She checked in her hand mirror to see if her part was nice and straight and the rest of her looked presentable. She wondered if she should call Isaac by his nickname or his given name. She said “Ike” softly, trying it out, though there was something equally appealing about the name Isaac. Of course, she didn’t have to decide right at first. She would let the evening play out. After all, tonight was the result of a blind date of sorts, so she shouldn’t hope for too much, even though she had enjoyed his company last Sunday.
Going downstairs, it was easy to slip out of the house unnoticed, since Dat was still in York with Mamm, and Hen and Mattie Sue were over in their little house. She’d gone to see Hen again earlier this afternoon, taking some mending along. Rose had tried to steer the conversation away from Brandon as they worked while Mattie napped. Hen, however, kept bringing the conversation back to her husband. “He wants his modern life, and there’s no changing that.”
“You of all people should be able to sympathize,” Rose had said.
Hen stared back at her as if she’d said something wrong, and Rose had felt she best be going. She’d left the basket of worn socks there, mighty perplexed as she walked back to the main house. Was her sister really so unable to see past her own nose?
Now Rose was glad she’d worn her boots and mittens and warmest woolen coat and scarf as she made her way up Salem Road to where Isaac had said he’d meet her at dusk. It was certainly about that time, and she wished she’d brought along a flashlight.
Within seconds a horse came trotting toward her—she heard the clip-clopping better than she could see the horse. But she knew without a doubt it was Isaac as he called “Whoa, boy!” His voice was firm and confident as he gave the command.
Like Dat’s. She smiled to herself.
The night was very cold. But as long as the wind didn’t come up, they’d be all right for a little while. She did feel sorry for Isaac, who would have to drive a full forty minutes or so back to his home in Bart in his open buggy. He’ll be an ice cube, for sure.
Isaac held a flashlight, guiding her way toward him. As she stepped into the brilliant circle of light on the ground, he said, “Hullo, Rose. Nice to see ya again.”
“You too, Isaac.”
He helped her into the carriage. “It’s a nice night, jah?”
She agreed.
“Good thing it’s not too cold yet.”
She nodded, wondering if his face and ears might already be too numb for him to know just how cold it really was. “It’s s’posed to be cloudy tonight, so that’s gut.”
“Jah, my Daed always says it’s colder when it’s clear out.”
“My Dawdi Jeremiah likes to say the clouds make blankets over the earth.”
“Well, he’s right.”
They went on like this for a bit, talking about the weather and this and that, just the way she liked it. Getting acquainted nice and slow-like.
“Do ya play much Ping-Pong?” he asked.
“No, but I think it’s fun. Do you?”
“Several times a week . . . at my employer’s house. They’ve got a big room in the basement with a Ping-Pong table.”
“This is the English farmer you work for?”
“Best thing I ever did, getting hired on by Ed Morton.”
Rose was a little surprised at that.
“I was unbeatable at the game last year,” he said. “Not to boast.”
She chuckled. “You’re mighty sure of yourself, ain’t?”
“Maybe so—if you’re talking Ping-Pong. Jake recently stole the championship from me.”
“And you want it back.”
“I’m workin’ on it!” He laughed, obviously enjoying himself.
After a time, he asked if she’d ever heard of the groundhog that went to a garage sale, a story he’d heard from a cousin in Missouri. “This here chubby critter got into a bag of clothing set aside for a yard sale,” he told her. “Somehow or other it managed to get from the bag into a hole in the garage.”
Rose listened, picturing the dilemma.
“Seems the family heard a lot of racket beneath the floor—the frightened critter dug himself clear into the kitchen of the old farmhouse. When one of the preachers came over, he found the hole in the garage where the animal had slipped in, and guess what he did?”
“What?”
“Stuck a hose in there and flushed him right out!”
“Poor thing must have been terrified,” Rose said, adding, “Sounds like something one of my brothers might do.”
“Mose, maybe?”
“Well, not so much him, but maybe one of the others.”
“Mose must be one nice brother.”
“He’s also a wonderful-gut father . . . and husband.”
She wasn’t sure, but she thought Isaac winked at her just then.
He talked of his many Amish and English friends over in Bart. She kept waiting for him to mention his twin brother, Jacob, but he didn’t.
Soon, he was telling about some New Order Amish teenagers in Ohio who weren’t allowed to date or court till after church baptism. “Never heard of that before,” she said.
“It’s one way to get you in the church before ya realize what you’re doin’, seems to me.”
She was surprised he’d say that. “I don’t know. Might be a gut idea for some.”
He turned toward her. “Are ya baptized already, Rose?”
“Joined church when I was fifteen.”
“Really, now? I don’t know too many who join so early.”
She explained it was partly because of her mother’s ill health. “Mamm was afraid she might not live long enough to witness my vow to God.” She waited, wondering if he might point out that it certainly wasn’t the best reason for entering into the holy ordinance. But when he said no more on the subject, she had to ask. “Are you baptized, Isaac?”
“Not just yet.”
She wondered why not but didn’t know him well enough to inquire. “My father always says it’s important to be ready first. ’Tis a mighty big step.”
He agreed. “Ain’t something to enter into lightly.”
She didn’t reply to that, still curious about why he hadn’t followed the Lord in holy baptism yet.
“I’ll make my vow sooner or later.”
She nodded, relieved. Plenty of young men put off baptism for as long as they could.
“Who’s your bishop?” she asked, wondering if it was the one appointed to them temporarily for the next six months.
When he named Bishop Simon, she realized it was indeed one and the same. “So he oversees our church and two other districts, jah?”
“He’s a busy man—a stickler like Old Ezekiel. Everyone knows that about him.” Isaac kept his hands on the reins, never once making Rose think he might reach for hers. “Three churches to tend to is more than a full-time job.” He asked what had happened to their former bishop. “Is he ill?”
“No.” Rose realized then that because Isaac wasn’t a church member, he was not privy to what had happened to cause Aaron Petersheim’s ousting. It wasn’t her place to bring it up. She changed the subject, thinking about the stories he’d told earlier. “You must have relatives in Ohio and Missouri.”
“My mom has Plain friends from there. They write circle letters every other week,” he explained.
“I thought maybe you had cousins out there, too.”
“Not that I know of, but they do seem to turn up where you least expect—lots of my relatives will even hire drivers and come in from out of state to attend husking bees and whatnot.”
She’d heard the same thing from her cousin Esther Glick, who’d married on Thanksgiving Day. “When was your last husking bee?”
“Oh, maybe a year or so ago.”
“Did ya have apple pie after the big meal?”
He nodded. “That and German chocolate sauerkraut cake—my favorite dessert. But the best part was the line dancing, with a fiddle, guitars, even a mandolin or two.”
“The big ol’ bass fiddle is the most fun.”
“And there’s dancin’, ya say?”
“Well, amongst some of the buddy groups, jah. But the gatherings are mostly for pairin’ up.”
Rose supposed that if she asked around, she could probably find out where there were various progressive groups doing such dancing in her own area, too. She’d just never considered that particular crowd.
Isaac talked about the music and the hilarity at these gatherings, and his description of the sights and sounds drew her like a magnet as she visualized every word . . . every phrase. She was so entertained, she couldn’t imagine being with anyone else under the blanketed cloud cover overhead—not on this very happy night.
Breathing in the brisk air, she leaned back in the seat as she listened to Isaac talk about “practice Singings,” which certain Amish-Mennonite young folk attended on Wednesday nights. “A minister accompanies them while they sing together in unison. Sometimes they sneak in a harmony line.”
“Two or more parts?” she asked.
He nodded, grinning.
“And where’s this you’re talkin’ about?”
“Sugarcreek, Ohio. Some of the Plain women there wear pastel-colored dresses and the men own and drive cars.”
She didn’t know why Isaac was talking so much about other states and church districts, but because he hadn’t settled down yet and joined his own church, he was entitled to “talk out” his own answers, like Dat used to tell Rose’s older brothers to do before they bowed their knees to the church and to almighty God.
The evening sped by, and after a few hours, Isaac brought her back to Salem Road and parked at the end of Dat’s driveway. Rose’s cheeks were so cold she could hardly move her lips to say good-bye.
He politely helped her down and walked her nearly to the back door. “I hope you didn’t get too chilled.”
She smiled. “Oh, I’ll get warmed up soon enough.”
“Well, you take gut care, Rose. Hope ya had a nice time.”
“I did. Denki.”
She didn’t turn to watch him run helter-skelter back to his carriage, but she heard his boots crunching against the ground as she slipped quietly into the warm kitchen. She stood beside the cookstove so she could get thawed out right quick. And it was then Rose realized Dat had stoked the fire just for her, guessing she was out this frosty night.
When the feeling returned to her nose and fingertips, Rose pulled off her boots and set them just so near the stove. Then, tired but pleased, she climbed the stairs to her room. For the first time in a good many weeks, she felt like dancing a jig. Just not one accompanied by fiddles and guitars and whatnot. Goodness!
She lit the gas lamp in her room and dressed for bed. Instead of going right to sleep, Rose found Isaac’s letter in the drawer and reread every word, wondering why he hadn’t asked her to meet up with him again next week. Wondering, too, if he might write his invitation instead.
Hen had such difficulty sleeping Saturday night, she got up and repeatedly walked the upstairs hall. When that didn’t tire her, she slipped into the room where Brandon had slept during his stay. All but one night. Yet she couldn’t let herself dwell on that sweet time with him. She brushed it aside lest the memory hurt her even more.
Eventually, she leaned down to press her face into Brandon’s pillow, yearning for his familiar scent. Alas, she’d stripped the bed and washed the sheets and quilts up nice and tidy, just as any Amish hostess would after a guest departed.
A guest . . .
Lying there, she stared at the doorway and into the hall, hearing her little girl moan in her sleep. Her heart broke for Mattie Sue even now as she rose and tiptoed across the way. Gently, she lowered herself onto Mattie’s bed and looked into the dear, innocent face.
Hen hadn’t told Rose how hard Mattie Sue had cried Friday evening at the table, too distraught to eat a bite, when it was clear her daddy wasn’t coming for supper. Nor did she tell her sister how Mattie Sue had taken herself off to bed Saturday afternoon and sobbed so hard she’d slept for two hours. It was during that time Rose had come with Dat’s socks and two sets of darning needles. Surely, though, it was an excuse to look in on them. Rose was so kind and caring. Hen wished now she’d treated her better during the years in town. With Brandon . . .
Before October, whenever Hen and her husband had a conflict, no matter how bitter, they rolled to the middle of their bed and made up with great affection that very night. Never before had they struggled like this . . . or for this long.
Hen looked lovingly at Mattie Sue, her blond curls gracing her shoulders as she slept. The little white organdy prayer cap hung nearby on the bedpost. I can’t keep her from her daddy. She loves him . . . and he loves her.
She left Mattie’s side and went to her room to light the lantern. Then, carrying it downstairs, she checked the stove and added more logs. Quickly, she located her Bible on the end table in the front room. Placing the lantern close to the page, she read from Genesis, chapter forty, reminded of Joseph’s perseverance in the face of many difficulties. He trusted that God was in control. Joseph’s great hope didn’t come from his own willpower—or from wanting his own way.
Willpower fades . . . it doesn’t last, she thought. I must trust God to work in my husband’s life. And mine.
In the quiet, Hen knelt to pray beside the settee where Brandon had sat to play with Mattie Sue and Wiggles. She focused on one thing only. Not on what she wanted or thought she had to have in order to be happy, but on God’s love. Was it possible to demonstrate that kind of love to her husband? Was she willing to let go of her own will—give it up to God’s sovereignty?
Hen prayed, pouring out her sadness, her sorrow . . . and her words of repentance. Wiping away her tears, she rose, picked up the lantern, and carried it back up the stairs. It was time for rest now as the peace of God filled her heart. And then and there she knew what she must do to mend her marriage. Sure as her husband could see once again, she knew.
After Preaching tomorrow, Hen told herself, pulling another quilt over her precious girl.
Rose typically did not daydream during the sermons at Preaching. But this Lord’s Day her mind was still caught up with Isaac Ebersol and their first date. In fact, she’d thought of little else since she snuffed out the gas lantern in her room late last night.
Goodness, had she ever known such a unique fellow? Even more fun-loving than Silas Good, and not as conservative. The fact that Isaac seemed to delight in going to the barn dances he’d described didn’t bother her too much, not when she’d never actually heard they were forbidden by her church. Yet somewhere inside her, Rose knew it was best not to tell Hen nor any of her sisters-in-law about them. Nor Dat, either. It wasn’t as if she’d ever find herself going to such a line dance. After all, Isaac hadn’t even asked to see her again.
And that was the main reason Rose sat in church pondering the young man from Bart. Oh, she certainly did hope he’d ask her on another date, and soon. He was very different from any of the young men who’d casually taken her riding. She thought briefly of Hank Zook. But no, Isaac wasn’t like anyone she’d ever known. Not even like Nick . . .
Then and there, Rose planned to surprise Isaac and bake his favorite cake for his twenty-first birthday in August: German chocolate sauerkraut cake. If we’re still seeing each other by then!
It was well after the shared meal following Preaching when Hen left Mattie Sue with Rose Ann and drove to Quarryville . . . to Brandon’s street. She pulled up in front of the house and parked, staring at the yard, the porch. Had she truly lived here once?
Hen hadn’t expected to feel such a gamut of emotions, especially sadness. Her hands were clammy, clenched in her lap. She’d worn her woolen shawl over her Amish dress and apron, and she felt worse than merely out of place.
Gathering her wits, she stepped out of the car to
knock on the front door.
Brandon answered, wearing blue sweats and a shocked look. “Hen. This is a surprise.”
“May I come in?”
He opened the door wider and stepped aside. “Nice to see you.”
“Thanks.” She reminded herself to be sure to speak only English this visit. There in the small entryway, she took in the familiar sights, remembering how she’d felt living here, bringing their baby home from the hospital. . . .
Brandon motioned for her to sit on the sectional in the living room. He sat nearby, although not next to her. For the first time, he did not ask immediately about Mattie Sue, or even inquire after her whereabouts.
Finally she ventured, “How’s your sight today?”
“Shadowy now and then, but becoming more dependable each day,” he said with enthusiasm.
“That’s wonderful to hear.”
He nodded, the moment somewhat awkward. “So, tell me, how’s your mother’s doing? Any word?”
Hen made herself breathe before answering . . . still staring at Brandon. He seemed so friendly.
She recounted her mother’s progress so far. “She’ll be out of the ICU tomorrow, Dad said.”
“Terrific . . .” He smiled. “And how’s Bishop Aaron?” he asked. “Have you seen him lately?”
“Well . . . at Preaching today, though I didn’t get a chance to speak to him. I visited some with Barbara, though.” Hen wasn’t sure what to say, but they continued making small talk until an even more uncomfortable lull developed. Hen’s gaze fell to the coffee table, and she was dismayed to see a real estate brochure and a business card there. Sighing, she forged ahead. “I guess you’re wondering why I’m here.”
“Not to see me?” He smiled again.
She motioned toward the real estate brochure. “I just hope I’m not too late.”
“Late?”
“I take it you really do want to sell the house.”
“Oh, that. I meant to talk to you, but—well, it’s not easy getting in touch with you.”
The Mercy Page 12
