He moaned and straightened again.
He was a widower now. James had no mother.
He wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand and continued walking. He felt the uneven asphalt beneath his heavy black shoes. He wished he was barefoot, feeling the hot tar on the bottom of his feet—anything to dull the nightmare that grabbed his every nerve.
A tan car sped by, kicking up swirls of dust. He walked through the flying dirt, blinking as tiny particles settled on his lashes. The phone shanty was just up ahead. He stepped into the field for a few paces and opened the wooden door. He didn’t bother to close it. He grabbed up the receiver and dialed.
“John Beiler. Amish Furnishings.”
“John? This is Isaac Wagner…” Isaac’s voice was steady.
“Well, Isaac! How you doin’, son?”
“I need to get a message to my folks. Or my mamm, at least.”
Isaac could almost hear John scratching his head. Whenever John did any thinking at all, his hand went to his head.
“Don’t rightly know if she’s to home,” John said. “I heard tell that the womenfolk were getting together this afternoon. And your dat’s probably out in the fields. What can I do for you?”
“Could you get a message to either of them to call me?” Isaac’s mind whirled. He could be back at the shanty in an hour or two to get the call. “Tell them I’ll be here at the shanty in an hour. Let me give you the number.”
“I already got the number, son. You know that. Listen, if you can wait ten minutes or so, I’ll send Mandy over there right now to see if your mamm is there. If she is, you can talk to her sooner than an hour.”
“Thank you,” Isaac said. “Jah. I can wait for ten minutes.”
“I’ll call you back one way or the other,” John said, hanging up.
Isaac let the phone drop back in its cradle. He leaned against the shanty wall, taking a deep breath. He’d feel better if he could talk to his mother. Strange how after all his years of being grown, he still yearned for his mother when a crisis hit.
Or his father. That would do, too. Although, it was his mother’s compassion he sought.
He looked out the shanty’s open door. The crops were doing well. It would be a good year. His eyes filled with tears. How Betty loved the summer and the fall. Many women complained about the amount of work a good crop brought in, but not his Betty. She would simply tuck her apron more snugly around herself and dig into the work, harvesting, canning, filling the cellar, all of it. She loved it. Thrived on the work.
Who would can for them this year?
His mind went to Greta. What was he supposed to do with her? He had no desire to bring another woman into the house. In fact, the very thought of it filled him with despair. What was Betty thinking to force Greta on him like that?
And he’d promised…
Abigail’s image came to his mind. She did look a bit like Old Mae, only she was much prettier. She’d been wonderful these last few weeks. Truth was, he didn’t know what he’d have done without her … what Betty would have done? Abigail’s tender ministrations had eased Betty through the worst of it.
Isaac was beholden to her.
And Greta. Yes, and Greta.
The phone rang, and Isaac gripped the receiver. “Jah?”
“Isaac?”
He nearly wept at the sound of his mother’s voice.
“What is it, Isaac? Is it Betty?”
“Mamm,” Isaac choked out the word but couldn’t continue.
“Isaac? Has it happened? Did the poor girl pass…?”
Isaac wept into the phone.
“Ach, son. I’m so sorry. When did it happen?” There were tears in her voice.
Isaac wiped his eyes and struggled for control. “This morning,” he said. He inhaled sharply. “She’s at peace now, Mamm. Finally.”
And just like that, an overwhelming sense of relief filled him.
Betty was at peace. At long last.
“I was with her when she died,” he continued. “I wanted you and Dat to know.”
He heard his mother crying. “I’m so sorry, son.”
“It’s all right.” He licked his lips. “It’s all right. You’ll tell Dat.”
“Of course. He’ll be right upset. He loved Betty.”
“I know,” Isaac said. “We all did.”
“And James? How is he?”
“He’s fine. He doesn’t understand, of course.”
“Nee. He wouldn’t. Poor little babe.”
“Greta and Abigail are watching him.”
“Greta Glick, isn’t it?”
“Jah.”
“Gut. I will come. Your father can’t, of course. Not with the crops right now. But I will.”
“You don’t need to, Mamm,” he said, but he wanted her to. He wanted to feel her tender love and care.
“I’ll come as soon as I can.” Helen Wagner sniffed. “Good bye, son. Gott bless you.”
She hung up. Isaac stood there for a moment, with the phone still on his ear. When the dial tone sounded, he placed the receiver on its cradle. His mother was coming. His shoulders relaxed, and he closed his eyes. His mother was coming.
That was good.
Isaac walked back to the house, kicking at a chunk of asphalt. The jagged piece tumbled down the road as he continued to kick it. He was going to scuff up his shoes but good. He gave a wry smile. Betty used to scold him no end when he’d scuff his shoes—just as if he were still a young boy. Then she’d slip his shoes off him and set to polishing them.
“These shoes are expensive,” she’d complain. “We can’t be buying new shoes just because you take it on yourself to wear ’em down with your kicking.”
And then, invariably, she jump up and kiss his cheek “But I love you, just the same.”
Isaac grinned with the memory. Now, there was no one to fuss about his scuffed-up shoes. There was no one to kiss his cheek. There was no one to pay him any mind at all.
A bolting wave of loneliness crushed over him, nearly making him lose his footing. He staggered slightly, and then with a deep breath, he continued walking, leaving the loose chunk of asphalt behind.
He wasn’t the first man to lose a wife. Nor was he the youngest. He had to get himself in check. This continual emotion couldn’t be indulged in.
He had a son to think of. He had a farm to run.
He had a wife to bury.
Chapter Eleven
The visitations leading up to the funeral passed in a blur. By the time the third one arrived just before the funeral, Isaac was hardly aware of what he was doing or what he was saying. His eyes couldn’t leave the pine casket that sat perched in his front room. Betty’s body was in there. She looked beautiful even in death. And now, surely, she had salvation. She’d lived a good life.
Betty.
His chest caved in a bit further. He missed her. He even missed how she’d been those last weeks. Most of the time, she hadn’t spoken, had hardly moved, and often hadn’t even acknowledged his presence. But she’d been there.
And now she was gone. He gazed upon her ashen dead face.
James squirmed in his arms. He looked down stupidly, having forgotten he was even holding the child.
“Here,” Abigail whispered by his ear. “I’ll take him.”
Isaac blinked and allowed Abigail to take James from him. The baby cried out but quickly went quiet in Abigail’s arms. Isaac watched her carry the baby toward the kitchen. Maybe James was hungry. Isaac wasn’t keeping good track of the time.
He shook his head. Maybe he was hungry, too. When was the last time he’d eaten something? Greta had offered to make him scrambled eggs that morning, but he’d turned her down. His eyes scanned the crowd of black. Everyone had donned their grieving clothes for the funeral. It took Isaac a minute, but he finally spotted Greta by the window. She was standing a bit apart, a stricken look on her face.
What was she thinking? Isaac knew how fond she’d been of Betty. The two women had be
en together frequently, laughing and working side by side. After James was born, Greta had come around even more often. “I have to get my daily fill of the boy,” he’d heard her say more than once.
The bishop approached him. “It’s time to begin the service.”
Isaac drew in a shaky breath. “Jah. It’s time.”
The benches that had been brought in were shuffled into place and everyone who could, was seated. The overflow stood behind, flooding into the dining area and nearly to the kitchen. It was hot. Isaac ran his finger under the neck of his shirt. He was sweating. Shouldn’t someone open a window?
He peered behind the casket. The window was already open. But the air was stagnant, full of everyone’s breath, full of memories of the past, full of what would never happen in that room again. Isaac closed his eyes and concentrated on the first sermon.
By the time the last sermon of over an hour was preached, all Isaac wanted was to be alone, which of course, was impossible. It was time to take Betty to her burial place. The men closed her casket and picked it up, heading out of the house in a solemn procession. Isaac walked at the head of the group, leading his wife to her final resting place.
Not all of the people were going to the gravesite. Some stayed back to eat and visit. Funerals were a good time to catch up with everyone. Soon the laughter would ring out as people relaxed in the enjoyment of being together. But Isaac’s mind was far away from all of that.
Burying Betty was the only thing consuming his thoughts.
He had to accept that her death was God’s will. If it hadn’t been God’s will, she would still be alive. Wouldn’t she? He’d pleaded with God to spare her, but God hadn’t seen fit to do so. Now, Isaac had to accept it. Had to get on with his life.
He stiffened his back as he helped the men load the casket into the bed of the wagon. He caressed the smooth wood.
Good-bye, my dearest Betty. I will always love you.
“Isaac?”
Isaac gave a start and looked over at his neighbor, Stephen Lapp.
“Jah?”
“Come on. Ride with me.”
Isaac followed him to his buggy and got in.
Chapter Twelve
Abigail stacked the dishes on the counter. Then she went in to wipe down the table with a wet rag. Most everyone was gone now, and the last handful of guests were just heading out the door. Only she and Greta were left. The two women worked side by side getting everything put away. There would be enough food in the refrigerator to last weeks if it didn’t spoil first.
“I think we’re about done here,” Abigail said.
Greta looked at her, her gray eyes wide. “So what now? Just leave Isaac alone with James?”
Abigail sighed. “I don’t know. I think that’s all we can do.”
“But what if James fusses in the night? What if he misses his mama too much?”
Abigail put the dishtowel on the counter. “Isaac will go in to him. He’s a good dat.”
“Jah, jah, I know. But what if James won’t stop crying?”
“Greta, he will stop crying. It will be all right.” Abigail suddenly felt like she was consoling another small child. She didn’t want to be the one consoling Greta. She felt too unbalanced herself. Her thoughts went to her grandmother. Old Mae would be stalwart in such a situation. The old woman was unflappable. And if Abigail wanted to continue the healing woman’s tradition, she needed to toughen up.
She went to Greta and put her arm around her shoulder. “Truly, it will be all right. It will take some time for everyone to heal, but Gott is with us. Gott is with all of us. Especially little James.”
Greta wiped her tears. “You’re right. I’m sorry for my tears. Ach, you must think me a boppli.”
Abigail shook her head and smiled. “Don’t worry.”
“So then, I guess there’s nothing to be done except to leave.”
Abigail agreed.
“Do you think we should check in with Isaac tomorrow?”
Why was Greta asking her all these things? Was she seeking Abigail’s permission or something? Abigail had no idea about the right thing to do. Truth was, she wanted to come over the next day herself to check on Isaac and James. But what excuse would she have? Her position there was to care for Betty, and with Betty gone, what was there left for her?
Abigail pressed her hand to her heart.
What was left for her?
The sound of wheels crunched up the drive. Abigail hurried to the window to look out. It must be Isaac and James coming back after the burial. She was glad that she was still there to see them one more time and see if they needed anything.
But it wasn’t a buggy at all. It was a white van. Abigail watched as a middle-aged Amish woman stepped from the back seat. She pulled out a worn suitcase and stood facing the house. Abigail could see the worry on her face.
Abigail hurried to the door and opened it. The woman walked up the steps slowly, moving her shoulders around as if they were stiff and uncomfortable.
“May I help you?” Abigail asked.
The woman looked surprised to see Abigail at the door. She set her suitcase down on the step. “I’m lookin’ for Isaac,” she said. Her voice had a melodious sound to it, and Abigail felt immediately drawn to her.
“He’s … well, he’s probably still at the cemetery,” Abigail said. Her mind spun. This must be Isaac’s mother. Who else would be coming at such a time with a suitcase?
The woman’s expression tightened, and she looked over her shoulder toward the road. Facing Abigail again, she said, “So, I’ve missed it then.”
“The funeral? Jah.”
The woman pressed her lips together and shook her head. “We went so fast. I thought we’d make it. I couldn’t leave immediately. I had to wait to arrange my driver.”
Abigail opened the screen door wider. “Come in. Please, come in. Let me get you some tea. Or would you rather have lemonade?”
The woman came inside, her thin frame limbering up as she moved. From what Abigail could remember, the woman had traveled from the far Ohio border.
“Is the boppli here?” she asked.
“Nee. He’s with Isaac.”
“I’m Isaac’s mamm,” she explained. “I tried to get here before … well, before…”
Abigail pulled out a chair from the dining table. “Sit and rest. Are you hungry? There’s plenty of food.”
The woman sank to the chair and put her hands on her stomach. “I could eat a bit. Not much.”
Her sharp brown eyes assessed Abigail. “Who are you?”
“Ach. I’m sorry. I’m Abigail, Old Mae’s granddaughter. I’ve been caring for Betty.”
Mrs. Wagner nodded. “I see.”
“I’ll only be a minute.” Abigail hurried into the kitchen and then realized the woman hadn’t said whether she wanted tea or lemonade. She stuck her head back into the dining area. “Tea, then?”
Mrs. Wagner nodded. “That’ll be fine, dear.”
Abigail set the kettle on the stove and turned on the burner. Greta wouldn’t have to worry now. Isaac’s mother would be there to help with James. Perhaps, she should stop by Greta’s on her way home and set the girl’s mind to rest. She knew Greta lived with her dat close to the bridge.
She took a mug from the shelf and put in a chamomile teabag. She also took down the jar of honey. From the fridge, she pulled out a large bowl of gelatin salad and some lunchmeat. She’d make a sandwich for Isaac’s mom.
But she never got the chance. A buggy pulled in, and Mrs. Wagner jumped up from the table and hurriedly left the house. She half-ran across the yard toward the buggy which had now stopped. Isaac climbed down from the passenger side and started running toward his mother with James bouncing in his arms. The three of them met in the middle of the yard. Isaac folded his mother in his arms and closed his eyes.
Abigail watched the tender scene with a growing lump in her throat. Her chest tightened as she continued to watch them embrace. And then Isaac pulled away a
nd put his arm around his mother’s shoulders. They walked slowly toward the house, and now his mother held James in her arms. Abigail suddenly felt completely out of place. She shouldn’t be there. She wasn’t part of their intimate reunion.
Swiftly, she rushed to the side entrance and left the house before the three of them entered.
Chapter Thirteen
Abigail ran to the barn to get in her pony cart.
She hastily hitched up her pony and snapped the reins on his backside. Instead of heading toward Greta’s, she drove toward Edmund’s Pond. She was weary. Beyond weary, if the truth were known. She needed a bit of solace—and she needed of bit of rationality back in her life.
Edmund’s Pond was deserted. She halted her pony and secured the reins. Then she climbed down and wandered near the pond’s edge. There were lilly pads growing in the water, scattered over the pond like verdant green islands. She smiled and squatted down, running her fingers through the cool water. She breathed in the warm air, smelling the tall grasses that bordered one side of the pond. She had a sudden longing for a fishing pole. According to her grandmother, there were trout in the pond, and they fried up nicely.
She smiled. She wasn’t particularly fond of fish, but she knew Old Mae was. It was a shame she couldn’t accommodate her grandmother.
Fishing…
Abigail’s mind jerked back to Bartle’s Hollow in Pennsylvania, and Joshua’s image flashed before her eyes. She cringed and took her fingers from the water. She stood and worked to clear her mind of his memory.
But Joshua’s face wouldn’t budge from her thoughts. It was as if he’d burrowed into her mind like some kind of burr that wouldn’t let go.
Ach, Joshua, why did it have to end like it did?
Why couldn’t they at least have parted as friends? Her cheeks grew warm. That was her fault, and she knew it. When he had come to her and admitted his dalliance with Esther Brin, Abigail had come completely unglued. She had turned ugly, and the memory of it shamed her.
Amish Days: Replacement Wife: Hollybrook Amish Romance (Greta's Story Book 1) Page 4
