, you do the chores I ask of you. There’s not a lot of work around here, but there are some regular tasks you can help me with. Once those are done, there are a few things I’ve put off since my husband passed.”

  “What if I don’t . . . don’t do them well enough?”

  Joseph was talking to the table, his eyes glued to the spot where his plate had been before Emma set it in the sink.

  “Will you do them to the best of your ability?”

  “Ya.” He raised his eyes to hers, then flicked his gaze toward the back door. “’Course I will.”

  “Then it will be done well enough.”

  Joseph shrugged, but Emma thought she detected a small light of hope in his eyes.

  “I will not tolerate alcohol or smoking in my barn. Drink too much and you could knock over a lantern. Leave a cigarette smoldering, and we could lose the entire thing. I understand that you’re on your Rumspringa—”

  He flinched at the word.

  “A phone, something like that, is your decision to make.”

  “How would I pay for a phone?” He looked as if Emma had suggested he purchase an Englisch car.

  She waved away his question. “What I’m trying to say is that I understand the difficulties of your age, but I won’t allow the drinking or the smoking. Any sign of that, and you’ll have to move on.”

  Joseph hunched his shoulders and jerked his head up and down at the same time. He resembled a box turtle, which would have been funny if the expression in his eyes hadn’t tugged at the heart so fiercely.

  “There’s only one other thing, and I expect you won’t be happy about it. Can’t be helped though.”

  “Why won’t I like it?”

  “Because it involves our bishop. I gather you’d rather others not know you’re here, but I have a responsibility, Joseph.”

  “What will the bishop do?”

  “Simon is a fair man. I expect he’ll want to meet with you, and then he’ll probably insist on contacting your parents.”

  “My parents?” Joseph jumped up, and the sound of his chair scraping against the floor echoed across the kitchen. “My parents don’t care. They don’t want me, they don’t miss me, and there’s no chance they’d insist I come home.”

  She doubted that was true, but telling Joseph that would make matters worse. “We’ll have to trust that Simon does the right thing, the best thing for everyone involved.”

  “What if he makes me go back?”

  A sigh escaped from deep within her. “No one can make you do anything, Joseph. Unless you’ve broken the law—”

  “I haven’t!”

  “Then there’s no need to worry. You’re welcome to stay here, but my responsibility is to notify our bishop and then trust his decision on whether to contact your parents.”

  Joseph rammed his hands into his pockets. “What chores did you want me to do?”

  “Are you gut with horses?”

  “Ya.”

  “Then let them into the field and clean out their stalls. Once you’re done with that, give them a gut brushing and check their hooves. All the supplies, including a hoof pick and conditioner/sealant, are in the barn.”

  He nodded once, brown hair flopping into his eyes, then turned toward the back door.

  “God’s mercies are new every morning, child.” Mary Ann’s voice was as soft as the May breeze coming through the kitchen window.

  “I don’t know anything about that.”

  “Perhaps you will learn.” Mary Ann reached for his hand, patted it once, and beamed at him.

  “We’ll have sandwiches for lunch. I’ll ring the outside bell when they’re ready.”

  Joseph had no response for either of them. As he clomped through the mudroom and down the back porch steps, Emma watched him from the window.

  “What happened to him, Mamm? What could cause such bitterness in a fellow his age?”

  “Many things are capable of wounding a young man. Maybe the cause isn’t as
important as the cure.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “What you’re doing—a place for him to rest, a full stomach, prayers that he find his way.”

  Emma hoped her mother-in-law was right. It had been years since she’d had a teenage boy under her roof. If she remembered correctly, it wasn’t all pansies and roses.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The rest of the morning passed quickly.

  Esther, her youngest, came by with items from the co-op.

  Mary Ann had pulled three baskets full of produce from their garden—cabbage, chives, onions, and spinach. Esther had her boys carry into the kitchen what they received in return: milk, eggs, and mangoes. Mangoes!

  “Can’t say we’ve received much fruit, other than apples in the fall.”

  “Paul Byler, you remember him . . .” Esther tucked her blonde curls into her kapp as she spoke. Ever since she was a small girl, those curls had fought being corralled. Now Esther was the same height as Emma.

  “Sure. He has that furniture shop out in back of his house.”

  “Right. An Englischer stopped by to pick up his order of four rocking chairs yesterday. He was so pleased with the work, he paid in cash and left four crates of mangoes. No idea how he came by the crates of fruit. He did tell Paul that he enjoyed trading, and he was a trucker by profession, so maybe he’d been down south.”

  “We’re happy to have them. They’ll work nicely in the sandwich spread I’m making.” Emma reached down and caught Daniel and David in a hug. The twins had recently turned eight, and they stood for the affections from their mammi, but just barely.

  “So where’s the boy?”

  “Boy?” Emma smiled as she played ignorant.

  “You know who I mean, Mamm. Do you really think it’s wise to let him stay?”

  “My, but news travels fast.”

  “Danny called the bishop, and Verna was in visiting when the call came through.”

  Emma nodded as if that made sense. “Danny likes the idea of Joseph staying, and so does your mammi. Joseph seems harmless enough. Right now, he’s cleaning out stalls if you’d like to go meet him.”