Adoring Addie

by Leslie Gould

  Waving, I sprinted around to the passenger side as he braked.

  “Thought I’d forgotten you, jah?” He began cranking the wheel to turn around before I had the door closed.

  As I clicked my seatbelt, I noticed his wasn’t on. “Fasten up,” I said.

  He grunted.

  “Timothy.”

  “Stop bossing me around.”

  “Let me out, then.”

  “All right, all right,” he said, grabbing the belt as he drove. Too many Amish youth were badly injured in car accidents because they didn’t wear safety belts. The car drifted, the fastener clicked, and he planted his hands back on the wheel.

  I let out my breath, slowly, and we rode in silence until the stop sign at the end of our lane.

  That’s when I heard the beer bottles clink behind the driver’s seat.

  I craned my neck.

  “I only had one,” he said, turning right.

  “There are four empty bottles.”

  “George had three.”

  I eyed him for a moment but couldn’t tell if he was being truthful or not. “If you can afford beer, why can’t you afford to pay me back?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “For the mantel you destroyed.”

  He smirked and said, “I forgot all about that.”

  “Obviously.” I wasn’t about to tell him Jonathan had returned the money. If by some chance Timothy did pay me, I’d tell him then. “Where is George?” I asked.

  “At the party already. With Sadie.”

  “And where is it?”

  “Down by the Susquehanna.” He braked for a curve.

  I relaxed a little.

  But the next one he accelerated for. “Timothy!” I squealed. He laughed as the Bronco veered onto the shoulder and then straightened out again.

  “There could have been a buggy on the curve!”

  “There wasn’t,” he answered.

  We were on a straight stretch now, buzzing along. “How many beers did you really have?”

  “Maybe more than one. I lost track.” He shot me a grin as he crossed the center line into the other lane, which was clear, to pass a buggy.

  I turned to see if it was anyone I recognized but couldn’t make out the man’s face.

  I shifted in my seat toward Timothy. “We need to go back to the house.”

  “Nah, I’m fine.”

  “You’re not fine.”

  He ignored me.

  “Turn around,” I said.

  He ignored me again.

  “Stop!” I commanded.

  He continued to ignore me until I yelled, “Now!”

  He slammed on the brakes, stopping the car in the middle of the road, the beer bottles clattering in the back again.

  “Now go back to the house.”

  “Fat chance,” he said. “You can walk back if you need to run home to Mamm.”

  “You said you wouldn’t drink.”

  He shrugged. I weighed my options—it took me half a second. “Okay.” I opened the door handle. “I’ll walk.”

  “Don’t get hit by some crazy Amish kid,” he said as I climbed out.

  “You’re an idiot.” I slammed the door.

  He sneered and then accelerated, making me jump back onto the narrow shoulder.

  The moon rose over the hill behind me, and I began walking back the way we’d come, chastising myself for having believed Timothy in the first place.

  He was the least trustworthy person I knew.

  I looked across the plowed field, squinting in the dim light. The farmhouse in the distance was Old Man Mosier’s. Getting there by the road would be a long, long walk. I stumbled over a rock, catching myself before I fell. To cross the plowed field, as much as I wanted to, would be quite the ordeal. Besides, what would I find when I got there? Jonathan gone to the party? That would only add insult to injury. I was so close to where Jonathan was living—but he was most likely not there.

  I began humming as I walked, a nonsense tune that I sometimes sang to Joe-Joe at bedtime. In the distance, car lights came toward me. I stepped beyond the shoulder to the edge of the field, well out of the way. The car zoomed by too fast. I didn’t recognize the Englisch man driving.

  A pickup passed a few minutes later with a dog in the back. It barked and lunged as the vehicle zoomed by. I stayed on the side of the field, my shoes filling with dirt from the tilled soil.

  When I reached the crossroads, I turned to the left. A few minutes later, I could heard the clippity-clop of a horse’s hooves and then the whir of wheels on the pavement, but a turn in the road prevented me from seeing the buggy.

  I could make out the faint sound of singing. “‘When through the woods, and forest glades I wander, And hear the birds sing sweetly in the trees. When I look down, from lofty mountain grandeur . . .’”

  The voice sounded familiar—or was I just hoping beyond hope it would be Jonathan?

  It wasn’t until the chorus that I recognized the song as “How Great Thou Art,” an Englisch hymn Aenti Nell sometimes sang. She told me it was from singings she attended as a girl. Certain it was a song Jonathan would sing, I began jogging.

  As I came around the bend, there he was, his face lit up in the moonlight—until he saw me.

  “Whoa!” He pulled the horse to a stop, his lantern swinging back and forth, casting a wide shadow. “Addie?”

  “Jah,” I said.

  The look on his face, under the wide brim of his hat, was a mixture of joy and confusion. “What are you doing out here?”

  I could feel my face light up, nearly as brightly as the moon, as relief and a sense of safety flooded over me. “It seems . . . finding you.” I climbed into his buggy before he had the chance to ask me to.

  As I dumped the dirt from my shoes, one after the other, over the side onto the pavement, I explained to Jonathan why I was walking alone, in the dark.

  “I don’t know why I ever trusted Timothy,” I said, putting my second shoe back on. “Well, actually I do.” I looked up at Jonathan shyly. “I was hoping you would be at the party.”

  He grinned. “Mervin and Martin asked me to go, but I didn’t think you would be there.”

  I leaned back against the bench, pleased.

  “I’ll take you home,” he said.

  “There’s no hurry.”

  He stopped at the crossroads instead of turning the buggy around. “Want to come look at my shop?”

  “Are your parents home?”

  He shook his head. “Not until tomorrow.”

  He urged the horse forward, toward Old Man Mosier’s place. We rode in silence for a moment, until I thought to ask what he was doing out so late, if not going to a party.

  He laughed a little. “Well, I was headed over to someone’s house, hoping she could sneak away for a quick ride. But about ten minutes ago, I saw her fly by in a yellow Bronco.”

  “Oh no, that was you? I couldn’t see your face.”

  “I turned away on purpose, so Timothy couldn’t see me.”

  “And you were going to our place?”

  “Jah. I’m not sure what I planned to do. Maybe knock on your door.” He grinned.

  Knowing how that would have gone over, I was happy with the way things turned out, except for Timothy being out on the road.

  Old Man Mosier’s house was one of those that sat just a few feet off the road. But in the early 1800s when it was built, most likely around the same time our house was, there was only the occasional horse and buggy or wagon. One didn’t have to worry about kids spilling out onto the busy road.

  As Jonathan turned the buggy into their short driveway, two barking hounds lunged out from beside the house.

  I must have looked worried, because Jonathan said, “Dawdi is practically deaf. That’s why the dogs are so loud.” Then he laughed, and I couldn’t help but chuckle at his joke too.

  Because he would soon be taking me home, Jonathan tied the horse to the hitching post instead of taking i
t to the barn. I started to jump down, but before I could, he told me to wait. “Let me help you,” he said.

  In a moment, he was looking up at me, reaching for my hand. I offered it to him, and he took it tenderly, sending a jolt straight to my heart. As I stepped down, he put his other hand on the small of my back.

  “Denki,” I managed to breathe out as I took a step toward him, our shoulders practically touching. Our eyes met, and he smiled, again, but then stepped away, even though I longed for him to hug me the way he had the first night down by the creek. He headed toward the house, not letting go of my hand as he led me toward the back door.

  “I want to introduce you to Dawdi first. And my cousin Tabitha. Then I’ll show you the shop,” Jonathan said, opening the door.

  A young woman, a year or two older than me, stood at the kitchen sink, washing beans. She smiled shyly. When Jonathan introduced us, after I said hello, she asked if I was Timothy’s sister.

  “Jah, I am.” I braced myself for her reaction.

  “Is he doing all right?” she asked. “I only met him the one time, but he worried me.”

  It wasn’t the response I’d expected. “Jah.” I sighed. “He worries me too.”

  “He seemed as if he might be nice enough,” she said. “But I couldn’t really tell.”

  “He can be nice,” I said. “And not so nice too.”

  She nodded. “That’s what I was afraid of.” She didn’t bring up his drinking, but it was implied. “It’s great to meet you,” she said. “I hope the best for the two of you.”

  “Denki,” I answered, wishing Timothy was worthy of a girl like her. Not that he wouldn’t be someday, but he had a lot of changing to do first.

  Jonathan took my hand and pulled me along toward a faint light from another room.

  “Is your Dawdi in bed?” I whispered.

  “No. He hardly sleeps.”

  Jonathan led the way toward the light. We rounded the corner and into the living room. In the far corner in a rocking chair, under the light of a lamp, sat an old man with thick snow-white hair and a beard down to his waist. He wore a dark blue bathrobe and leather slippers. His head was bent forward as if he were sleeping, but then I saw the book in his lap.

  “Dawdi,” Jonathan said.

  The man raised his head, a smile spreading across his face as he did, his pale blue eyes dancing.

  He struggled to his feet, tucking the book under his arm.

  “This is Addie,” Jonathan said.

  His Dawdi extended his hand to me. I took it, clasping the bony fingers and paper-thin skin. “Willkumm,” he said.

  “Denki,” I answered.

  “Cramer, right?”

  I nodded, bracing myself.

  “Ach, I’m thinking my prayers are working.” His eyes lit up as bright as the lamp beside him. “I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed your Dat all these years. He used to be like my own son. . . .” His eyes watered, and then he let go of my hand.

  He reached for Jonathan, wrapping his arm around his shoulder. “It’s late—take her home so her parents don’t worry. But bring her back sometime when we can visit.” He plopped back down into the chair.

  “Come on,” Jonathan said to me.

  I stalled, gazing at his grandfather a moment longer. He opened the book back up, and I realized it was a Bible.

  I waved at him—although he didn’t see it because he was reading again—and then I followed Jonathan back through the kitchen, saying good-night to Tabitha, and out to the shop. I could smell the spicy sweetness of pine before we entered. Once we stepped through the side door and he flipped on a switch, a wonderland of wood greeted me, all illuminated by electric lights. Obviously the shop was wired, probably mostly for the tools Jonathan used.

  “Solar power,” Jonathan explained. I nodded. Several businesses and even some homes had the panels on their roofs, including Onkel Bob’s shop and showroom.

  Bookcases, benches, butcher blocks, bowls, bookends, mantels, and, jah, hope chests filled the room. All had some sort of carving on them. A single flower. A shaft of wheat. A name. A star. A moon. All reason enough to make Bishop Eicher concerned, I was sure. I stepped closer to the first hope chest. Sarah was carved into the wood with forget-me-nots around it.

  “This must be for an Englisch girl,” I said.

  Jonathan stepped beside me. “An Amish woman ordered it. For her daughter.” He lifted the lid. The inside was carved with forget-me-nots too. “The girl’s turning thirteen.”

  I swallowed hard. “Was the woman overweight? With dark hair?”

  He nodded.

  “And named Pauline?”

  “Jah.”

  Tears stung my eyes.

  “What is it?”

  I shook my head. It wasn’t that I was jealous of my cousin—I was happy for her. And not surprised. Hannah and Deborah both received a hope chest when they turned thirteen too, although not as wonderful. I just felt the pain of not having been given one of my own. “It’s beautiful—that’s all.”

  I could tell by the expression on his face he knew it was more than that, but he didn’t press me.

  “All of it is incredible, every single piece.”

  “Ach, Addie. Don’t say that.” Jonathan’s eyes fell to the concrete floor covered with sawdust.

  “What? You don’t think it is?”

  “Jah, some of it. But I have so much to learn. So much to improve.”

  I couldn’t see that. All of it looked perfect to me, but I was sure, as a craftsman, he saw flaws I couldn’t.

  “That might be,” I said, full of enthusiasm. “But still it’s the most amazing carpentry I’ve ever seen.”

  “Don’t, Addie.”

  I stepped toward him. “It’s true. Now show me everything.”

  He did, talking about the different kinds of wood. Maple. Oak. Hemlock. Pine. He touched each piece tenderly, running his hand along the grain. He told me if the wood was hard or soft and if soaking it before carving worked better or not and if he joined the wood with glue or dowels.

  He showed me his tools. His saw and sander. His lathe and planer. “Dawdi convinced my Dat that the solar electricity would be okay. This shop is so much better than the one in Big Valley.”

  “So you must be staying, considering you moved everything down?”

  “Jah, that’s the plan. Although my Dat’s still not convinced I can make a living with my woodworking. He says I’m too passionate to run my own business—and not organized or level-headed enough. He says I’ll turn into one of those ‘starving artists.’” Jonathan made quotation gestures with his fingers. “That’s why he wants me to help him farm. He’s thinking about buying a dairy herd.”

  “You wouldn’t have much time for your work then.”

  He nodded, sadly.

  “What does your Dawdi say?”

  “He stays out of things when my Dat’s involved.”

  “Ach, Jonathan,” I said, my brain whirring around and around. “I’m organized. And level-headed. I know Cate would teach me about running a business.”

  “Are you saying you’d be my business manager?”

  “Jah.” I couldn’t think of anything I’d rather do than partner in life—and business—with Jonathan. It was another reason for us to be together. So he could succeed as a carpenter. But it would use my strengths too. Both of our gifts could work together to make it a success—something neither of us could accomplish on our own.

  “You’d be willing to live with my passion and all?”

  “Jah,” I said again. Perhaps that passion made him rash, but it also opened a new world to me—one of beauty and God being present and hope. “And promote your work. No matter what you believe, I think it’s amazing. All of it.”

  He picked up a small box from the worktable. “Here,” he said. “I made it for you.”

  I took it from him. It had forget-me-nots carved on the top, similar to the ones on Sarah’s chest.

  I wrapped my hand aroun
d it and held it to my heart. “Denki,” I whispered. I shivered, amazed that I’d only known him for three days.

  I was about to tell Jonathan that when we both turned to the sound of a vehicle. It sounded as if it was just outside the shop.

  Then a door slammed.

  Jonathan’s voice was low. “I’ll check and see who it is.”

  I stepped to the side of one of the bookcases as he opened the side door. I waited a long moment, watching his back. When he turned toward me I knew it wasn’t good.

  “It’s my parents,” he said. “They came back early.”

  CHAPTER

  10

  I wasn’t tempted to hide or flee, but the only thing I could do was walk out at Jonathan’s side with my head held high and meet the two people responsible for his life.

  He searched my eyes for a long moment. I nodded toward the door and then stepped beside him. He led the way. A van was parked in the driveway, the interior lights and the headlights on. A Plain man, Dirk I assumed, stood straight and tall, broad shouldered and bulky—nothing like his son—facing the side door of the van. He had a long, full beard, a head of dark hair under his black hat, and a burly look about him. An Englisch man walked around the van, no one I knew, probably from Big Valley. Neither man noticed us, but the Amish woman did as she came around the back of the van, carrying cloth bags in each hand. She stopped immediately, but instead of being angry, a smile spread across her face.

  “Jonathan,” she said. “Who do you have with you?”

  He spoke clearly. “This is Addie.”

  Before Jonathan could go on, I knew by the look on his father’s face he knew who I was.

  “Addie Cramer,” Jonathan said.

  “Jah,” his father said, his voice full of disappointment. “That’s what I thought.”

  “Oh, Jonathan,” his mother moaned. “So what Amos called about is true?”