The Mercy

by Beverly Lewis

  Abruptly, Mamm said, “I hope you’re plannin’ to attend the next Singing, dear.”

  Rose hesitated. “Haven’t decided, really.” She felt sure Dat had told Mamm about the parting of ways between her and Silas Good. Close as Dat was to Silas’s father, he must have been one of the first to know, particularly when he had helped to encourage their relationship.

  “I understand your reluctance.” Mamm paused and glanced at her. “But ya might want to think about going . . . you know, make yourself available right away.”

  For a new fella, she means.

  Thoughtfully, Rose nodded her head. “Just wouldn’t be the same.”

  “Rosie . . . honey-girl, you’ll get over Silas soon enough,” Mamm surprised her by saying right out.

  “Well, it’s not Silas I was thinkin’ about.” Rose caught herself too late, and Mamm’s astonished eyes held Rose’s gaze.

  Rose looked away and wheeled her mother closer to the cookstove, to ward off the chill of the room . . . not all of it from the cold.

  Just that quick, Mamm changed the subject. “It’s the second time that ol’ shed’s been hit.”

  “I thought lightning didn’t strike twice in the same spot.” But as soon as she said it, Rose knew better. Where people’s lives were concerned, lightning sometimes struck repeatedly. Bishop Aaron and Barbara had to know this, bless their hearts. Their family had been struck nigh unto three times now, including the loss of their only sons: Christian, their natural-born son, who’d died in a so-called accident, and Nick, who ran off to the world not long afterward. And Aaron himself had suffered a direct blow, as well, when his divine calling was taken away from him as a punishment for Nick’s refusal to join church—a sign of his foster son’s willfulness against God and the People.

  So much pain . . .

  Rose disliked thinking about all that had happened since Christian’s untimely death . . . and Nick’s sudden leaving.

  Only the dear Lord knows what may befall us, just around the bend.

  Hen finished smoothing her light brown hair and reached for the white prayer Kapp on the hook near the sink mirror that morning. She placed it reverently on her head and pinned it near the back with bobby pins, thankful all the while for the cozy bathroom but a few feet from the kitchen. Her father and several of her brothers had gotten permission from Bishop Aaron to add it some years back, most likely in preparation for her parents to live here someday, once Rose Ann married and occupied the main farmhouse. Or if one of Hen’s married brothers agreed to take over the farm and live next door with his wife and children.

  Had it not been for the indoor facilities, Brandon would never have consented to convalesce here after his hospital release following his recent accident. An outhouse would be intolerable to a worldly man such as Brandon Orringer.

  Hen glanced at the bathtub-shower combination, smiling. All the comforts of home. Her eyes came to rest on the gas lantern set on the wooden shelf. Well . . . almost.

  As it was, her wounded husband complained about the lack of central heat in the drafty house . . . and that not a single telephone could be found inside. He even complained that he had to shave with a razor and shaving cream—“hit or miss for someone who can’t see,” he said. Overall, though, he seemed as comfortable as could be expected, given his present situation. And that was her goal: to make Brandon feel at ease until he recovered.

  Who would ever guess he would live on an Amish farm? Hen corrected herself. No, it wasn’t as if Brandon was actually going to live here. That wasn’t his plan at all. He would promptly return to their beautiful modern home in town once his sight returned and his right arm mended.

  When he no longer needs me.

  Hen shuddered to think about the terrible car accident that had resulted in broken ribs and a serious fracture to his right arm, one that had required two surgeries. And the dangerous concussion and associated brain swelling still caused him some confusion. Yet it was the blindness that plagued him most.

  There were times when she found herself watching him rest on the settee in the front room or interact contentedly with their curly-haired Mattie Sue at the kitchen table. Hen was startled by the irony of it all, the three of them thrust back together when on the cusp of divorce.

  But how did God view the situation? She contemplated their old conflict regarding modern versus Plain living. Did the Lord allow the accident to happen?

  She had been brought up to believe that God’s sovereignty was to be revered, not questioned. Young fellows like Christian Petersheim suffered untimely deaths; dutiful women like Hen’s own mother encountered unexplained buggy accidents. And too many Amish babies were born with deformities due to genetic disorders, sometimes more than one child in the same family. Yet people like Brandon, and Hen’s friend Diane Perliss, too, would never be convinced that such things were actually permitted by God. His will. Yet it was how the People viewed everything that happened in their lives.

  Hen heard Brandon calling from the front room and poked her head out. “Be right there.” Quickly, she dried her hands and snuffed out the lantern. Hearing his voice within the confines of these Amish walls still made her heart leap. The sound of it wrapped around the secret hope she carried with her each day that their marriage might still be saved. The inner stirring had moved her forward since he’d agreed to come here, pushing her along like a plow furrowing hard soil.

  She made her way to the small room where her husband and four-and-a-half-year-old daughter were snuggled together on the upholstered settee with Mattie Sue’s library book spread across their laps. Wiggles, the cocker spaniel puppy Brandon had purchased last fall, nestled there, too.

  Brandon’s light brown hair looked mussed as he raised his head and turned his face toward her. He must’ve heard her come into the room. “I hate to ask you this, Hen, but . . .” He hesitated.

  She braced herself.

  “I really need to get to the office today.”

  Again? As it was, she’d taken him to Quarryville twice already this week. “By car?” Surely he knew by now how she felt about driving.

  “Hen, seriously, I’m never getting into a buggy again. A person could freeze to death!” Brandon paused. “Besides, it’s humiliating.”

  She didn’t mean to be difficult. It was just that she had come to resent the modern conveniences that had once taken her away from her Plain lifestyle. Anymore, she resisted anything that smacked of the outside world . . . and she deeply cared what her father thought, too. There was much to make up for with her parents, and she knew her dad was troubled by the presence of her car on his property. So much so that he’d requested Hen park it behind the barn.

  “You know . . . maybe it would be better to hire a driver for you, Brandon.”

  Appearing surprised, he shook his head. “But you don’t have plans today, right?”

  “Not away from the house, no.”

  “So couldn’t you drive me to town for a few hours after lunch if the snow lets up? There’s no need to hire anyone.”

  Is it my job to see to your every wish? Almost as soon as the words came to mind, Hen chastised herself. Hadn’t she wanted with all of her heart to help him? She recalled the great relief she’d felt when Brandon consented to let her tend to him here, the day she’d driven him away from the hospital, leaving his nurse and wheelchair behind.

  She looked at Mattie Sue, caught up in her picture book, her little pointer finger running under the words she already recognized. Sighing, Hen relented. “All right—I’ll drive you . . . in the car.”

  Mattie Sue’s big eyes blinked fast as she glanced first at her daddy, then back up at Hen. “Mattie, honey,” Hen said, “maybe you can go help Aendi Rose for a bit.”

  “No, Hen,” Brandon protested. “You don’t have to wait for me at the office. Just return here. Or bring Mattie Sue along if you have errands to run.”

  “And then return for you later?”

  Brandon rubbed the stubble on his chin. It looked a
s though he’d opted not to shave today. “Whatever works better for you, yes.”

  Wiggles whined to get off the settee, and Mattie helped him down, holding him gently as Hen had taught her to do. He scampered up the stairs and Mattie followed, taking her book with her.

  Hen looked back at Brandon, sitting there alone on the settee. She wondered what the doctor would say about his progress next Tuesday, when they went to yet another follow-up visit.

  Brandon broke into her thoughts. “I can’t believe you had your bishop stop by earlier, Hen.”

  “He did? In this weather?” This surprised her. “I knew nothing about it.”

  “He came by while you and Mattie Sue were out feeding the mules or whatever.”

  “Why did he come?” asked Hen.

  Brandon shrugged. “We had some coffee . . . he asked me how I was getting along. Nothing important.” His words were clipped. “He wanted to apologize, I think.”

  “About what?”

  “He thought we’d gotten off on the wrong foot years ago. Surely you remember how he ran me off when we were dating.”

  Hen was shocked. “He said that?”

  “In so many words.”

  She could hardly believe this.

  “A waste of time, if you ask me. His and mine.” Brandon muttered something she couldn’t make out. “So you had nothing to do with the visit?”

  “Nothing whatsoever.”

  He grimaced. “I’m a sitting duck, Hen. Forced to consort with your—”

  “Ach, was it so bad?”

  “We have nothing in common. Nothing to talk about.”

  She eyed him. “So what did you do after he said those nice things?”

  “Drank more coffee.”

  “Neither of you talked further?” Hen imagined the awkward scene and found herself smiling a little.

  “Not at first,” Brandon said.

  She perked up her ears. “Then, one of you must’ve found something to say.”

  Brandon rose and slowly made his way to the table. He stood there, his back to Hen. “I finally asked him outright something I’ve been thinking about since his preacher pals gave him the boot.”

  Hen gasped. “Oh, Brandon, you didn’t.”

  “The man’s lost nearly everything—his sons, his job, his standing in the community—everything that matters to folk in Amishville, you know.”

  She cringed and lowered herself into a nearby chair, holding her breath. What on earth had Brandon said to their former bishop?

  Her husband drew a long breath. “He didn’t seem to mind the question—acted like he didn’t care. Said God could be trusted no matter what happened.”

  The response struck Hen as pure Bishop Aaron. “The man is as even-keeled as anyone I’ve known.”

  Brandon appeared to consider that. “But if your people here are so patient and kind, why was he treated so badly?”

  “We’re not perfect.” She paused. “We make mistakes. And some of us find it more difficult to forgive than others.”

  “Then why would you want to be Amish again? There are imperfect people living out in the real world, you know. Christians, for one. You don’t have to wear a prayer bonnet or ride around in a horse-drawn buggy to follow God.”

  Hen wasn’t sure what to make of hearing her unbelieving husband talk like this. “I was raised this way.”

  He shook his head. “Well, I wasn’t.”

  Hen felt her hackles rising. “So that’s all you got out of Aaron’s visit?”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  She looked at her handsome husband, his fractured ribs still wrapped in a brace beneath his long-sleeved green-striped shirt, his right arm in a cast and sling.

  “I just . . .”

  She waited.

  “I wanted to understand.”

  “And did you?”

  “It made me think. That’s all.” Brandon shook his head in frustration and chuckled bitterly. “All I have time to do anymore is think.”

  Hen tried to imagine what it would be like, suddenly going from the frenetic pace Brandon had maintained at the office to simply sitting, without a TV or even a radio to listen to.

  “Besides . . . I think Aaron might visit again,” Brandon added. “He commented on your wonderful blend of coffee.”

  She pondered that. “I could ask him not to come, if you’d rather.”

  Another lengthy moment of silence ensued. Finally Brandon shrugged. “You know me and coffee.”

  Hen broke into a smile, and she was momentarily glad he couldn’t see her.

  Brandon cleared his throat. “I really need your help getting around, Hen.” His tone had changed. It was softer, almost tender—like it used to be.

  She recalled his rushing home for lunch between appointments, back before Mattie Sue was born . . . eating soup and sandwiches with her as they talked about ordinary things like getting the lawnmower blades sharpened or making two mortgage payments in a month to get ahead. The memory gave her the same promising feeling as when she’d watched her father take Mattie Sue into his arms and hoist her onto his shoulders as he strode out to the stable their first day here.

  She’d been too hard on him. “Just remember that I’m here for you, Brandon. That won’t change,” Hen said, then silently whispered a prayer of gratitude for Aaron Petersheim’s impromptu visit.

  It was apparent to Rose that her cousin Melvin Glick hadn’t slept much the night before. He and his father stood with the other men in line on the far right side of the brick farmhouse early Sunday morning. The deep pockets beneath Melvin’s eyes marred his usually pleasant countenance. Rose inched forward toward the women’s entrance to the temporary house of worship, Hen and Mattie Sue beside her. As was her sister’s way since returning home nearly four months ago, Hen did not sit with Rose during the meetings, because she was not a baptized church member—and could not become one unless Brandon joined church with her. Thus Rose would sit close to the front, while Hen sat in the back with Mattie Sue and the visitors and youth who hadn’t yet bowed their knee to make their lifelong pledge to God and the church.

  Rose glanced at Melvin again and saw that he was staring at Rebekah Bontrager, just ahead of her in line. Well, goodness! Though she hadn’t told it around, hadn’t word already rolled through the grapevine about Rebekah and Silas Good?

  Hours later, during the shared meal after Preaching, Rose again spotted Melvin gazing longingly at Rebekah, who sat with Silas’s unmarried sisters, Sarah and Anna Mae. He looked quickly away when he realized Rose had spotted him.

  Ach, he’s got it bad.

  Hen had joined Rose at the table, where they enjoyed the cold cuts and homemade bread, peanut butter, and snitz pie. The meal after the Sunday gatherings was fairly light, intended mostly to ward off hunger pangs for the ride home. The tradition benefited the farming families who had to eventually return home to feed their animals or for afternoon milking. Rose was tempted to reach for another piece of bread and some strawberry jam, her favorite, but she disciplined herself, not wanting to grow as stout as some of the older women around the table.

  What’ll my life be like as a Maidel if God doesn’t send along another beau? She recalled Mamm’s encouragement to attend tonight’s Singing. But there were only a handful of fellows her age that weren’t spoken for, and her cousin Melvin was one of them. Of course, he didn’t count. Even if he weren’t her cousin, she wouldn’t even think of pairing up with someone so obviously smitten with someone else.

  Hen broke into Rose’s thoughts. “Brandon won’t be home till later tonight,” she said softly. “Again . . .”

  He had been gone all day last Sunday, too, Rose recalled. “Did his business partner stop by for him?”

  “Jah, he and Bruce headed off this morning, no doubt to get caught up on some work. He told me the plan at breakfast.” Hen paused, looking away. “It made Mattie Sue cry.”

  Rose felt bad for her dear niece, but she’d never really expected her brother-in-law
to attend one of their Preaching services. “Bruce will look after him, jah?”

  “I’m sure he will, but it makes no difference to Mattie Sue,” Hen said. “Brandon has no interest in keeping the Lord’s Day holy—and she knows it.”

  “Well, Mattie Sue knows he’s never attended church with you before.”

  “Still.” Hen nodded thoughtfully as she spread peanut butter on her bread. “She’s got to be feeling uncertain about things, about the future.” She sighed. “Just as I am.”

  “Understandable,” Rose murmured. Her sister looked as wilted as a daisy before a good rain. Wilted and dejected. What must it be like to be unequally yoked with an unbeliever?

  “I thought maybe Bishop Aaron’s visit might’ve helped Brandon . . . somehow.”

  “Bishop came to see him?”

  “Jah.” Hen smiled sadly. “I guess I’ll always think of him that way, too.”

  “S’pose we all will.” Rose went on to say she’d seen Aaron coming toward the house on Friday, braving the snow. “Thought he might have headed over to see our grandparents.”

  “No, he came seeking out my husband. Still hard to believe.” Hen added, “And Brandon says he might come see him again.”

  Rose found this heartening, though altogether unexpected— from even a soon-to-be former minister toward an Englischer. It was as if Aaron hoped to win Brandon to the church somehow. She wondered what other bishops might do in a situation like this, knotty as it was.

  “I wish Brandon wouldn’t go off with his business partner and work on a Sunday, of all things.”

  “Well, it’s not like either of them is Amish.”

  Hen’s face drooped further. She looked as sad as when she’d first arrived at Dat’s farm, back in early October.

  Rose hated to think what it would do to her sister when Brandon left for good, as surely he would once he was well. Hen had to live with this niggling concern. Most likely went to bed with it and awakened with the thought each and every day—a continual reminder, like the constant ticking of a clock.

  “Brandon’s talked about putting the house in town up for sale,” Hen said through tight lips.